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Chapter 19 - It Wasn’t Just A Dream

Chapter 17: It wasn't just a dream.

Roya stood in the middle of a vast, dark expanse, the world around her muted and gray, as if it were mourning. There was no sound, only the oppressive silence that seemed to hum in her ears.

She wasn't herself, or maybe she was. She couldn't tell.

Her hands felt heavy, and when she looked down, they were stained crimson. Blood. The metallic tang of it filled her senses, and her heart raced. She could feel the weight of something in her hand-a dagger. It gleamed even in the dim light, its edge sharp and glistening with fresh blood.

Before her, Emris knelt on the cold, hard ground, his figure illuminated by an unseen light. His once-vivid blue eyes were dull, lifeless, as if the very spark of him had been extinguished. Blood seeped from his chest, pooling beneath him like a dark, red shadow.

He didn't speak, but his expression said everything.

There was No anger, No hatred. Just betrayal.

And something far worse: Understanding.

Roya couldn't breathe. Her chest tightened, her lungs refusing to draw in air as she watched the life drain from him. Her grip on the dagger slackened, the weapon slipping from her fingers and clattering to the ground.

"No," she whispered, her voice breaking.

Her knees gave way, and she fell to the ground in front of him, reaching out instinctively to touch him, to fix it, to undo whatever she had done. But her hands froze mid-air.

His blood was on her.

A sob escaped her lips, and she crumpled forward, clutching her chest as if the pain was hers. It felt as though her heart had been cleaved in two, the ache so deep and raw it was unbearable.

Why? Why had she done this?

She couldn't remember the why, only the how. The vivid image of her plunging the dagger into his chest played on a cruel loop in her mind. She saw his face as the blade sank in—not hatred, not even shock but acceptance.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice trembling. The words felt foreign, like they weren't hers but someone else's. Yet they carried a weight she couldn't deny.

Tears streamed down her face, hot and unrelenting. She couldn't understand why she was crying. She didn't cry. Not in real life. But here, in this moment, her tears were endless, her grief all-consuming.

"Roya," a voice called, soft and familiar, but distant, like it was coming from another world.

She looked up, her vision blurry. Emris's form wavered, and for a moment, his lifeless figure seemed to shift, his eyes flickering with something unspoken.

But then, the world began to shatter.

The dark expanse cracked like glass, the pieces falling away into nothingness. The scene dissolved, and Roya found herself gasping awake in her bed, her chest heaving as if she'd run a marathon.

Her hand shot to her face, brushing her cheeks. They were wet. She blinked in confusion, staring at her trembling fingers.

Tears?

Her heart pounded, the ache from the dream lingering like a phantom pain. She pressed her hand to her chest, her brows furrowing as she tried to make sense of it.

She didn't cry. She didn't feel. That was the truth she had lived by for as long as she could remember.

But this...

This wasn't just a dream. It was something more, something she couldn't put into words. And the ache in her heart, the strange sense of loss, refused to fade.

Her gaze shifted to the clear sky, sunlight streaming through her window, casting a bright atmosphere but inside she was anything but bright. A part of her whispered that it was nothing, just her mind playing tricks on her. But another part, the quieter, more honest part, knew better.

It wasn't just a dream, It was a memory.

And for the first time in a long while, Roya felt something close to fear.

Roya snapped out of her spiraling thoughts when the sharp smell of something burning hit her nose. Not again. She groaned, her mood souring instantly.

Grabbing the fire extinguisher from under her desk, she marched out of her room like a soldier going into battle. This time, she vowed, the extinguisher wouldn't just put out the fire—it would crack Emris's skull open. Perhaps then she'd find the missing brain cells he clearly lacked.

The smell grew stronger as she approached the kitchen, and sure enough, she stopped dead in her tracks at the scene before her.

There he was—Emris Malachai, the ever-dramatic pain in her life—flailing a dish towel at a pan that was very much on fire. The flames flickered dangerously high, licking the air as if challenging him, while he shouted at it like it could understand his indignation.

"What are you—?" Roya didn't even finish her sentence. Her hands flew to her temples as she watched him shake the pan wildly, sending small embers flying.

"I've got this!" Emris declared, glancing over his shoulder at her. "No need to panic!"

She didn't panic. She just stared at him, her mind vacillating between wanting to throttle him or laugh at the absurdity of it all.

Before he could burn the entire mansion down, she stormed forward, snatched the napkin out of his hand, and took control of the situation. Gripping the flaming pan firmly with the towel, she moved it swiftly to the sink and turned on the tap, dousing the fire with a loud hiss.

The fire died, leaving behind a plume of smoke and a distinct smell of charred… whatever it was supposed to be. Roya exhaled sharply, turning her glare to Emris, who leaned casually against the counter, arms crossed as if he'd been supervising the entire ordeal.

"What?" he said, his signature smirk firmly in place. "I was trying to cook you breakfast. You should be grateful that an honored man like me decided to grace the kitchen with his culinary prowess."

Roya stared at him, her expression a mix of disbelief and suppressed rage. "Grateful?" she repeated, her voice dangerously calm.

"Of course," Emris replied, shrugging like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "You don't see royalty stepping into kitchens every day, do you?"

Her lips twitched, but not into a smile. It was the kind of twitch that signaled a dangerous level of restraint. "You mean I should be grateful that you nearly turned my kitchen into a pile of ashes?"

"It's just a minor setback." He waved her off nonchalantly. "Great chefs often experiment. You should've seen the disaster that happened the first time I made a soufflé. But that's how we geniuses learn."

She pinched the bridge of her nose, taking a deep breath. "What exactly were you trying to make?"

"An omelet."

Her jaw dropped. "An omelet? You set the kitchen on fire over an omelet?"

"It's a complicated dish!" Emris defended himself, looking genuinely offended. "You wouldn't understand the intricacies of whisking eggs and flipping them just right."

"I don't think whisking eggs involves arson."

"Arson is a strong word."

Roya raised the fire extinguisher as if she were ready to lob it at his head. "Do you ever listen to yourself?"

"Always." He grinned, thoroughly enjoying her irritation. "And I sound amazing."

Her hand twitched, but instead of acting on her violent urges, she set the extinguisher down with a loud thunk and turned toward the coffee machine. "This conversation is over. I need caffeine."

Emris leaned against the counter, watching her with amusement as she poured herself a cup. "You know, for someone who was just saved from a tragic, breakfast-related inferno, you're surprisingly ungrateful."

She took a long sip of her coffee before leveling him with a cold glare. "And for someone who claims to be a genius, you're surprisingly dense."

Unbothered, Emris grabbed a burnt piece of what might have been toast and popped it in his mouth. "I think this went rather well, all things considered."

"Leave the kitchen," Roya said, her tone flat.

"What if I don't?"

She shot him a look so sharp it could've sliced through steel.

"Fine, fine," Emris muttered, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. "But next time, I'm making pancakes."

"If you so much as touch a frying pan, I'll set you on fire."

He smirked as he backed out of the kitchen, his voice carrying down the hallway. "Promises, promises."

Roya sighed, staring at the charred remnants of his culinary disaster. "I should've let the fire win." She sighed forgetting about the ominous dream.