I manage an inhale. “G-Good. I died twice, but that’s just business as usual.”

“Do you think you can teach it?” she asks.

“No idea. But I’m going to kill myself trying.”

It’s not my strongest joke, but it earns a tiny chuckle from the crown princess, granting a breath of levity to the dense air. The wind whistles through the trees and between us, and finally she turns to walk out of the wood.

“Father is planning to call you in soon for questioning about Gavik’s death.”

“Vachiayis.” I exhale the beneather swear.

Varia presses on. “I’d refrain from telling them the truth of who killed him. Whether or not Gavik was a danger to me, if you tell Father you killed a blooded noble, he is oathbound as king to punish you appropriately. Even I wouldn’t be able to get around that. And, of course, it goes without saying—if you tell Father I’m a witch, you will never get your heart.”

I swallow hard, and Varia raises one hand in farewell as she walks away toward her ring of guards. I walk out and stare at the abandoned picnic blanket, disheveled but still beautiful, and I do what any sane undead thrall about to go on trial for their unlife would do.

I pick up the half-empty wine bottle and chug it.

That night, I have that dream again.

I’m walking in the Hall of Time, the stained glass embracing me with brilliant colors from every which angle. The stained glass tells the history of Vetris in perfect detail—of how it was built by the Old Vetrisians, of how the Cavanosians once fought the neighboring country of Helkyris, of the Old God and the New God worshippers warring; the humans and celeon versus witches and their Heartless.

I recognize I’ve had this dream before—faintly, in the back of my mind as I watch history pass me, I recall this dream. Last time, the Hall of Time fragmented, and I dragged myself through the shards to reach two rosaries with trees on them, so convinced if I didn’t reach them, something horrible would happen.

But this dream is different.

Beyond the stained glass is a dark shadow. Outstretched branches. A tree. By that convincing, totalitarian logic one has in a dream, I know that tree outside the Hall of Time is alone. I can feel loneliness physically emanating from it like waves, repeated and undeniable. My unheart aches for it, for how desperate and deep its loneliness is.

Suddenly, there’s a screeching bestial roar, and the Hall of Time implodes on itself above me, all around me. The stained glass fragments into a million glittering petals of all colors of the rainbow. Razor sharp, they cut me on the way down, scoring my cheeks, my upturned palms.