Chapter 3
“I’ll end you if you move again,” Henriette hissed through clenched teeth, her voice sharp but low. The blade in her hand pressed hard against his throat, hidden from the eyes in the room.
The king only chuckled, the sound cold and close to her ear. “My dear, that little trick was meant to make yourself bleed,” he murmured, voice laced with cruel amusement. “To make the room believe you're untouched.”
Before she could react, he grabbed her wrist and forced it down beneath the satin of her nightdress. The blade bit into the soft skin of her inner thigh. She gasped, crying out in pain as the sharp sting tore through her.
He moved fast, so fast no one noticed.
Another gasp tore from her throat when he entered her. Her entire body tensed beneath him.
When am I going to wake up? Her mind screamed for escape. But then she hesitated. No… not yet. I haven’t seen my mother again. Her eyes scanned the room, searching for the woman’s face in the sea of blurred expressions.
Time slowed to a crawl. He moved over her like a machine, mechanical, detached, cruel.
And then, finally, it was over.
The king collapsed onto his back beside her, breath heavy. “There,” he said mockingly, grabbing the hem of her gown and holding it up to show the blood. “Happy now?”
People began to shuffle out. Henriette didn’t move. She lay still, eyes fixed on the ceiling, waiting for him to leave, too. But he didn’t. His breathing slowed, deepened. After a while, she glanced over—his eyes were closed. He had fallen asleep.
Henriette slipped quietly from the bed, uncertain if falling asleep herself would end this nightmare. She moved toward the bedroom door, careful not to wake him.
She turned the handle.
Locked.
“Are you kidding me?” she muttered under her breath, jaw clenched.
Her gaze shifted to the side door—the one he had entered through earlier. On silent steps, she crossed the room, reaching for the handle with trembling fingers. Relief flooded her when it turned easily beneath her touch.
She slipped through the door and closed it behind her, pressing her back to the wood and exhaling slowly. The room beyond was dark, much darker than hers, which had been lit with too many candles. Her eyes took a moment to adjust.
“Arin, what took you so long?” came a soft, sweet voice from the shadows.
Henriette’s jaw tightened. What a slut, she thought, fingers tightening around the bloodied blade still in her hand.
This is just a dream, isn’t it? She asked herself again, but this time the thought came with something else—a spark of something wicked.
She remembered the pain of losing the only man she'd ever truly loved. He had left her, walked away with another woman, leaving her broken. Left her with nothing.
But not here. Not in her dream.
In here, she made the rules.
There was no place in her dream for husband-stealing women.
Without giving herself time to rethink it, Henriette rushed toward the voice. Her hand shot out and tangled in a mass of hair. With the other, she drove the blade toward where a neck should be.
Screams tore through the room. No longer angelic—just raw, frantic terror.
Before Henriette could pull back, strong hands yanked her away, dragging her off the woman on the bed.
The door burst open, and another woman entered, holding a candle. Her face went pale as she took in the blood, the chaos, the figure lying motionless on the mattress.
“I’ll get her mother,” she gasped and ran out.
Arin shoved Henriette to the floor and rushed to the woman on the bed, scooping her into his arms.
“My love,” he whispered, holding her limp body close. His voice cracked, filled with anguish.
Henriette pushed herself upright, legs shaking. Should she run?
If he kills me in the dream... do I die for real?
The question held her still, rooted to the floor, while the room spun and everything she thought she knew unraveled around her.
Henriette had hesitated too long.
“What have you done, my darling daughter?!” her mother cried, her voice raw as her eyes fell on the blood-soaked sheets, on the lifeless body sprawled across the bed.
The guards stormed in behind her, their boots loud against the stone floor. One of them halted mid-step. His face went pale. His eyes locked onto the body, unblinking, wide with disbelief. The sorrow that crept over him, the way he froze in place, made it clear—he hadn’t just lost a king’s mistress. He had lost someone of his own.
“Kill them all!” King Arin’s voice cracked through the room, tangled with sobs.
But the guard didn’t move. He stood paralyzed, staring at the ruin of a woman who had once been soft, delicate—now butchered, painted in crimson.
“Kill her!” Arin screamed again, pointing at Henriette, grief and fury twisting his face.
“No!” Henriette’s mother stepped in front of her, arms spread wide. “Punish me instead. Take my life.”
Henriette clung to her. “Don’t—please don’t.”
A sword hissed from its sheath. The guard’s eyes darkened with hesitation, blade raised, ready to strike.
Then the priest stepped forward. “Are you certain, Your Majesty? You’d end the truce, shed royal blood, all for a woman who bedded half your guard?”
Arin's face turned crimson. “I’ll have you executed for speaking of her that way!” he spat.
The guard, still holding the sword, faltered. The priest’s words had hit their mark. His grip loosened. He lowered the blade.
With an edge of quiet defiance, the guard spoke. “We were lovers.”
“Shut up!” Arin roared, clutching the body tighter. “All of you, shut up!”
Before Henriette could react, the priest grabbed her hand and pulled. She stumbled after him, twisting to look back.
“Mom!” she called, reaching out, hoping—begging—for her to follow.
Her mother didn’t move. “Go!” she urged, voice shaking.
“Then kill her mother!” the king bellowed. “Someone will pay!”
The words rang in Henriette’s ears as the priest and another guard forced her away. Her legs buckled beneath her, but they kept her moving. Through corridors. Downstairs. Past doors, she couldn’t register. She lost track of time, of place.
At some point, she collapsed. Her legs refused to carry her any farther, and the guard lifted her without a word, carrying her like a broken thing through the maze of halls.
The room they put her in was small, windowless, and stale. Cold stone walls closed in around her. No sounds made it through. No light, save for the flickering flame of a single candle.
She marked the passing days by the meals that came, twice daily, maybe three. It was hard to tell anymore. The priest brought them. He always tried to speak. She never answered.
She lay in silence, watching the candle burn, its light dancing on the walls like ghosts. Her thoughts circled endlessly.
What was the last thing I did? she wondered, staring into the flame. How did this even begin?
That night, she decided.
She would wake up. Finally.
This nightmare had to end.