"…You dreamed of the Maden ship," General Valen whispered.
I pinched the bridge of my nose. "No. I dreamed of the Titanic."
Confusion.
"…The what?"
And somehow—somehow—I ended up telling them Titanic. AGAIN for million times.
I don't know how it happened. One moment I was explaining "unsinkable pride," and the next—"There was a door," I said, gesturing sharply, "A PERFECTLY FLOATING DOOR—"
"It was debris," Hector muttered.
"IT WAS A DOOR," I snapped.
"They could have taken turns," a noble argued.
"Jack could have lived," Princess Milabuella insisted, eyes bright with righteous fury.
The Great Hall descended into chaos. Absolute, unfiltered, how-is-this-real chaos. As if it were their first time hearing anything remotely outside their carefully preserved worldview.
I rolled my eyes into the back of my skull. Truly. It had happened too many times already. At this point, the surprise felt personal. Scholars were on their feet, voices overlapping.
