Elira's POV
The violet light exploded from Elira's hands like lightning.
Guards flew backward, crashing into furniture. Isolde shrieked and dove behind a bookshelf. The study windows shattered, raining glass onto the courtyard below.
Elira stared at her glowing palms in horror. What's happening to me?
"Stop!" Caelan's voice cut through the chaos, cold and commanding again. Without her touch, he was hollow once more. Empty. "Everyone freeze!"
The guards scrambled to their feet, swords raised but uncertain. One of them had a bleeding nose. Another clutched his arm at an odd angle.
Elira's hands still glowed, violet energy crackling between her fingers like tiny storms. She didn't know how to make it stop. Didn't know how she'd made it start.
"Your Highness!" Isolde emerged from behind the bookshelf, her perfect hair disheveled for once. She pointed a shaking finger at Elira. "You see? She's possessed! This is exactly what the Dream Weaver warned us about!"
"What Dream Weaver?" Caelan's eyes narrowed.
"Kalista visited the court last week," Isolde said smoothly, composing herself. "She said dark magic users would try to exploit your curse. That they'd pretend to be your dream heart to steal your power."
Lies. All lies. But Elira's glowing hands weren't helping her case.
"I'm not trying to steal anything!" Elira's voice shook. The violet light flickered brighter, responding to her panic. "I don't even know what's happening!"
"Of course you don't," Isolde said with false sweetness. "Because you're not a trained Dream Walker. You're just a desperate traitor who learned a few forbidden spells."
More guards poured into the study. Nobles crowded the doorway, gasping at the destruction. Whispers spread like wildfire.
"She attacked the prince!"
"Dark magic—"
"I knew she was dangerous—"
"I didn't attack anyone!" Elira shouted. But the violet energy surged again, and everyone flinched backward.
She was making everything worse.
Caelan watched her with those dead, calculating eyes. Without their physical connection, he couldn't feel the truth. Couldn't sense that she wasn't lying. All he saw was evidence: a convicted traitor wielding forbidden magic, accused by a trusted noble.
Logic said Isolde was right.
"Elira Ashenwild," Caelan said flatly. "You stand accused of using dark magic to manipulate the crown. How do you plead?"
"This is insane!" Elira's heart hammered. "Two minutes ago, you felt it! You know I'm your dream heart! You said—"
"I said many things while under the influence of unknown magic." His voice was ice. "That's not proof. That's manipulation."
The words hit harder than any physical blow.
"You're going to do this again?" Elira's voice broke. "Condemn me without caring about the truth? Just like three years ago?"
Something flickered across Caelan's face. Not quite emotion—he couldn't manage that—but something close to hesitation.
Isolde noticed. She pressed her advantage.
"Your Highness, I have witnesses." Isolde gestured, and three servants stepped forward. Elira recognized them—kitchen workers who'd always sneered at her, made her life harder. "They'll testify that this woman has been practicing forbidden rituals. Chanting in strange languages. Keeping suspicious items hidden in her quarters."
"That's a lie!" Elira turned to the servants. "Tell him the truth! You know I never—"
"We saw her," one servant interrupted, not meeting Elira's eyes. "Late at night. Whispering to shadows."
"She had strange symbols drawn on the floor," another added.
"She threatened us if we told anyone," the third finished.
Elira's world tilted. They were lying. All of them. But why?
Then she saw it—the small pouch of coins Isolde slipped to each servant as they stepped back. Payment for false testimony.
Just like three years ago.
"No," Elira whispered. "No, not again. Please."
"The evidence is clear," Isolde said triumphantly. "This woman is a dark magic user who's been planning this for months. She knew about your curse. She knew you were desperate. She created an elaborate trick to make you think she's your salvation."
"Your Highness," Thorne spoke up from the doorway. "Perhaps we should investigate more thoroughly before—"
"There's no time!" Isolde's voice rose. "Dawn comes in hours! If she's not the real dream heart, then the real one is still out there, and every minute wasted on this traitor brings you closer to death!"
The court murmured agreement. It made sense. Horrible, perfect sense.
Caelan stared at Elira. She saw the war happening behind his empty eyes—logic fighting against the memory of feeling, calculation battling with the ghost of truth.
"Touch me again," Elira begged, stepping forward. The guards tensed. "Just touch me and you'll know I'm telling the truth. You'll feel it—"
"That's exactly what she wants!" Isolde shrieked. "To touch you again! To strengthen whatever spell she's cast!"
"It's not a spell!" Elira's desperation made the violet light flare so bright everyone shielded their eyes. "Please, Caelan. You know me. In your dreams, you know me. Don't do this!"
For one heartbeat, she thought he might listen. His hand twitched toward hers.
Then Isolde played her final card.
"The ribbon was in my jewelry box this morning," she said quietly. "I noticed it missing an hour before it appeared on your pillow, Your Highness. I didn't think much of it at the time—servants sometimes borrow things. But now I understand. She stole it from me to create her trick."
The lie was so smooth, so perfect, that even Elira almost believed it.
"That's not true," Elira said weakly. "It was my mother's. I've had it for years—"
"Can you prove that?" Isolde challenged. "Do you have any witnesses? Any documentation?"
Elira's mouth opened. Closed. Everything she'd owned had been taken when she was convicted. All records destroyed. She had nothing.
"I thought not," Isolde said softly.
Caelan's face went completely blank. The brief hesitation vanished, replaced by cold certainty.
"Thorne," he said quietly. "Take her to the dungeon. Maximum security. No visitors."
"No!" Elira lunged forward, but guards grabbed her arms. The violet light sputtered and died as iron shackles clamped around her wrists. "You're making a mistake! I'm telling the truth!"
"Everyone claims they're telling the truth," Caelan said flatly. "The evidence says otherwise."
"Evidence can be faked!" Elira struggled against the guards. "Just like it was three years ago! Isolde framed me then, and she's framing me now!"
"My stepsister has always been delusional," Isolde said sadly. "It's tragic, really. She can't accept responsibility for her own crimes."
The guards dragged Elira toward the door. She fought every step, screaming at Caelan to listen, to believe, to remember what he'd felt.
But he just stood there. Hollow. Empty. Unmoved.
"Wait," Caelan said suddenly.
Hope flared in Elira's chest. He'd changed his mind. He'd—
"Search her thoroughly before you lock her up," Caelan ordered. "Remove anything that could be used for magic. And post six guards outside her cell at all times."
The hope died.
Elira stopped struggling. What was the point? History was repeating itself. The same prince. The same cold judgment. The same terrible unfairness.
"I loved you," she said quietly, meeting his dead eyes one last time. "In my dreams, I loved you. But you're not him. You're just a monster wearing his face."
Something cracked in Caelan's expression. Just for a second. Then it was gone.
"Take her away," he said.
The guards hauled Elira from the room. The last thing she saw was Isolde's triumphant smile and Caelan standing alone, staring at his empty hand.
The dungeon was worse than before. They threw her into a cell so deep underground that no light reached it. The shackles cut into her wrists. The stone floor was freezing.
Elira curled into a ball and finally let herself cry. Great, shaking sobs that tore from her chest. She'd been so close. So close to proving the truth, to breaking the curse, to saving them both.
And now she was right back where she'd started three years ago.
Alone in the dark.
Condemned by a prince who couldn't feel.
She must have cried herself to sleep because suddenly she was somewhere else. The dream garden. Their garden. Flowers bloomed in impossible colors. Stars reflected in the lake even though the sun shone overhead.
And there he was.
The warm prince. Her dream lover. Caelan as he should be—laughing and whole and alive.
He ran to her, pulling her into his arms. "Elira! Thank the gods! I've been trying to reach you for hours!"
She shoved him away. "Don't touch me."
He looked heartbroken. "Please, you have to understand—"
"Understand what?" Fury boiled through her. "That you condemned me? Again? That you believed everyone except me? Again?"
"I didn't have a choice! Without touching you, I can't feel! I can't tell truth from lies! All I have is evidence, and the evidence—"
"Was fake! Just like before!" Elira's voice echoed across the dream landscape. "Isolde is lying! Those servants are lying! But you'd rather believe comfortable lies than inconvenient truth!"
"That's not fair—"
"NOTHING ABOUT THIS IS FAIR!" The dream garden trembled with her rage. Flowers wilted. The lake turned dark. "You get to feel in here. You get to be human while you sleep. But I have to live with both versions of you—the man I love and the monster who destroys me. And I'm so tired of trying to reconcile them!"
Caelan reached for her again. "Elira, please—"
"No." She stepped back. "You want me to save you? To break your curse? Then you need to save me first. You need to choose to believe me even when the evidence says you shouldn't. You need to have faith."
"Faith isn't logical—"
"LOVE ISN'T LOGICAL!" Elira screamed. "That's the whole point! That's what you've forgotten! Love means trusting someone even when you're terrified they might hurt you. It means believing in them when the whole world says you're a fool!"
The dream landscape cracked. Reality was pulling her back to consciousness.
"I'm running out of time," Caelan said desperately. "Dawn is coming. If you're not my dream heart—if this isn't real—I'll die."
"Then I guess you'd better figure out who you trust more," Elira said coldly. "Your evidence or your heart."
She woke to the sound of screaming.
Not hers. Someone else's. Somewhere above her in the palace.
Then the dungeon door burst open. Thorne stood there, his face pale and terrified.
"You need to come now," he gasped. "The prince—something's wrong. He's dying. He's dying right now, and he's calling for you."