Ever since that fateful night in the endless field of luminous blue blossoms, Aelric had known no true peace. Not while he was ensconced upon his magnificent throne, forced to endure the slow, relentless torture of meetings that dragged interminably on about trade routes, convoluted tariffs, and petty territorial scuffles. Not when his advisors clashed in heated debates over precarious noble alliances, their voices rising and tangling like wild, unkempt weeds in a forgotten garden, all while he sat in a solemn silence, his fingers absently grazing the soft petals of a single, secret bloom hidden within the elegant lining of his tunic. And never—absolutely never—did solace visit him at night.
For whenever he closed his eyes, she appeared.
Mei-Ling.
In his dreams, her laughter floated through the darkness like the delicate strains of an ethereal melody—light, unrestrained, enveloping him like a gentle breeze stirring tall, whispering grasses. There she was, ever elusive—always running, always dancing just beyond his reached grasp amidst endless fields awash in blue hues. Her bare feet barely kissed the cool earth, while her hair flowed behind her in a cascade of shimmering silk. And when she glanced back, that radiant smile of hers—oh, that smile possessed the power to shatter empires. In those precious moments, everything else melted away: the weight of his crown, the burden of his noble bloodline, and the stern duty of leadership.
Sometimes she danced in a wild, irresistible cadence. Other times, she stood motionless, an embodiment of serene brilliance with her hand outstretched as if inviting him into a world apart. And sometimes, trembling with desire, he accepted her silent invitation. In those instances, it was as if the very fabric of existence released its hold—there was no court, no kingdom, only her presence, the intoxicating aroma of delicate blossoms, and the reassuring warmth of her fingers merging with his. Each time, he silently pleaded with fate, praying desperately not to rouse from that fragile dream.
Yet, like the finest crystal, dreams are exquisitely fragile.
And not all remain kind.
Some darken. Some twist into nightmares.
He would awaken in a blaze of terror—sword clutched tightly in his grasp, his breath jagged, armor slick with mingled sweat and blood. The sky would rent open with booming thunder, magic crashing like wild, relentless waves, while the very ground trembled under the weight of agonized screams. The once — endless field of blue now lay scorched, burning fiercely beneath his calloused boots.
And then, through the choking smoke and overwhelming roar, his eyes would find her. Far off, standing alone.
Standing, trembling in fear.
"Run!" he would bellow, his voice raw with desperate command.
But she never moved.
He would surge forward, pushing through swarms of enemies, through searing fire and blinding smoke.
He would scream her name with every fiber of his being.
"Mei-Ling!"
She would turn, eyes wide with a mix of terror and hope, hand outstretched—but inevitably, something cruel would intervene. A swirling portal of inky shadow would materialize behind her, relentlessly yanking her away.
And no matter how fast he ran, no matter how hard he screamed, he could never reach her in time.
She would vanish.
Every single time.
And he would awaken—always—with her name trembling on his lips.
This time was no different.
He bolted upright in bed, gasping for air, drenched in sweat that clung like rain, his heart thundering in his chest like a relentless war drum. His chest heaved with panic, the echo of her desperate scream still haunting his ears.
"Mei-Ling!"
"Shhh," came a soft, soothing voice beside him, accompanied by a cool, firm hand pressed gently against his chest. "It's just a dream."
He froze.
Turning slowly, he found Lady Aurelia beside him, her golden hair cascading artfully over silk pillows, her serene face marred only by a trace of deep concern. Draped in a sheer, flowing robe that clung to her graceful form, her hand still rested lightly on him—as if to offer a balm for his troubled soul.
"What are you doing here?" he demanded, his tone sharper than he intended.
She tilted her head gracefully. "I heard you cry out, Aelric. You've been so restless these past nights. I came to comfort you."
"I didn't ask for your comfort," he muttered bitterly, swinging his legs over the side of the bed in an attempt to shake off the weight of the lingering nightmare.
She sat up slowly, the silk sheets slipping down her shoulders in a cascade of delicate folds. "We're practically married, Aelric. What does it matter?"
He turned away, his eyes narrowing into cold, hard slits. "We're not married."
She recoiled as if struck.
"I never asked you. I never chose you," he added bitterly, his voice harsh and unforgiving. "That was your assumption, nothing more than that—not a promise from me."
Aurelia's eyes flashed with disbelief before igniting into simmering fury. "After everything I've done. After every sacrifice I made to stand by your side—"
"Stand by, yes," he interjected icily. "But never at my request."
With a swift, determined movement, she rose from the bed, gathering her robe from an adjacent chair. Her face drained of color, her composed mask beginning to crack.
"So that's it?" she snapped, her voice heavy with anger. "You're throwing everything away for a damned dream? For some imagined woman who visits you in the night?"
He remained silent.
His silence struck her harder than any torrent of words could.
"Fine," she hissed venomously, cinching her robe tightly at her waist. "Stay here and chase your ghosts, Aelric. Just remember—ghosts might haunt you, but they don't rule kingdoms. I do."
With a forceful slam, she shut the door behind her, the impact rattling the windows in its wake.
And then, he was left completely alone.
Utterly and painfully alone.
The only sounds that broke the heavy silence were the soft rustle of curtains stirred by a gentle night breeze and the steady, mournful drum of his own heartbeat struggling to settle.
He rose from the disordered bed and walked purposefully to the tall glass doors that led out onto the balcony. With a decisive thrust, he pushed them wide open and stepped into the cool embrace of the night—his bare chest exposed, skin slick with sweat, hair damp and clinging as if in reluctance to leave the dream behind. The biting chill cut through him with a welcome sharpness, a stark contrast to the fog of his lingering nightmare.
Above, the stars glittered like shards of distant truth scattered across the velvet sky.
He tilted his head back, eyes fixed on the luminous moon, and allowed his hand to drift slowly to rest upon his chest.
And there, nestled just beneath the pillow where he had carefully hidden it days before, lay the delicate blossom.
He turned and crossed the room with measured steps, gently reaching beneath the fine linen to retrieve it. Still soft as a whispered secret, still an immaculate, deep blue, still impossibly whole. The petals, as delicate as the brush of a lover's sigh, seemed to preserve a faint, residual warmth—as though they vividly recalled the comfort of hands that once held them.
He brought it close, closed his eyes, and inhaled deeply.
The scent was subtle yet undeniably sweet—an aroma both gentle and piercing in its truth.
The scent of her.
As he turned the blossom slowly between his fingers, memories stirred once more behind his eyes—That mesmerizing laugh. That captivating, empire-shattering smile. The tender, unforgettable sensation of her hand melding into his.
"Who are you?" he whispered, scarcely aware that the words had left his lips aloud. "Why do I feel as though I've known you... through countless lifetimes?"
The blossom offered no reply.
But something deep within him—buried, ancient, and unfathomable—shifted imperceptibly.
Not quite a memory.
Not quite a dream.
Just enough to leave him aching with an inexplicable longing.