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Shandrea woke with her breath snagged in her throat.
For a moment she didn’t understand what had pulled her out of sleep—only that her chest hurt and her pulse thundered like she’d been running. The dream clung to her in fragments, slippery and sharp. Voices layered over one another, not loud but relentless, pressing in until her thoughts felt crowded.
I didn’t mean to.
I didn’t want to.
But you did.
Her fingers curled into the blankets. She expected cold stone. Expected the crushing weight that sometimes followed the dream—the phantom sensation of metal and responsibility digging into her skull.
Instead she felt soft fabric. Warmth.
Reality crept in slowly.
The rise and fall beneath her hand wasn’t her own breathing.
Her eyes opened.
Moonlight spilled through the windows beside the bed in pale ribbons, illuminating the familiar shape of the room. The curtains shifted gently in the breeze, and beyond the glass the cherry blossom tree swayed, its pale petals drifting lazily through the night air. The sight grounded her for half a heartbeat.
Then the voices pushed in again.
Her throat tightened.
She tried to breathe quietly—tried not to disturb the warmth curled around her—but the pressure in her chest only grew. The memory of the dream didn’t show her clear images; it never did. It left impressions instead. Guilt. Panic. The awful certainty that she had done something she couldn’t take back.
“I didn’t…” she whispered.
The words trembled apart before they finished.
The voices answered anyway.
You did.
Her breath hitched.
Tears came fast and without warning, blurring the moonlight. She pressed her lips together to keep from making a sound, shoulders tightening as if she could physically contain the emotion. It didn’t work. The pressure inside her chest only swelled, hot and unbearable.
She thought the crown would fix this.
When the spirits had chosen her, she’d believed—desperately—that there was meaning in it. That maybe if she carried the responsibility well enough, if she helped the village heal before even touching the castle walls, if she did everything right, then the voices would quiet.
They hadn’t.
Not when people thanked her.
Not when the roads reopened.
Not when laughter returned to streets that had been silent.
The voices stayed.
And now the crown was gone.
The thought struck like a fresh bruise.
Yesterday, the spirits had passed it to someone else—calm ceremony, gentle smiles, reassurance that this was balance, tradition, shared duty. She’d nodded through it all.
But when the crown left her head, she’d felt something inside her hollow out.
Proof, her mind whispered, that it never meant what you thought.
Her breathing frayed.
The arm around her waist tightened.
Graecie moved instantly.
Shandrea felt it before she heard anything—the subtle shift from sleep to alertness. Graecie’s hand spread more firmly against her stomach, anchoring her. The warmth behind her sharpened with awareness.
“Shan?”
The whisper was soft, but awake. Fully awake.
Shandrea squeezed her eyes shut. She hadn’t wanted to wake her. Hadn’t wanted to drag her into this spiral.
Another shaky breath escaped her anyway.
Graecie pushed herself up slightly on one elbow, close enough that Shandrea could feel her movement without seeing it. Her other arm slid around Shandrea’s middle, drawing her gently closer.
“You’re crying,” Graecie said quietly.
There was no accusation in it—only concern, immediate and focused.
Shandrea tried to answer. Her voice failed her. She nodded instead, a tiny motion.
Graecie didn’t hesitate.
She shifted fully, wrapping both arms around Shandrea and pulling her back against her chest. The embrace was protective without being tight—like a wall she could lean on, not something trapping her.
“I’m here,” Graecie murmured.
The words landed warm against Shandrea’s shoulder.
Her breath stuttered again. The tears didn’t stop; if anything, Graecie’s presence made it harder to hold them back. The voices pressed, insistent.
You didn’t deserve it.
You didn’t fix anything.
“I thought…” Shandrea whispered. The confession scraped its way out. “I thought if I did enough… they’d stop.”
Graecie’s thumb began slow circles through the fabric of her shirt. Steady. Grounding. Intentional.
“The voices?” she asked softly.
Shandrea nodded.
“I thought the crown…” Her throat tightened. “I thought it meant something. That if the spirits chose me, maybe… maybe I wasn’t…”
She faltered.
Graecie didn’t rush her.
“Maybe I wasn’t broken,” Shandrea finished.
The word hung heavy between them.
Graecie’s forehead rested lightly against the back of Shandrea’s shoulder. Her breath was warm, steady. Present.
“You helped an entire village breathe again,” Graecie said quietly. “You carried that crown with care. Voices don’t get to rewrite that.”
“They didn’t stop,” Shandrea whispered.
“I know.”
No doubt. No hesitation. Just acceptance.
Shandrea watched a blossom drift past the window, its pale shape catching the moonlight. The world outside looked peaceful in a way she couldn’t quite feel inside.
“They chose someone else,” she said after a moment. “And I know that’s how it works, but when it left… it felt like the reason left too.”
Graecie’s hold tightened slightly—reassurance, not restraint.
“The crown didn’t make you worthy,” she murmured. “You were worthy before it ever touched you.”
Shandrea let out a shaky breath. The voices muttered at the edges of her thoughts, but they felt… farther away. Muted by warmth and touch and the quiet certainty in Graecie’s voice.
She became aware of the details anchoring her to the present.
The soft press of Graecie’s cheek near her shoulder. The faint scent of soap and linen. The steady rhythm of Graecie’s breathing, intentionally slow—inviting Shandrea to match it.
She did.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Again.
Her shoulders loosened by degrees.
The cherry blossom tree swayed, petals tapping faintly against the glass. Shandrea focused on the movement. On the fact that the world was still turning. That she was here—in their bed, in their home—not trapped in the echo of her past.
“I’m still scared,” she admitted.
“That’s okay,” Graecie whispered. “You don’t have to stop being scared for this to get easier.”
The simplicity of it settled something deep in Shandrea’s chest.
Fear didn’t have to disappear to make room for peace.
She leaned back fully into Graecie’s embrace. The tension she’d been holding melted slowly, like ice thawing under sunlight. Graecie adjusted with her, one hand still tracing lazy circles, the other resting over her ribs as if to say: I’ve got you.
Shandrea turned her head slightly.
In the dim light, she could just see Graecie’s face—brown hair rumpled from sleep, freckles scattered across olive skin, cheeks faintly flushed even in the low glow. Her brown eyes were wide awake, watching Shandrea with quiet focus.
She hadn’t gone back to sleep.
She wasn’t going to.
The realization warmed something inside Shandrea that the voices couldn’t touch.
“You don’t have to stay up,” she murmured weakly.
Graecie huffed a soft breath. “I want to.”
Simple. Certain.
Shandrea swallowed. Emotion rose again, but it wasn’t sharp this time—just tender.
The voices tried once more to edge in.
You don’t deserve this.
Graecie’s thumb kept moving.
Inhale.
Exhale.
The rhythm grounded her. The warmth behind her was steady, unwavering. The cherry blossoms drifted. The room remained quiet and safe and real.
The voices faded to a distant murmur.
Not gone.
But manageable.
Her eyelids grew heavy.
She fought sleep for a moment—afraid the dream might be waiting—but Graecie’s hand squeezed gently, like she could sense the hesitation.
“I’m here,” Graecie whispered again.
The promise wrapped around Shandrea like another blanket.
And then, softly, Graecie began to sing.
The melody was quiet enough that Shandrea felt it more than heard it—a gentle hum at first, low and steady against her back. The words followed, unfamiliar and lilting, syllables flowing into one another like water over smooth stone.
“Líra na’vel…
sere mbilu…
arae thalen…
sere, sere…”
Shandrea didn’t know the language. She never had. But she knew the feeling of it.
Each note settled into the tight places in her chest, smoothing the edges of her fear. Graecie’s voice wasn’t loud or polished, but it was warm, close, shaped by breath and intention. A sound meant for holding, not performing.
The rhythm matched the slow circle of Graecie’s thumb.
Matched her breathing.
Matched the sway of blossoms outside the window.
The voices in Shandrea’s head tried once to rise again; thin and distant but the lullaby folded over them, soft as falling petals. There was no fighting in it. No force.
Just presence.
Just stay.
Her body listened before her mind did. Her shoulders loosened. Her breath deepened, falling into the cadence Graecie set. The unfamiliar words became anchors instead of mysteries — proof that someone was here, awake, choosing to keep her company at the edge of sleep.
The melody repeated, gentle and endless. A circle instead of a line. No beginning. No pressure to reach an end.
Safe.
Warm.
Held.
Shandrea let her eyes close.
The dream did not rush to meet her this time. The voices remained distant, muffled beneath song and breath and steady hands.
And as Graecie’s lullaby continued—soft, patient, unwavering—sleep finally took Shandrea in its arms
Her breathing slowed. The tension in her chest loosened. The edges of the world softened.
The last thing she saw before her eyes closed was a pale petal drifting past the window.
The last thing she felt was Graecie’s steady heartbeat against her back.
And when sleep took her again, it was gentle.
Graecie didn’t move.
She stayed awake, listening to Shandrea’s breathing even out. Watching her shoulders relax. Feeling the tremor fade from her body.
Only when Shandrea was fully settled—safe in the quiet rhythm of sleep—did Graecie let herself relax. Her thumb stilled, but her arm remained wrapped securely around her.
Guarding.
Holding.
There when morning would come.