We hadn’t moved.
I still held his little finger in mine.
And somehow, that had said more than words ever could.
But now—
I wanted words.
And I wanted them to matter.
“Let me stay.”
His eyes flicked up to meet mine.
“You are here.”
“No—” I whispered. “Not like that. I don’t want to be pulled in and out like I have no say.”
He didn’t speak.
Didn’t breathe.
But something behind his stillness began to stir —like the castle itself was listening.
“I want to stay in this castle,” I said. “By choice.”
His gaze darkened — not in anger.
More like a door closing behind his thoughts.
“You don’t understand what you’re asking.”
“Then explain it to me.”
He turned his head slightly, and the weight of his silence was almost crushing.
“Staying means forgetting what morning feels like. What your world smells like after rain. How it tastes to cry in sunlight.”
“I haven’t cried in sunlight in a long time,” I murmured.
That made something flicker in his expression.
Recognition.
“I don’t want to forget,” I said. “I just… want a place that feels like mine. And this castle—”
I swallowed hard.
“This castle is starting to feel like that.”
He looked down at our hands.
My fingers still gently wrapped around his.
“And if I say yes,” he asked, voice low, “will you resent me later?”
“I don’t know,” I answered honestly. “But I’ll resent you more if you don’t let me try.”
That stopped him.
Like I’d spoken a language only he could hear.
He slowly pulled his hand back —
not to break the moment,
but to place his palm flat against his chest.
Then, with the same gentleness I’d shown him—He touched my forehead.
“Then the castle is yours.”
He lowered his hand.
“But if you stay,” he said, stepping closer, “then so does everything that watches. Everything that waits.”
I nodded.
“I’m not afraid.”
“You should be.”
“But I’m not.”
“Why?”
I looked into his eyes —
those eyes that still sometimes burned red in my dreams —
and smiled.
“Because you’re here.”
He didn’t change overnight.
But he had changed.
He no longer looked like a child.
And somehow, that made it worse.
Because now—
he looked like me.
Like someone I could understand…or want.
But I didn’t know what to call the feeling.
It wasn’t trust.
It wasn’t fear.
It was warm… but sharp.
Heavy… but soft.
It lived in my chest like a secret trying to stretch its wings.
So I did the only thing I could do:
I watched him.
---
He spent most of his hours in the west wing.
It had the best view of the sky —if you could call it that.
Always crimson.
Always swirling.
I found him there almost every time.
Reading.
Lying on a long chair carved from something black and soft as velvet.
Eyes half-lidded, unmoving.
YOU ARE READING
THE REALM WITHOUT A NAME
FantasyI was ten when I stepped into the world that shouldn't exist. I wasn't asleep. Not really. I had gotten up in the middle of the night to drink some water. The moonlight outside was... wrong. Too silver, too heavy, like it was weighing down the earth...
