Chapter 98: Uncertainty

She did not know how long she had been staring. Her fingers hovered over the faint, unfamiliar mark on her arm. Now that she was truly looking, the shape of it unnerved her. It was not jagged or random. It almost looked… deliberate. Like something left behind on purpose. Her pulse thudded dimly in her ears.

What are you? she wondered, thumb brushing the edge of the strange discolouration.

She took a deep breath, eyes tracing the shape again, trying to decide if she should call Melyn back, or Levan, or if she was only overreacting and it would fade by morning.

But the longer she looked, the more the memory of the Expanse and the nightmare she has had pressed against her mind: the red haze, the distorted howls, the shifting shapes in the dark of the forests.

Her gaze dropped absently to the bathwater.

And she froze. Have or a heartbeat, the water was red. Not swirling, not dripping from her skin, not creeping outward. Just suddenly, impossibly red like that one in her dream, like something had bled into the still surface from nowhere at all.

Ilaria’s breath punched out of her chest. She jerked back, sloshing water over the rim and in that instant, the colour vanished. The water was clear again, warm, rippling gently from her movement. She did not even realize how she has been holding her breath until she exhaled.

She blinked rapidly, leaning forward, searching the surface, her hands and for any sign of blood but there was nothing, only her reflection mirrored her, pale, wide-eyed, and trembling.

No… No, I saw it.

She looked back down at her arm.

The mark had not faded. If anything, it looked darker than before, like the beginning of an inevitable rot. Ilaria swallowed hard, her hand curling protectively over the spot. The warmth of the water no longer comforted her.

A soft creak split the air. Ilaria’s entire body jerked.

“Your Highness— I brought the—” Melyn stopped in the doorway, arms full of towels, one foot still mid-step. Her eyes flicked from Ilaria’s white-knuckled grip on her arm, to her wide stare, to the faint tremor in the rippling water.

“…What happened?” Melyn asked immediately, voice sharpened by instinct.

Ilaria sat straighter, far too quickly. “Nothing—”

Melyn’s brows rose so high they nearly touched her hairline. “That was the least believable ’nothing’ I’ve heard all month.”

“I’m fine,” Ilaria insisted, forcing her hands underwater before Melyn could see too much. “The water was just… hotter than I expected.”

Melyn gave her a very slow, very unimpressed look. “The water was hotter,” she repeated flatly, “so you look like you’ve seen a ghost?”

“I don’t look like—”

“You look like someone who saw death tap on the bathwater and wave hello.”

Ilaria’s mouth opened, only to close again. In the end, no sound came out.

Melyn stepped closer, setting the towels down, her eyes narrowing with growing concern. “Did you slip? Did you hit something? Did the bath try to drown you? I swear, if the palace plumbing is cursed—”

“No!” Ilaria said quickly, waving her hands causing the water to ripple. “No, it wasn’t— it was nothing like that.”

Melyn paused at the edge of the bath, studying her. The teasing drained from her expression and replaced with something softer. Something worried. “You’re shaking.”

Ilaria stiffened. “It’s just the cold.”

“You said the water was hot just now,” Melyn gave her a knowing look. “So try again.”

And there was silence. Ilaria realized she was gripping her own arm too tightly. She forced her fingers to loosen and lowered her gaze, unable to meet Melyn’s. “I… thought I saw something.”

Melyn tilted her head. “Something?”

“…In the water.”

Another wave of silence passed.

Melyn’s hand flew to her chest. “Saints, was it a spider?!”

Ilaria stared at her. “What— no! No, Melyn, it was—” She stopped, throat tightening.

How exactly did she explain a red water that vanished?

She wanted to explain again, but before she could speak, Melyn crouched so that she was eye level with her. “Princess,” she called. “You don’t have to tell me right now, but something scared you. I can see it.”

Her eyes flicked once more to Ilaria’s arm, and Ilaria instinctively submerged it deeper under the water. Melyn noted the movement and her worry sharpened like a needle.

“…Did something hurt you?” she asked quietly.

“No,” Ilaria forced out. “It’s nothing. Truly.”

Melyn did not believe her, but she also didn’t push further. Instead, she let out a slow exhale, rose to her feet, and said softly, “Alright. Then let’s get you out before you soak long enough to wrinkle into a prune.”

The attempt at lightness did not fully hide her concern, but Ilaria appreciated it all the same.

Melyn fetched a towel and held it open. “Come on. Slowly.”

Ilaria stood, water cascading from her skin in rippling sheets. The air felt colder than it should have. For a moment, her gaze flicked to the bathwater which was perfectly normal and yet she still stepped out faster than usual, almost stumbling toward the towel.

Melyn wrapped it around her shoulders immediately. She guided Ilaria out of the antechamber, toward the cushioned bench and helped her slip into the soft, clean shift she had brought. Ilaria’s movements were quiet, almost mechanical, her mind still fixed on the mark beneath the fabric.

“You need rest, a proper one, and no, you can’t eat sweets before bed,” Melyn said once she was done fastening the last clasp.

Ilaria managed a weak smile. “Yes. I know.”

Melyn placed a steadying hand at her back and nudged her toward the doors. “Come. The bed’s warm already. I had the maids set the braziers earlier since you always turn cold after travelling, even a short walk in the garden.”

Ilaria hesitated only once before following her, relief washing over her when the door closed behind them and the scent of warm linens replaced the earlier steam.

And as Melyn walked her toward the crown prince’s bedchamber, speaking softly about tea and blankets and sleep, Ilaria kept one hand pressed to the hidden mark under her sleeve, as though afraid it might start glowing again.

Ilaria sank into the soft, familiar warmth of the bed, the feathered pillows and thick blankets a stark contrast to the hard canvas of the tent from days past. She tucked her legs beneath her, hugging the covers close but sleep refused to settle fully.

Her fingers flexed nervously beneath her sleeve, brushing the faint, alien mark on her arm. Every so often, her gaze flicked to it, half-expecting it to pulse again like the water in the bath had.

Melyn lingered at the edge of the bed, perched lightly on the armrest as though her presence alone might anchor Ilaria’s thoughts. “Drink some tea first?” she asked softly, a comforting murmur rather than a question. Ilaria shook her head, and Melyn let the idea drop.

The princess must have been so exhausted.

“I missed having you accompanying me to sleep,” Ilaria said, her voice barely above a whisper as she pouted at the handmaiden.

“I thought so,” Melyn replied, tilting her head. “That’s why I’m here.”

Ilaria pressed her hand to the blanket, staring into the soft folds and letting Melyn’s presence be enough, yet not enough to silence the swirl of thoughts inside her. The Expanse, the beasts, the red sea in her dreams, the mark now resting quietly on her arm…

All of it pressed on her mind with the weight of a storm cloud. Even Levan, whose calm steadiness had always anchored her could not chase these shadows away entirely.

Minutes passed. Her breathing slowed under Melyn’s quiet vigilance, the rhythm of her heartbeat matching the hush of the room. Melyn finally eased away upon noticing the way she breathed as she slept, her hand brushing lightly across Ilaria’s shoulder.

“Sleep, princess,” she whispered.

Ilaria breathed slowly, feeling the absence of Melyn on the bedside before slowly opening her eyes and sighed. She lay there, the darkness thickening around her like ink in water as she let her mind wander, reluctant to drift entirely into sleep.

She thought of the Expanse. The way the shadows had moved at the edges of her vision, the red haze that had filled her nightmare, the screams that had felt almost human. She traced the events in her mind, searching for patterns, for meaning or anything to make sense of the chaos she had witnessed.

Her thoughts drifted to her sister from the dream, and a sharp ache twisted in her chest. She did not know why, she had always understood dreams as nothing more than tricks of sleep, but after countless nightmares, she found herself questioning even that certainty.

Then her thoughts turned to Levan. The way he had steadied her, the careful weight of his hands when he guided her through fear and the softness that peeked through his command. She wondered if he sensed more than he let on, that if he too felt the tug of something waiting just beyond comprehension.

She thought of the council, of the beasts, of the shadows lingering in the corners of memory and the way he had insisted she should not be included…

She shifted slightly, sinking deeper into the mattress, eyes tracing the ceiling as if the pale plaster held answers she could not see. Sleep hovered on the edge like a teasing fog. She welcomed it but did not surrender.

The night was long, and her mind had not yet finished wandering through the remnants of fear and the whisper of uncertainty that had followed her home.

Finally, after what could have been minutes or hours, Ilaria’s eyes closed, not entirely, just enough for the darkness and the faint scent of Hallowbloom incense to cradle her.

She let herself drift, half asleep, half awake, and somewhere in that quiet space, her thoughts began to swirl less chaotically, settling into the lull of exhaustion and lingering wonder. Even in that fragile surrender, the faint warmth beneath her sleeve made her pulse quicken.

Should I tell him? she wondered. Would he know what to do, or would it only drag him into this as well?

The question twisted in her chest, leaving her restless even in her sleep.

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