“Vhalla.” A voice that was made of midnight itself soothed from behind her. It broke through the chaos in her head. “Vhalla, stop. It’s all right. It’s me.”

She gave a small whimper of relief and took a breath through her nose. Then another, until Aldrik finally removed his hand from her mouth, assured she would not alert the whole world to her presence in his bed. In her sleep she had rolled onto her side and Aldrik had curled behind her. Vhalla rolled to face him.

“Aldrik,” she said weakly. Vhalla scanned his face. After seeing his younger self, he suddenly appeared every year of his age and too many more. She choked down a small cry of relief to see his cheeks free of blood. “Aldrik,” Vhalla whimpered before using his chest as a shield from the world.

The prince’s arms closed around her, and he kissed the top of her head. “I’m here. You’re safe. It was just a dream. It isn’t real,” he reassured, running a hand up and down her back.

“It is.” Vhalla choked out in-between shaky breaths and the remnants of tears. She couldn’t deny it any more. The earlier dreams had been too mingled with his consciousness to know for certain, but now she was sure.

“Vhalla, I know of a great many powers in this world ...” He pulled back and ran a thumb over her wet cheeks. “I know of powers to see the future in flame and ash. I know of powers to listen to echoes of the past in waves. I know of powers that can heal almost any illness. I know of powers to walk outside of one’s own body.” Aldrik smiled gently at her. “But I know of no power of dreams.”

“It-it was real.”

“Hush, you’re not making sense. Take a breath and go back to sleep. It is barely dawn, and my father didn’t speak of having your demonstration until noon.” He kissed her forehead lightly, and Vhalla’s guilt made her pull away from him to sit up.

“You don’t understand. It was real. My dreams, they’re not—” A shiver ran down her arms. “They’re not always dreams.”

“Come, you’re cold,” Aldrik sighed. “What is it you think they are?” He yawned, blinking sleep away and propping his head up with his elbow.

She relented, lying back down into the covers but avoiding his embrace. “They’re,” Vhalla sighed and closed her eyes, bracing herself. “They’re your memories.”

“What?” Aldrik studied her.

“My dreams, at least sometimes, are your memories. I don’t know how, or why, or when they will happen, but they do.” She gulped at his silence.

“Why do you think that?” he asked, turning serious. “Because there’s no reason why I should dream anything like what I see,” she whispered.

“Dreams are strange, Vhalla. Who knows why we dream what we do.” Aldrik laid back down.

“No,” she snapped; he wasn’t taking her as seriously as she had wanted. She recalled a prior vivid dream. “The man who stabbed you was your brother’s guard, he was a Westerner, and his son was in the town that you attacked.”

Aldrik’s eyes grew wide. “Did Baldair tell you that?”

“No!” Vhalla fought to keep her head from turning into an emotional mess. “Aldrik, they are my dreams! You were at a garden in the West with the sculpture of a woman on an obelisk with a gold and ruby sun. There was a man there who told you—of all people—to stop fidgeting.”

“My mother’s grave.” Aldrik’s lips barely moved. His eyes were suddenly burning with a dark intensity, and he grabbed her shoulder. “What else?” he demanded. “What else have you seen?” His fingers dug into her skin.

She struggled to remember anything else but her most recent dream. “You in the dark, with another woman ...”

“Mother ...” He hung his head in shame.

“With, when-when Egmun made you ...” Vhalla struggled to find words, still reeling.

“When he what?” Aldrik’s teeth were clenched. “When he what?”

For the first time, Vhalla felt a small twinge of fear at his quivering hands. “When-when he made you kill that man,” Vhalla whispered, her lips barely moving.

Aldrik stared at her. “Is that all? What do you know? Tell me, Vhalla, and do not lie to me.” His voice was rough and void of compassion.

“I have never lied to you!”

“Of course not, just rummaged through my head,” he raged.

“How dare you!” Vhalla jerked out of his grasp, offended by his presumptions. “I only just realized it. I was only now, this morning, able to separate myself enough from you in the memories to realize.” She saw the recognition of those facts calm his anger some.

“Was that all you saw?” he repeated more calmly.

“Of that dream? Yes,” she sighed. “I don’t even know where it happened. It was all dark.”

The prince sat and brought his forehead to his palm with a heavy sigh.

“Aldrik,” she whispered. “There’s another ...”

“Gods, what?” he sighed. “Vhalla,” he urged softly.

Vhalla bit her lip. She wasn’t sure how to form the words. Something about all that had been said, her recent dream, his low opinion of himself, placed this singular memory in the forefront of her mind. Vhalla sat and took his hand gently in hers, bringing it to her lips first in reassurance. He looked at her, a mix of pain, shame, and anger furrowing his brow. She sighed and turned his hand over, so the inside of his wrist faced upward. With her free hand she placed an index finger just below his palm running it up his forearm. Her fingertip caught on his sleeve and pushed it upward, revealing the ghost of a scar which she knew would be there. It was so faint that on the pale of his skin it was nearly invisible, but she knew to look for it. Vhalla brought her gaze up to his slowly.