Circe woke with a sharp gasp, her heart hammering wildly against her ribcage. Her breaths came in fast, shallow bursts, each one raspier than the last. For a moment, she lay frozen, her wide eyes staring blankly at the ceiling above her as she tried to anchor herself back to reality.

She pressed a trembling hand to her chest in an effort to calm the frantic rhythm of her heart.

"A dream," she whispered, as though saying the words might lessen the grip of fear still clinging to her. "It was only a dream."

But even as she spoke, she knew it wasn’t entirely true. It hadn’t felt like a dream. No, it had been far too vivid, too tangible. It was the clarity of it that disturbed her the most. Circe rarely dreamt at all, and when she did, they never lingered like this. They never clung to her skin like cold sweat, never wrapped around her throat like an invisible noose.

Golden sunlight filtered through the thin gaps between the heavy curtains, casting soft beams of warmth across the room. Dust motes drifted lazily in the air, suspended in the light like tiny flecks of glitter.

She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and sat upright in the large, unfamiliar bed. Her thoughts were sluggish and tangled, caught in the haze left behind by her unsettling dream. She couldn’t even remember when she had stopped glaring at Ragnar long enough to fall asleep. At some point during the night, her exhaustion must have overtaken her.

Her breathing gradually slowed, and the pounding in her chest began to subside. She swept her gaze across the room and realized she was alone. Ragnar was nowhere to be seen.

Relief washed over her like a cool wave. She was grateful for the solitude, grateful that he wasn’t here to witness the shaken, vulnerable state she had awoken in.

Circe grew restless after a while of sitting in silence. She climbed out of bed, wrapping her arms around herself as she moved toward the door. She didn’t have any particular destination in mind. She just needed to be somewhere else, anywhere but this room, this bed, his bed.

Ragnar had told her she could explore the manor as she pleased, at least during day.

She scoffed at the memory.

As if that were some sort of kindness. He hadn’t granted her freedom, he only offered her a wider cage. But a larger cell was still a cell. All he had done was lengthen the leash, not sever it. She could roam the halls of the manor, yes, but beyond the estate’s gates remained closed to her.

She was still a prisoner, just one with better upholstery and polished floors.

And worst of all, no matter where she went, she would still be forced to return to his chambers each night.

Her feet padded across the stone floor as she made her way down the silent corridors. As she passed one of the tall, arched windows, the sharp clang of metal striking metal drifted in from outside, followed by the low, grunting sounds of exertion. Curious, she paused and peered out.

In the yard beside the gardens, Casilo and Kostia were locked in a fierce sparring match. They circled each other, sweat-slicked and shirtless, muscles coiled with tension. But what made her pulse quicken was the sight of Rowen.

He was seated on a stone bench a few paces from the action, eyes glued to the fighters, utterly engrossed.

Circe’s heart softened, and she turned away from the window. She descended the stone steps and stepped out into the morning air. The sun was warm against her skin, the grass beneath her feet freshly cut and still dewy. She followed the sound of clashing swords until she reached the small courtyard where her little brother sat.

Without a word, Circe settled beside him on the bench. Rowen didn’t look at her or even acknowledge her presence. His attention remained fixed on the duel before him.

She followed his gaze.

Casilo and Kostia moved with impressive speed and grace. The sheer precision of their strikes, the rhythm of parry and attack, it was almost hypnotic. Sweat gleamed on their skin like oil in the sun, and each of them moved with the fluid confidence of someone who had trained for years. Kostia was on the offensive, his strikes quick and relentless, but Casilo deflected every one with practiced ease.

Now she understood Rowen’s fascination. It was hard to look away.

For several minutes, the duel continued in that same unbroken rhythm—Kostia striking, Casilo blocking—until Casilo abruptly shifted his stance and swung his blade in a clean, sharp arc. the blow knocked Kostia off balance, sending him sprawling to the ground with a thud. Casilo stepped forward and pressed the tip of his sword to Kostia’s chest before he could recover.

"I couldn’t find you when I woke up," Rowen said suddenly, his quiet voice breaking the spell.

Circe turned to look at him. His eyes were wide and guileless, filled of unspoken worry.

Her throat went dry.

She didn’t want to tell him about last night, about what happened between her and Ragnar. It was her burden, not his. She had always shielded him from the worst of the world, and she would continue to do so, no matter the cost.

"I woke up in the night and couldn’t fall back asleep," she said softly. "So I went back to the library and stayed there until dawn."

The lie stung. It tasted bitter on her tongue and left behind the dull ache of guilt. But it was necessary. Rowen was too young to carry her pain. Too young to be dragged down by her nightmares and the grim reality of her situation. She would bear it all alone, if it meant sparing him.

That was how it had always been.

Since the day he was born and their mother took her last breath, Circe had been his protector, his guardian. She was his sister, yes but she was also more than that. She was all he had left in the world. And it was her duty, her solemn vow, to shield him from everything that sought to harm them. Even if it meant lying.

Even if it meant breaking a little more inside with each secret she kept from him.