Memories haunted my dreams.

They whirled about me like dancers, and shortly after partnering with one, another whisked me away. And so my senses were maddeningly assaulted by snippets of irretrievable days spent with the brother I'd lost, revitalising my anguish at his death.

I smelt anew the moist earth we'd overturned in search of elusive butchy-boy bugs; felt anew the scratches we'd accumulated in search of gorse-bush to throw on our campfires and watch the flames climb high; tasted again the pastries we'd pinched from the kitchens, made all the sweeter by the fact they weren't ours; felt exasperation watching him terrorise the facilitator of my first kiss, in a valiant attempt to defend my honour.

Arthur's cherub cheeks gradually lost their roundness; his frame filled out with muscle; and his eyes popped ever-brighter in contrast with the gradual darkening of his hair, until the brown almost appeared black at first glance. The greatest change I witnessed through the chronological montage of his life, however, was in his nature. Whilst my temperament soured with age and the isolation necessary to protect the secret of my magic, Arthur involved himself with the populace and flourished as a result, earning their genuine admiration with his charisma, strengthening the respect our father commanded of them through fear.

But no matter what standing he gained and how aloof I became, Arthur always involved me in his life, never once leaving me behind, never once considering me anything less than his equal. He was an incredible man, I realised with the painful clarity of hindsight. As capable as our father and compassionate as our mother: the prime legacy of their coupling.

My heart wrenched in my chest with the realisation that he had been my one genuine friend in life. And now...

The whirl of memories came to an abrupt stop. I sat up in my bed, only to be confronted by the sight of Arthur sitting on the corner of the mattress. He was picking absently at the threads in the blue coverlet.

"I feel relief, now," he mumbled.

I frowned, perturbed by his lack of drive. Where was the man whose soul had once strained with the burden of royal responsibility, whose muscles had built over time to lift it? Where was the firstborn child of our father, the decisive and indomitable heir to the werewolf throne? The man before me wore Arthur's face, but shared none of his drive. This man had come to terms with death.

"You're not my brother," I accused, narrowing my eyes at the imposter.

"Oh, I am," he assured me. "But I am also a dream."

Ah, a dream. The idea leant sense to this odd encounter. "Of course," I muttered, rubbing at my eyes. "You're dead."

"Indeed. But for now, I'm alive in concept, given voice by your subconscious mind. There must be a reason for that."

"Perhaps I miss you," I proposed. "Perhaps I wanted to say goodbye."

"No, I don't think that's it." There was a small furrow in his brow as he tried to find the right words. "I think... that you want advice on how to proceed."

"Oh?" I scoffed. "What advice could you possibly offer me? You said it yourself: you're just a dream. That means you know what I know and nothing more."

"We know that the values of the masses shift with time, like rock over the centuries," Arthur said, his eyes as piercingly blue as a summer sky, a colour so rich that it should have defied mortal perception. "Humans are more fantastic and terrible than ever before. If our kind is to survive the whimsical nature of man, then we must evolve with their kind, as we evolved from them once before. It's time for a woman to sit on the throne."

"That's a fine idea," I concurred. But what he offered was too fine an idea. This Arthur wasn't real, and our conversation was but a dream. As a manifestation of my subconscious, his opinions held no weight, for they were essentially my own. "Save for the fact that our father wants to start a supernatural war. If humans learn of our existence and decide to fear us, we'll all be hunted like rats."

"That is unfortunate."

"As is the fact of your death."

He said nothing and continued to pick at threads.

"Arthur." This time there was a pleading note in my voice. "You can't expect me to accept —"

He shook his head, cutting me off. "You already have accepted it, Chance."

Those words echoed with a strange finality, and the hair on the back of my neck stood to attention. His statement kindled a golden spark in my chest. My magic was unbiased; it did not care for the desires of the woman who housed it. I knew with a spirit-crushing certainty that Arthur would never share with me, never protect me, never compete with me again.

He would never come home.

As I made that realisation, the dream faded. Colours dimmed, dematerialising into the blackness of normal sleep. The ultramarine of his irises lingered for a moment, after the rest of the scene dissolved into mist. Then it, too, succumbed to the swirl of the shadows.

───── ☾ ─────

"Chance, wake up."

Possessed by instinct, I smashed heads with the person leaning over me, twisting at the last second and launching myself off the bed. Pain radiated through my skull, but I ignored it, snapping into a fighting stance. If London was here now... Adrenaline surged in response to the suspicion.

The intruder trembled like a startled rabbit, cheeks flushed with fear, pretty mouth agape. I felt the tension in my chest ease, only to coil once more. What business did she have here?

Sophie tucked a strand of chestnut hair behind her ear, the motion sending a waft of floral perfume my way. I resisted the urge to wrinkle my nose at the fakery that was her scent, placated only by the knowledge that she wore it to mask her submissive odour. What Arthur once saw in her, I'd honestly never know.

"Ah, Chance," she stammered. "Someone, I mean, your dad, he told me to..." No further sound came out. She swallowed and tried again. "He asked me to wake you up."

"What?" I arched an eyebrow. "No 'good morning'?"

She frowned, but her eyes were forgiving. "Well, I guess I thought pleasantries were pointless, given that we just clashed heads. I'm sorry, by the way. I didn't mean to scare you."

"Scare me," I huffed, running a hand through my hair. As if she were capable of such a feat! "Why did Father send you to wake me up?"

I didn't like her, and it was clear in my tone. I refused to fake fondness for the girl who'd swindled Arthur's love and time. What had been even more frustrating than his obsession with her was the fact that our entire community seemed to endorse their relationship, despite Sophie's glaring incompetence. Knowing that they might marry, and that she could ascend to the position of City Luna when Arthur claimed the throne (thereby outranking me), had rankled me for years.

There was no danger of that now.

"I know it's a bad time," Sophie said. "I'd much rather give you the space and time to grieve properly, but the Lord Nightshade sent me to help you get ready."

"Ready for what?"

"I'm not sure," she admitted. "But he said to wear something pretty, like a dress."

I felt my eyebrows go up towards my hairline. "A dress, huh? This must be important." It wasn't often father prioritised presentation over punctuality.

And so I grudgingly followed her to the walk-in wardrobe, sincerely wishing I didn't have to change out of the jeans I'd worn to bed in anticipation of a summons. "The sophisticated stuff should be somewhere in the back," I said, leaning against the doorframe whilst she ducked inside. I didn't think my sinuses could handle being trapped in close proximity with her. "Pick anything, I trust your judgement."

I shouldn't have. While it was probably safe to assume that whatever Sophie selected would fit — estate staff periodically took my measurements to stock my wardrobe; Father rarely gave me leave of the estate, even for activities as mundane as shopping — there was no guarantee that it would be stylish.

Sure enough, Sophie returned with a with a lacy, full-skirted monstrosity. I wanted to shield my eyes; it was the kind of yellow that threw back the light with retina-searing intensity.

"It's like staring into the damn sun," I complained, waving it away.

"Aw, come on," Sophie said, trying to press the hanger into my hands. "I'm sure you secretly love it deep down!"

It was too much. The invasion of my personal space, her cavalier attitude... I was not quick to love, nor generous with the word. I found it distinctly unsettling that she was.

"How can you laugh so easily, after last night?" I asked, knocking the hanger aside. "Did you love him at all, Sophie? Did you truly care for my brother, or was it all just a grab for power? Surely you can be honest with me now that he's dead."

Tears formed in her eyes — the first I'd seen all morning. "To be honest, I've been trying not to think about it," Sophie admitted. "I'm struggling to believe it's not some kind of political ruse."

"It's perfectly real," I said gruffly. "I found his body."

Sophie searched my face, presumably for some evidence of a lie. The longer she looked, the more her suspicion wavered, until her face had blanched of all colour and she looked on the verge of being sick. I heard air hitch in the back of her throat as she spun on her heel, retreating to the relative privacy of the wardrobe.

When she finally emerged, it was with bloodshot eyes and a far more suitable dress.

I took the navy material into my hands, rolling the soft velvet between my fingertips. "This will do," I said, inclining my head in thanks.

I slipped it on and had Sophie secure the straps behind my neck, leaving my shoulders bare. After many painful tugs of a hairbrush, Sophie had black, silky waves cascading to the bottom of my ribs. I refused jewellery and makeup, much to her distress. The black eye I sported was far too impressive to cover up.

At last, Sophie stood back to admire her work. "I think you're ready," she said.

She was right. I was more than ready to find out what the hell was going on.