Page 23 of Stolen
“So, what is all this?”
“I told you,” Alaric says, his voice almost reverent as he steps beside me at the window. “This is Nightfall. A parallel realm. A place layered just beyond the human veil.”
He pauses, watching me study the landscape like I’m trying to decide whether it’s beautiful or terrifying.
“Here,” he continues, “dreams are born. And nightmares are doled out with necessary care.”
I turn to him slowly. “You’re saying this is where dreams come from?”
“Yes,” he murmurs, gaze distant. “Good and bad. The stories you wake from and can’t quite remember? The ones that inspire paintings, books, music, even love? They begin here. Whispered from the mouths of Nightfall’s winds. Spun into the minds of mortals while they sleep.”
“And the nightmares?” I ask.
His smile is dark and quiet. “Also us. But not to torment. To warn. To shape. To keep your world, and others, from forgetting fear, or consequence. Nightmares are necessary, Jules. Without them, people would walk blindly into ruin.”
The window glass shimmers faintly in response to his words—as if the realm itself agrees.
“You speak like this place is alive,” I say softly.
He turns his eyes on me, and my breath catches.
“It is alive. It breathes. It listens. It chooses.”
My heart thuds against my ribs.
“And it chose me?”
“I chose you,” he says. “Not just the realm. The magic. The thread between us. You felt it, didn’t you? In the alley. In the way your dreams shifted the moment you woke from your sleep safely ensconced in my bed.”
I shake my head, overwhelmed. “But I’m just a bartender from New Jersey. I’m not magic. I’m not special.”
“You are,” he says, gently but without hesitation. “You’re mine,Myrrin. And that makes you part of this realm now. Whether you believe in it yet or not.”
I look at him, then back at the view.
Fields of dark grass.
A river glowing with upside-down stars.
Winged creatures curling through purple clouds like ink spilled into sky.
And somehow, impossibly, it feels like I’ve been here before.
Like I was always meant to arrive.
“But why am I really here, Alaric?” I whisper.
He doesn’t flinch.
Doesn’t evade.
Doesn’t give me a speech full of prophecy or war.
He just says, simply, “You are here for me.”
My breath catches. “What does that mean?”
“It means you are not alone anymore. You were always meant to be here.”
