By Annika Crum

Everyone dreams of finding their one true love at a grand ball. I happen to be at a grand ball at the moment, but there’s no time for Handsome Prince Sightseeing.

Only murder.

Don’t fret—I’m not here to take a life.

I’m here to kill dreams. It’s my duty.

I grip my wand tighter in my gown pocket. Light green waves of fabric envelop me from shoulders to knees, my right arm encased in a snug sleeve. Jewels hang from my neck. Dyed pink hair curls in a bun atop my head. It’s a disguise, but the little girl who still exists deep inside of me wishes that I could wear this splendid dress to enjoy a few dances, free from work, contracts, and magical taxes.

If only I could kill my own dreams as easily as I kill others’.

The search for my target is short. Prince Daemon laughs from the center of a group, lounging against the snack tables in his crisp white uniform. His dream floats behind his head like a balloon, invisible to anyone without a wand. The dream ripples like a forcefield, as blue as my veins. Within, I catch glimpses of a wavering crown.

I position myself near the checkered dance floor. Once I receive my payment from the king, maybe I can visit the ocean for a day. I cut the thought short. Dreams rarely come true. Least of all, mine. Too many dangerous fantasies lurk in human hearts that I must prune for safety. If my dreams never come true, but the world is cared for, then my life will have been a success.

“Good evening.”

Years of training keep me from flinching. I turn and smile at Prince Daemon. “Hello.”

“Are you alone?” the handsome prince asks.

I hide how deeply his question hits. “It depends. Are you hoping to steal me for a dance this evening?”

“I am.” He smiles. “And if I’m stealing you off someone’s arm, that makes it all the better.”

Princes. I accept his hand and let him pull me into position for the next song. The soft fur around his shoulders is more expensive than my rented room in the castle. “How fares the kingdom?”

“Let’s not discuss boring things.” He sighs, twirling me around. He’s a third-born prince. He has no idea, really, what he wants. That’s why the king keeps him in check.

I curl back into his arms and easily pop his dream with a flick of my wand.

The magical orb dissolves. Prince Daemon twitches, but then grips my hand more firmly and follows the steps he probably hated learning. A new dream forms like a cocoon behind his head, containing a lush kingdom, a golden crown, and streams that all flow to the central castle.

It’s Amiliah. This kingdom’s neighbor.

An alliance with their princess could be a good path for the prince. I almost let him keep this dream, but then flecks of blood dapple the crown like raindrops.

My stomach bunches. The musicians in the corner finish their song with a flourish, and Prince Daemon releases my hands. “Wait! One more dance, my prince?”

His surprise turns into a pleased expression. He still hasn’t asked my name, and likely assumes I already know his. “I have to give other ladies my attention. There’s only one of me, and I am very coveted.”

My best smile peers up at him. “One more?”

He glances at his polished fingernails. “Is that fair? Others are waiting for my hand.”

While he’s distracted by his own vanity, I subtly tap his dream with my wand. Amiliah melts into mist. The dream reforms into a battalion, heavily armed and marching to the king’s gates. Open war on his own father. Perfect. This is the dream I was sent to kill.

I reach to pop this dream, too, and Prince Daemon grabs my wrist. I gasp and try to pull back. He doesn’t notice, leading me into place on the dance floor once again.

“Two dances with you will make them all the more desperate for my attention.” He smiles. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

“This is true.” I listen to the timing of the music, planning my next move carefully. At the part of the dance where we cross by each other back-to-back, I flick my wand up to kill his latest, darkest dream. Eventually, it should reach a harmless, gentle state. That’s how it usually happens.

That’s how it must happen.

Instead, his dream takes a full minute to reform. It’s no longer a delicate, translucent bubble. This is a dream made of diamond, encased so fully that I can barely see what flickers to life inside. The edges are hard, opulent. Carved from the core of his being.

I have no power over such a dream.

Gold coils twist together inside the new dream orb. I see a hazy forge, embers and iron, piles of weapons hidden beneath floorboards, and hushed plots behind closed doors. A secret rebellion.

My grip loosens on his hands. It’s an Essence Dream. He wants to find power, no matter the cost.

He clears his throat.

I realize the music has stopped.

The dancers chatter, and all around me, the world has no idea what this man will become.

Prince Daemon arches an eyebrow. “Aren’t you going to thank me for the dance?”

I slide my wand up my sleeve and try not to tremble as I give a rigid curtsy. What do I do? What have I done? The music swoops back around me as wine glasses and ballgowns swirl.

But I don’t feel like celebrating.

I think I just created a villain.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Annika Crum grew up smuggling books under her desk during class. She writes stories of quiet courage in wondrous worlds, including short stories in Best Teen Writing 2022 (Scholastic) and Voices of the Future volume 5 (The Author Conservatory). She won the 2025 Aurora Contest (YA Category) and a National Silver Medal with Distinction from Scholastic in 2022. When not writing, she’s skiing double black diamonds or mapping worlds with A.C.

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