Heavy lilac curtains hung around the bed in gentle folds, sighing softly when they were parted.

"Do you wake, my lord?" came the soft voice, cautious but not unfamiliar.

Remy stirred. His limbs were slow to obey, and his wrists ached as he pushed himself upright, drawing a low, pained groan. The burns throbbed, tender as guilt, unbandaged but slathered with a healing salve.

The scent of the salve was earthy, almost bitter—like herbs pulled from stubborn soil.

The curtains were tied back to the carved oak bed posts, letting sunlight pour across dove-grey sheets. A sun catcher hung in the eastern window—glass petals in pale blue and soft amethyst, a gift from the Queen. Light broke through it now, scattering soft fragments of color into the air and into the loose, damp tangles of Remy's silver hair.

The servant, still quiet, crossed to the windows and opened them fully. Golden afternoon spilled across the floor, gliding over streaks of pale marble.

"Would you like lunch, my lord?" the servant asked, tone deferential, yet warm.

"Yes," he answered without thinking. His voice cracked slightly. He rubbed gently at his sore throat before he asked, "How long have I slept, Lily?"

Silence.

Then, hesitantly, "I am Catliyn, my lord."

Remy blinked. The court knew him for his memory—how rarely he named someone wrong, servant or noble alike.

He turned his head toward the voice—the shift brought no clarity, no shape, no shadow. Only brightness, as if he lived inside light.

"...Caitlyn."

Something inside of him started to panic.

"Caitlyn." A whisper, then harsher: "Why can I not see you?"

The basin she held slipped from her hands. It struck the stone floor with a porcelain gasp, shattering into three soft pieces. Water splashed across the ground in a silver sheet.

The air bloomed from the oils—hyacinth, rich and blue-sweet, sharp like spring breaking through frost. It lingered around them like ghost perfume, floral and damp, spreading throughout the room.

"My lord—your, your eyes—" She took a step back, hand half-lifted to her mouth. "Can—can you see?"

He turned fully now, listening for the rapid rise and fall of his chest.

"What's wrong with them?"

"They're..." A pause too long. A voice breaking. "They've gone cloud-white, my lord. I—oh—oh gods—"

She fled the bedside, calling for the physician, her voice fading into a frantic echo beyond the chamber doors.

Remy inhaled, the breath shaking loose at the edges. He raised trembling fingers to his eyes—unbroken, untouched, useless. The brightness remained, vast and vacant.

He fumbled for the robe draped beside his bed, wrapping it around him clumsily. Then he moved—bare feet slapping against marble, his hands swept forward blindly, begging the air for edges.

The palace did not bend to desperation. The walls gave no answer.

He raced into the corridor, where tall windows poured sun across the wooden paneling. The rich brown floor, worn smooth with years of quiet footfall, felt warm beneath his bare feet.

The corridor greeted him not with silence, but a collision of fabric, a tray, and startled motion. Linens fluttered to the ground, fruit and meat rolled, toast slathered with jam landed face down.

He latched onto the woman's shoulders before they could retreat.

"Tell me how long," he rasped.

"Please—how long have I slept?"

The maid stood frozen, pressed against the wall, eyes darting back the way she came, back towards the safety of the kitchens—until she noticed the scent. Not the salve, not the sweat, but the sweetness of hyacinth, and the sharp tinge of metal that followed him from years of sleeping with war.

"You're—L-Lord, My Lord, Lord Throneh-hail," she stuttered, her hands shaking when she tried to gently lead the disoriented man back to his chambers.

Remy shook her off with the urgency of a man reacquainted with chaos.

"How long have I slept?"

"Two and a half days, m'lord!" The woman squeaked out, cowering against the wall, eyes down. She looked up in time to see the end of Remy's robe whipping around the corner as he rushed deeper into the palace.

He didn't know where he was running. Only that brightness had replaced direction, and something old had fractured in him.

Wild sycamores with mottled bark and sprawling limbs climbed ever upward, gnarled branches reaching for the sun. Beneath them, boxwood hedges lounged in measured silence—geometric, unmoved. They carved neat paths of stone, where moss pulsed through the cracks like veins.

Even the garden knew its place—tamed at the borders, unruly only where the crown allowed.

The walkway ended where the ladies-in-waiting began.

Three stood side by side—opulent in summer shades, their gowns whispering in jewel-toned restraint. Their adornments were sparse by design. They never outshone the Queen—and the Queen wore very little.

Fans, frosted with embroidered petals and jeweled breath, veiled the lower half of each face. Ostensibly to ward off heat. Truthfully, to guard expression.

Though too far to catch the Queen's voice, the ladies-in-waiting watched with sharpened gazes as she addressed the veiled woman—the unnamed figure she claimed had earned her trust.

Their eyes watched with precision—weighing posture, proximity, potential allegiance.

Behind them, the carriage loomed like a beast at rest. Its doors gaped wide, ready to swallow the next body destined for velvet cushions and distant lands.

Bronze wheels shimmered under the hot sun, and the horses—manes gleaming, hooves restless—tossed their heads impatiently, already yearning for the road to Krillian.

Servants fluttered throughout the area, packing the carriage, tidying the gardens, running errands fast as rabbits, watchful as hawks.

The entire scene danced on the very edge of rehearsed—beautiful, purposeful, but never quite casual.

The Queen stood beside the carriage, speaking low.

Calla stood opposite, the hem of her robes catching the breeze in slow ripples. Her face remained veiled—edges stitched with silver, echoing the muted radiance of her gown.

Off to the side, Ares Valebrand, fourth of his blood and servant to the kingdom's most trusted unnamed, stood with measured stillness. His spine straight, hands clasped behind him. Sleeves rolled above the elbow revealed forearms marked by quiet labor; collar skewed, hair tousled—styled to imply carelessness without surrendering control.

On his chest, the crest of Valebrand lay embroidered in pristine detail: a shield kept clean with ancestral pride, its border rimmed in dogwood. Close enough to hear their conversation, far enough to pretend otherwise.

"The messenger will be the one we discussed—Zule?" Calla's voice was soft, but sure.

Addilyn's gaze was sharp, as though weighing each word against potential catastrophe.

"Yes," she replied. "She'll be marked by drink and the red cord tied around her arm. Trouble follows her—but trouble rides fast. Even soaked in booze, she can't be bought."

"Ares will guide her to me when she reaches Krillian's heart. How does the search for a willing vessel go?"

The Queen sighed, suddenly weary, as if the weight of the crown had hit her all at once.

"The search goes on."

Ares straightened. Shoulders pulled back, chin lifted. His adam's apple bobbed as breath tightened in his throat. The realization struck not with glory, but gravity: he had been given a role far larger than his bloodline ever dared to imagine.

Duty settled like armor across his ribs—too snug to remove, too necessary to ignore.

The Queen's expression turned distant, looking beyond the gleaming castle gates, down the winding road, to a kingdom she could not see.

Her gaze slid back to Calla, absorbing the silence she carried like a second skin. She had survived worse, though she never said what. She had gods that others did not—gods she worshiped in flowers, blood, heat, and raw pain.

A scream of grief and wild terror shattered the stillness of the day, roaring out for one person; "Calla!"

Every head turned—servants startled into stillness, the ladies-in-waiting frozen mid-fan. Conversation died. The horses brayed into the silence. The Queen's hand moved toward the dagger she kept hidden in the folds of dress, the motion as practiced as her smile.

The scream sliced through formality like teeth through ripe fruit.

Remy flung himself out of the palace as if chased by memory, his silver hair shifting like water, his robe nearly undone and flapping behind him. He fell to his knees before her as if he could not feel pain, his hands clasping instinctually.

Ares stepped forward instinctively, one arm rising to block Calla's path, body coiled for defense. His eyes locked on the figure before them.

Then recognition sharpened like a blade.

"...Thornehail?"

He spoke low, half in disbelief, half in warning.

Remy took no notice of him, his chest rising in an unsteady rhythm. Words came tumbling out. Broken. Half-sob, half-prayer, fully desperate.

"I—Calla, I can't— I can't live in this. In this emptiness. I—I can't breathe when I can't see what the gods made— Please. Please—return it. Return the world.

I beg you, Calla—don't let it stay like this. Tell me the gods have mercy. Please..."

His hands trembled, clutching at the opal, his own personal altar, his voice sliding back down his throat.

The ladies-in-waiting's fans fluttered once more like wings in mid-migration. The servants stirred, picking up brushes and satchels and boxes they had no need for, just enough movement to feign ignorance. Their eyes, quick and knowing, flicked between the unnamed and the heir to the kingdom's most powerful bloodline beneath the crown.

The servants whispered, their voices carrying on the wind.

"Noble love—there is nothing more doomed."

"Noble hearts are not hearts that are allowed to love."

"Nobles, they have everything but the one thing they need."

Calla's veil stirred in the breeze, as if responding to the eyes scattered across the palace walls—silent watchers behind stone and gems.

Tears slid down Remy's face, sudden and unbidden, and the Queen stiffened. In all the years she had known him—as warrior, strategist, loyal shadow—she had never seen him cry. Certainly not like this. Certainly not for faith.

Ares looked away. His posture held, but his discomfort was clear, his brow furrowed. The Queen's right hand had unraveled, and it was too unknown of a thing to stare at directly. The whispers of the servants, the flutter of the fans, everything seemed to quicken as his tears glistened in the light.

Calla stepped forward.

She reached out—not ceremonially, not like the priests who crafted miracles—but simply, humanly. Her fingers wove through the soft strands of Remy's hair, slow and uncertain. He leaned into the touch instantly, his breath slowing at the shift in atmosphere, her touch bringing an unnatural calm.

His thoughts were hazy as he realized that he needed her. He needed to belong to the divine. Whether it be through the world around him, or the hand that held him softly, the hand that had summoned angels who burned the very sight from his eyes with their brilliance.

He understood now, he understood why his mother simply wilted away, why her last breath was spent begging for the angels to return. Divinity touched his house, but they were not meant to keep it.

Taking a deep breath, Calla spoke softly, clumsily, harsh syllables in a foreign language. She asked the gods for their mercy, and the very light seemed to shudder, as though pleased to be of service.

The words hung like incense, half prayer, half plea.

Behind the thin veil, her mouth taut, she watched as the striking blue bled back into the white. Remy sucked in a shuddering breath, his thumb sweeping across the surface of the gem nestled between his collarbones.

Calla's eyes widened slightly as the paper-thin skin of the opal gave way beneath his touch, revealing the gleam of a tiger's eye beneath.

The world returned to him slowly.

Veiled honey eyes wavered before him, the sun haloing her from behind, turning her brown hair into strands of fire.

Remy's hand lifted, jaw slack with awe, breath labored. His fingertips trembled.

The air crackled soundlessly. Golden light bent into a creature—too many wings, a face without eyes. It appeared in the blink of a thought, folding the air around itself before reality stitched back into place.

His hand faltered mid-air.

Pupils wide, mind sluggish, breath hitched.

Then—his limbs gave way, bones no longer able to hold him. His body crumpled in release, more sigh than fall. His hair fluttered to the stone, silver dancing in the light.

Calla tilted her head, staring down at his form, not in fear—only curiosity.

Queen Addilyn drew a slow breath, fingers unclenching from the dagger hidden at her side.

"Take him, gently, to his chambers" she said, voice steady, echoing into the hush.

Servants rushed forward, lifting him as if the divine might still cling to his skin. Their judgments flickered in whispers:

"I saw his fingers brush her veil." "No—he nearly did, then..." "The poor lord. Romance between ranks never ends well."

Remy, half-conscious, silver hair catching the light, whispered one word—dry, reverent, barely formed:

"Protected."

Calla's gaze followed him as he vanished into the glittering palace, the scent of hyacinths and rosemary lingering in the air.

She didn't speak.

Her eyes drifted to her hands. She swallowed.

And in that quiet breath, she wondered—for the first time—if she had any right to carry the gods' voice at all.

Her gown swished as she turned, climbing into the waiting carriage with the grace of a woman born noble. Addilyn followed, her hand holding the door, eyes troubled.

The Queen's grip lingered too long on the handle, as though reluctant to allow the future to unfold.

Behind them, Ares swung onto his stallion, thoughts fracturing. He'd been placed—he, youngest of his line—into a position more perilous and prestigious than his brothers could ever dream of.

Calla stared into nothingness.

"He wished to meet my gods."

Addilyn nodded, slow and silent. Then she stepped back as the door shut. The carriage rolled away toward a kingdom that would overlook her—trailing questions and rumors like smoke.