The council chamber empties in slow, grinding waves. The double doors stand cracked, light slanting out into the torch-dampened hall where Gai and Raimondis hover. Gai shifts his weight, hyperaware of his calloused palms and the rough edge of his uniform collar, while Raimondis stands perfectly still, his posture betraying no discomfort among the rustling silks and whispered politics—just the slight lift of his chin, the instinctive tilt of someone returning to familiar waters. After hours of muffled debate, the dignitaries begin to leak out—first the minor envoys, then a tangle of stewards and lords who can't decide if they should scowl or smirk at the outcome. They step around Gai as if he's a misplaced statue, some giving him a grudging nod, others pretending not to see him at all. The corridor smells of sweat, wine, and the sharp blue tang of ink spilt on ancient parchment.

  Raimondis shifts his weight, putting another handspan of distance between them. "They argued the entire time?" he whispers, gaze flicking past Gai to the chamber doors, his jaw tight as if the very act of addressing Gai directly pained him.

  Gai shrugs, eyes fixed on the shifting spill of torchlight from the open council room. "Wouldn't be politics if they didn't."

  “Pathetic.” Raimondis stands so straight he seems to vibrate in place, jaw tense, hair unsmudged and so precisely parted it gleams. The hour is late, but Raimondis looks fresh as the minute he walked in. Gai, by comparison, can feel the sweat pooling at his collar, the ache in his calves from standing too long.

  Out of the council chamber: Princess Elle, trailed by two advisers and a sour-looking man in foreign livery. She steps clear of the archway, stops, and lets her arms dangle at her sides in a way that would have gotten her caned in any finishing school. Every ounce of formality is gone; her shoulders are rounded, her usual spark dulled behind a glaze of exhaustion.

  “Highness,” Gai says, dipping his chin. The words stick to his tongue, heavier than usual.

  She doesn't even look at him, just sweeps a finger at the wall, a silent signal for the guards to close ranks. Her voice is raw, scraped clean of its earlier warmth. “It’s time to retire. Escort me to my rooms, please.”

  The foreign adviser mutters something in a language Gai doesn't know, the word guttural and half-drowned in fatigue. Elle answers in the same tongue, but her tone is iron—enough to shut him up instantly. She starts down the corridor, not bothering to check if Gai and Raimondis are following. The two of them fall in on either side, the sound of their boots chasing after her echo.

  None of the other guards in the hall move, not even a token salute as Elle sweeps by. The nobles left in the corridor peel away, pretending intense fascination with some distant point or else watching with frank hunger as the royal party recedes. Gai imagines half the city’s gossip mills starting to grind before they’re even out of earshot.

  It’s a long walk to the princess’s wing, through a series of torch-lit galleries and under painted ceilings that grow more intricate with each step. The lights flicker and shimmer over Elle’s skin, picking up the sheen of sweat along her temples, highlighting the shadowed hollows beneath her eyes. Even her hair seems limp, the white-gold gone brittle and loose, as if it’s only holding together out of habit.

  They're nearly to the west arcade when Gai feels it more than hears it—a subtle shift in the air currents, a presence where none should be. He doesn't break stride or turn his head, but his peripheral vision catches a shadow detaching from deeper shadows. Three heartbeats later, warmth at his right shoulder, a whisper so faint it might be his imagination: "Upper gallery. After."

  Three words. No name. No time specified. Nothing that could be overheard and understood.

  Gai's reply is equally minimal—a bare movement of his lips that could be mistaken for a breath: "Can't."

  The shadow stays with him exactly four more steps. A brush against his sleeve—deliberate, a warning—and then nothing. Gai doesn't look for where she went. Doesn't acknowledge the space she occupied. Doesn't react when Raimondis gives him that sideways glance of suspicion.

  The rest of the walk passes in silence, the air thick and heavy as they move deeper into the palace, Gai's mind carefully, deliberately blank—as if even his thoughts might betray him.

  At the far end of the arcade, they turn down a short flight of marble stairs and find themselves at the threshold of Elle’s private suite. The doors are oak, carved with a thousand overlapping stories—wars, marriages, the founding of cities—each detail painted with gold leaf and lacquer. Two of Elle’s native staff stand flanking the entry: Sheh’Zar, and a junior attendant whose face is so smooth and impassive Gai can’t tell if she’s awake or asleep. Both bow low, then hold the pose as Elle approaches.

  Sheh’Zar’s eyes flick up, landing first on Elle, then on Gai and Raimondis. “All is well, Highness?”

  Elle doesn’t answer directly. She slows, pausing as if to test the floor, then says, “The day’s business is done. I require nothing more.” The words are precise, but so soft Gai wonders if she’s just reciting them from memory.

  Sheh'Zar gives a crisp nod, then opens the left-hand door with a careful, two-handed motion. Gai expects Elle to stride through with her usual force, but she hesitates—just for a heartbeat. Gai catches the micro-wobble in her knees, the way her fingers splay wider than necessary to keep balance. Then she's gone inside, leaving the two guards and the two Drow staffers facing off in the sudden hush. The handoff at the threshold is as wordless as a funeral. Sheh'Zar bows low, then melts to one side, gesturing for the maids to approach. They're pale and silent, faces blotted by the shimmer of the corridor lamps, and as Elle steps between them she doesn't look back—doesn't even pause to acknowledge her two guards before slipping through a gap in the velvet drapes and disappearing into the inner sanctum.

  For a moment, no one moves. Then Sheh’Zar says, “You will stand watch in the ante-room. I have prepared the evening schedule with Lady Elle’s preferences in mind. There will be no change in your requirements, unless the princess is threatened.”

  Raimondis gives a stiff bow, still not quite able to mask his contempt. “Of course. It will be as you wish.”

  Sheh'Zar seems to find this funny, but her expression barely flickers, a shadow of amusement passing across her obsidian features. "I always wish it so," she says, her voice a low, controlled whisper that carries more weight than a shout. Her entirely black eyes, absorbing light rather than reflecting it, shift to Gai with an unnerving intensity. "See to your posts," she commands, each word precise and deliberate. With that, she and the junior attendant slip through the doors after Elle, leaving Gai and Raimondis alone in the broad, velvet-draped ante-chamber.

  Gai lets out a slow breath and looks at the candle clock nestled in its brass holder on the far wall. The wax column has burned down to the midnight marking, its flame steady but diminishing, much like his own energy. He glances sideways at Raimondis, who has already claimed the comfiest chair near the fire and sits examining his nails in the flickering light, his bored disdain as carefully cultivated as the precisely trimmed wick of the timepiece.

  Gai takes the window instead, leaning against the stone and letting the night air—cooler, cleaner, somehow more real—leach some of the tension from his neck and shoulders. Somewhere, far off in the dark, he can just make out the city’s bells, ringing the hour .He listens to the muffled clicks and whispers as the staff move about: buckets drawn, towels unfurled, the quiet slap of water poured into a copper basin. It’s a scene he can’t see but can perfectly imagine, every detail rehearsed and precise. Outside, the city is a black mass laced with dim firelight, the palace perched above it all like some patient predator.

  He glances back at Raimondis, who’s still sprawled in the gold-threaded chair, head tipped back, boots splayed. For a wonder, the noble doesn’t even seem to notice Gai’s absence, content to bask in the afterglow of his own self-importance.

  The ante-room is a study in overkill: every table loaded with fruit and sweets, the walls lined with cabinets and shelves holding curios of every kind. Gai skims a hand along a carved sideboard, then pauses at a low shelf half-obscured by a trailing fern. There, tucked between a stack of blue-spined ledgers and a dustless, carved box, is a book so thick it looks like a weapon.

  Artifacts of the Lost Age: Facts, Myths, and Legends. The words are pressed deep in the leather, black ink still glossy despite the book’s clear age. A crimson ribbon juts out, holding a place maybe halfway through. Gai hesitates for a second, then glances at Raimondis again—still unmoved, eyes closed—and slides the book free.

  It’s heavier than it looks. The cover cracks as he opens it, the scent of old paper spiking up and under his nose, comforting and strange at the same time. Gai thumbs to the marked page, feeling the fine texture of the parchment under his callused fingers.

  Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

  The passage is dense, written in the high dialect, but Elle had shown him enough to make sense of it. He leans in, letting the words settle in his brain:

  …some theorize that the so-called Elemental Orbs were not mere vessels of power, but keys—each crafted for a specific function, a specific gate. The records are fragmentary, many lost in the sacking of Skoss or simply destroyed by time, but it is widely held that only the proper alignment of orb, bearer, and intended lock will permit passage or awakening. Anything less, and the result is failure—or, according to the rumours that persist among the mountain sects of Malya, catastrophic backlash.

  Gai traces the ink with a slow finger, absorbing the certainty of the words even as he knows how much of it is smoke and conjecture. He is so deep in the page that he doesn’t hear Elle return. She stands framed by the velvet drapes, hair slicked back and pinned tight, a gleaming sheet of bone-white against the midnight line of her skin. The golden-amber of her eyes is sharp now, the fatigue forced deep under a mask of composure. She looks at Gai, then at the book open in his hands. She says nothing.

  Gai snaps the book closed, a heartbeat late, and sets it gently on the shelf. Elle tilts her head, but the expression is unreadable: not anger, not quite amusement. She moves into the room with the smooth, predatory grace he remembers from the library—each step silent, every motion calculated to reveal nothing more than she intends.

  She stops at the fruit bowl, selects a wedge of plum, and bites off the edge, the juice dark and almost black as it stains her lips. She watches him over the rim of the fruit, then, with a soft exhale, turns and glides out to the balcony.

  Gai feels the air in the room shift, a tension draining away, replaced by the curious calm that always follows a near miss. He stands for a moment, staring at the empty space where Elle had been, then glances down at the book again. He wonders if the bookmark was hers, if the page was meant for him to find, or if, like so much else in this castle, it’s a signal he’s too slow to read.

  Raimondis stirs in the chair, snorts, and stretches his legs. “Find something interesting?” The question is lazy, more a flex of status than a demand for an answer.

  “Not really,” Gai lies, and returns to his station at the window, letting the city lights blur and the memory of Elle’s stare chase itself around his head.

  The moon rises slow, and the only sound for a long while is the faint scratch of quill on paper from somewhere deeper in the suite, and the distant, persistent ringing of bells, marking the slow crawl of the night.

  The first hour after midnight is the slowest. Gai stands watch at the window, the cold from the glass seeping into his arms and feet, and for a while the only movement is the lazy drift of night insects around the lamps outside. Raimondis dozes in the chair, his chin tucked to his chest, a sullen, aristocratic snore just audible over the hush of the corridor.

  It’s well past the last bell when Sheh’Zar glides in, her steps so silent that Gai doesn’t notice her until she’s nearly beside him. The air in the room sharpens; he tenses, but she waves it off with a flick of her wrist.

  “You will sleep here tonight,” she says, voice flat as glass. “There is a suite for attending staff off the main hall. No need for patrols; all points are locked and secured.”

  Raimondis wakes with a jolt, blinking away his confusion. “You mean—no guard on the door at all? Isn’t that…” He gropes for the word, then settles on, “risky?”

  Sheh’Zar’s mouth twitches, almost a smile. “There are wards on every entrance. Elemental barriers older than this palace itself, keyed to the presence of our princess and her bloodline. If any uninvited guest crosses the threshold, I and my stewardesses will know before their shadow even lands on the rug.”

  “Still,” Raimondis insists, “in the city, we keep a man at the door, in case the worst gets in—”

  Sheh’Zar cuts him off. “We are not in the city.” She turns to Gai. “If it comforts you, you may check the locks yourself. I will wait.”

  Gai shrugs. “I trust you.” He’s not sure if it’s true, but he sees no point in making a show of suspicion.

  “Wise,” Sheh’Zar says, and gestures for them to follow. She leads them out of the ante-room, down a brief corridor that glows with filtered lamplight, and stops at a silk-draped arch that marks the boundary of their little world for the night.

  She draws the curtain aside. “This is your station until sunrise. If there is trouble, I will summon you myself.” Her black eyes glitter, bottomless and unreadable. “Do not wander.”

  Gai steps inside. The servant’s suite is nothing like the luxury of the main chambers, but it’s clean, with a narrow window and two cots built into opposite walls. A pitcher of water waits on a low table, beside a loaf of bread and a folded napkin. He drops onto the nearer cot, feeling the wood creak and flex beneath his weight.

  Raimondis lingers at the archway, peering back down the hall. “And you?”

  Sheh’Zar straightens her uniform. “We sleep in the blue chamber, there.” She nods to an unmarked door a few paces away. “Ready at a moment’s notice.”

  “And the princess?” Gai asks, more for form than curiosity.

  “She is watched, always. Go to sleep.” Sheh’Zar turns, gliding back down the corridor with the same imperturbable grace.

  Raimondis snorts. “Charming, isn’t she?”

  “Could be worse,” Gai says, stretching out on the cot. The blanket is thin, but he’s too tired to care. The wood of the bed is so hard it feels like sleeping on a shield.

  The lights outside flicker, throwing bars of pale gold across the ceiling. Gai listens to the settling sounds of the palace: the faintest creak in the wall, a shiver of air through the corridor, the distant tick of the clock. For all the talk of power and bloodlines, it’s the quiet that feels most unnatural.

  Gai stares at the ceiling as Raimondis finally rolls onto the opposite cot, unleashing a wet, stuttering snore that seems to catch and release in his throat. Gai's jaw tightens. He considers, not for the first time, how a man tasked with guarding royalty shouldn't sound like a drowning pig when he sleeps. He laces his fingers behind his head and lets his eyes close. His mind wanders down empty palace corridors, through silent corners and shadowed halls, searching for anything out of place. When sleep finally comes, it brings little relief—just flashes of council arguments, scraps of torn paper drifting in the dark, Yami’s voice seeping through where it shouldn’t.

  He jerks awake in the deadest part of the night—no bells, no footsteps, nothing but thick stillness. His pulse thuds in his chest; sweat chills on his skin. For a moment he can’t place where he is—but then the servant’s quarters settle into focus: low beams, cold floor, Raimondis breathing softly. He exhales and remembers: he has a somewhere to be.

  He rolls out of bed, careful to land with the least possible noise. Even the floor seems to hold its breath. In the faint moonlight leaking through the narrow window, he can see the sleeping shape of Raimondis, face mashed against a thin pillow, mouth open just enough to let a weak, whistling snore escape.

  Gai stands and lets the chill wake him fully. He pulls on the loose shirt he’d kicked to the floor earlier and pads to the door, feeling along the jamb until he finds the catch. It opens with a gentle click. Outside, the corridor is a tunnel of shadow, lit only by two guttering lamps at either end.

  He moves slow, letting his eyes adjust. At the far end, a slice of light pools on the marble, thrown from an open door. Gai recognizes it—the side entry to Elle’s chamber. He hesitates, then starts down the hall, silent as he can manage, every step vibrating up his calves and into his chest.

  He reaches the door and presses against the wall, listening. From inside: nothing, just the soundless vacuum of a palace at rest. He cracks the door and slips through, emerging into the edge of the princess’s balcony. The space is cold and empty, the sky a frosted black, the city below shrouded in a wet blue haze.

  He steps out, feet numbing instantly on the cold tile. He crosses to the balustrade, sets both hands on the chill stone, and leans out, letting the wind flatten his hair and sting his eyes. The silence is so complete he can hear the blood rushing in his head.

  “You missed our meeting.”

  The voice is a stone in the dark—sharp, precise, close. Gai snaps around, ready for trouble. Yami sits perched on the corner of the railing, arms folded, boots dangling into the abyss. Her hood is down for once, revealing the slash of her cheekbones and the gleam of her eyes, which glint catlike in the half-light.

  “Didn’t think you’d hunt me down,” Gai says, voice hushed.

  Yami smirks. “When have you ever known me to let something go?” She hops off the ledge and lands beside him, close enough for Gai to smell the spice and sweat on her collar.

  He keeps his voice low, even though there’s nobody out here but them. “You said it was urgent.”

  Yami studies him for a second, then nods. “Tell me about the Animatrix,” she demanded, her voice low and urgent. "The one who attacked you. I want every detail."

  Gai hesitates, but Yami’s stare is relentless. He folds his arms, forces himself to recall. “Saw her at the banquet, same face as in Old Town. She passed a note to Zephyrian—the master elementalist. They’re working together, or at least trading favours.” He lowers his voice even more. “I think she’s working for him. Or the crown. Maybe both.”

  Yami makes a sound, half snort, half growl. “You trust Zephyrian?”

  “No.” Gai shakes his head. “Not for a second.”

  "Good," Yami says, and leans in, so close her hair brushes his cheek. "That Animatrix has a name. Myrkenna Skuggvald. Refugee from the north, Nobyvinmaan. She's been moving between courts for years, always one step ahead of execution." Yami's lips pull back from her teeth. "She is a spy. And worse, a killer. If she is here, she is hunting something."

  Gai swallows hard, his mind racing back to that night in Old Town. "But why would she attack me? What was she looking for that made her go after three drunk off-duty guards?"

  Yami's eyes narrow, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Think, boy. What makes you different from other guards? What secrets might you know?"

  The realization is a slap, cold and immediate: Gai has never been anyone worth hunting. He’s not a prince or a prodigy. He’s not even a proper guard, not then, not that night in Old Town. Barely two weeks on the roster, still tripping over the regulations, just another face in rows of faces. He hadn’t even set foot inside the palace—let alone met Elle, or heard of Zephyrian, or tangled with the distant schemes of empire. Whatever happened in that alley, it wasn’t aimed at him. The truth struck him like a blade between the ribs: either he'd stumbled into someone else's battle by pure misfortune, or worse—someone had marked him for the path he would walk before he'd taken his first step upon it.

  The thought itches under Gai's skin like a splinter too deep to dig out. He rolls his shoulders once, accepting the cold that's settled there. "Fine," he says, exhaling a cloud that dissipates between them. His eyes find hers, not challenging now but weary. "But tell me something true for once. Why did you recommend me to the guard? There were better men for it. Still are."

  Yami's face is a study in careful calculation, but her eyes flare for a split second. “Orders,” she says, flat and final. “I act on my General’s command. It’s not for you to question.”

  But Gai knows her, the set of her jaw, the lie tucked under her tongue. “That’s not it,” he says, and this time pushes. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  She bares her teeth, a flash of impatience. "You're stubborn. That's what you have, Gai. You don't break like the others." She leans in, dropping her voice until it's barely audible. "Ask the General yourself. He arrives in a week for council." Her eyes narrow to slits. "Until then, stay with the princess. Don't leave her side—not for meals, not for sleep."

  He wants to ask more, but Yami’s already moving, pulling her cloak up and becoming, somehow, less than a shadow against the balustrade. She swings a leg over and drops from the balcony without another word or even a backward glance. Gai crosses to where she’d been and looks over, expecting to see her clinging to the vines or crouched on the ledge below. Nothing but cold stone and empty air. She’s gone.

  He hears the faintest shift—the brush of fabric, the near-silent scrape of a chair leg—from inside Elle’s suite. The balcony curtains sway as if caught in a draft, but Gai knows better. She’s awake and not alone, likely pressed just beyond sightline, listening. Maybe she’d caught the whole exchange. He doesn’t dwell: if Elle’s learned anything about him, it’s that he doesn’t do subtle. If she wanted answers, she’d ask.

  He lingers at the balustrade, counting the heartbeats until a light flicks on in Elle’s room. The pale gold spills through the curtains and paints the stones in fuzzy rectangles. On the far side of the glass, he makes out her silhouette moving slow, backlit and deliberate. She lifts a hand, tracing a line through the condensation on the window, then wipes it away. The motion is careful, almost bored, but he recognizes the restlessness in it. She’s not sleeping, not even trying.

  He waits, arms folded, letting the cold settle deeper into his skin and bones. The city below is locked in silence, the festival’s wreckage already erased by the night. Gai turns over Yami’s words until they lose meaning, then lets them go. He stands there until the light in Elle’s room dims, then vanishes altogether, leaving the balcony in full shadow.

  He pushes off the railing, feet heavy and unsteady, and retraces his steps through the corridor. Down the hall, the light in the servant’s suite flares as he cracks the door, then snuffs out as he closes it behind.

  Raimondis is sprawled sideways on the cot, snoring with the loose-jawed abandon of a child. At least he’s still there—Gai had half-expected to find the room empty, some trap sprung while he was gone. He doesn’t bother undressing; just sinks onto his own bed, one arm draped across his midriff, the other under his head. The blanket smells faintly of lavender and dust, a secondhand comfort. He stares at the ceiling, waiting for the restlessness to pass, which eventually, it does.