Gai never actually ends up at breakfast. Instead, he wanders through the princess’s suite, quietly impressed by just how many rooms there are, his boots making soft scuffing sounds as he keeps his eyes fixed on the floor. The argument with Elle nags at him, an itch he can’t quite ignore, even though the room is chilly. He tucks himself away in a quiet nook of her library, sinks into the window seat, and stares out as rain starts dotting the rooftops, the earlier sunshine fading fast. He replays what happened with Elle again and again, unable to let it rest. She isn’t wrong. Yami is dangerous—maybe too dangerous, especially for someone like Elle. But Gai’s never thought of her that way; Yami’s always been straightforward, rough around the edges but honest, and probably the only mentor Gai’s had who actually seemed to care. The thought of her using him for politics turns his stomach, but not as much as realizing he’s put Elle at risk by staying silent.

  The small library is nothing like the outer palace archives: here, every shelf is only half-filled, the armchairs all still sharp-cornered, the windows narrow and beaded with rain. He isn’t sure when he last sat still for this long. The storm outside is getting serious—wind running its fists along the stone, cold slicing in at every seam. It’s the kind of weather that makes the entire city shrink into itself, candles burning all day and the halls echoing with a different sort of quiet.

  He’s halfway through memorizing the patterns the rain leaves on the window when a shadow falls across the doorway. It’s Raimondis, posture perfect as always, arms folded in a way designed to look effortless but probably rehearsed in the mirror. He sizes up the room, then Gai, as if surprised to find him alone.

  “So this is where you’ve been hiding,” Raimondis says, voice echoing just enough to carry to the far wall. "I was almost prepared to believe you’d run off for good.”

  Gai doesn't look up. “Did you need something, or are you just lost?”

  A snort. “Not lost. Unlike some, I actually read the morning schedule.” Raimondis enters all the way, choosing the armchair directly facing Gai and sinking into it like a man commissioned to judge the furniture. He stretches out one leg, crossing it over the other, and drums his fingers on the armrest. “The weather’s shut down half the city. Everything that isn’t vital is off for the day. Sheh’zar’s got her staff running perimeter checks, but nobody’s saying why. Even the kitchens are short-staffed. Apparently, there’s a security concern. Or so they say.”

  A beat passes. Gai wonders if he’s supposed to thank Raimondis for the update, or if this is just leading to another insult. But instead, Raimondis stares out the window, his gaze fixed on the guttering slate sky. For all his sneers and polish, he looks tired—darker rings under the eyes, less colour in his cheeks than the day before. The silence stretches, broken only by the steady patter of rain against glass. He finds himself studying Raimondis more closely, noting the subtle signs of fatigue. Perhaps the constant vigilance and pressure of their duties was wearing on even the most polished of guards.

  "As if sensing Gai's scrutiny, Raimondis abruptly turns from the window. With a mocking grin, he says, “You want to paint a picture, Gai?” Gai resists the bait, just shakes his head and leans further back into the window seat, arms folded over his chest.

  Time slips away unnoticed as Gai listens to the rain and thumbs through the spine-cracked histories on the shelves—old chronicles of the kingdom, half-legible ledgers, a slim volume of fanciful tales about the city’s founding. None hold his focus for long. The words blur, giving way to memory, then to nothing at all. He lets himself drift.

  Sometime layer, the city’s belltower stutters awake, the chimes echoing through the palace walls with enough force to rattle the windows. Ten chimes—loud, insistent, impossible to ignore. Gai shoves the book onto the ledge and stands, squaring his shoulders as if he might need to face a firing squad rather than a princess. Raimondis stirs at the sound, one eye fluttering open before he waves Gai off with the back of his hand.

  “Enjoy your audience,” he mutters, voice thick with the dregs of sleep.

  Gai doesn’t bother with a reply. He leaves Raimondis in the library and heads for the council room, mind already cycling through apologies he knows won’t matter. The adjoining rooms are empty except for the echo of his own footsteps and the flicker of torchlight on the polished floors. He hesitates at the blue-lacquered door, then raps twice.

  Sheh’zar opens it before the second knock lands. Her uniform is immaculate, not a single thread out of place, and her stare slices straight through him. "The Princess is waiting in her private study. Do not keep her waiting, please."

  Gai nods and brushes past, feeling the weight of the Drow’s gaze on his back until the next door closes behind him.

  Elle’s study is smaller than the library, but warmer—a circle of lamps, a pair of battered armchairs, and a fire snapping in the corner hearth. He finds her on the balcony that juts over the lower city, sitting on the stone balustrade with her knees pulled tight to her chest, hair plastered flat against her skull by the rain and wind. She looks impossibly small, her red gown a splash of colour in the wash of grey and silver.

  He stands in the doorway for a long time, watching her silhouette. She doesn’t move, not even to brush the rain from her face. At first, he figures she’s just thinking, the way she sometimes does—silent, unreachable. But as he waits, Gai feels the hair on his arms stand up, an electric crawl under his skin that makes him uneasy.

  He’s felt this before, but never in a person. It’s the sensation of standing too close to a lightning rod, of watching a summer storm roll in and knowing, somehow, that the next strike might find you.

  He steps out onto the wet flagstones, boots slipping a little. The wind slaps him hard, and he has to squint to keep his eyes open. The closer he gets, the more intense the feeling becomes: like the world’s breath is holding, just for her.

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  “Elle,” he calls, trying to keep his voice steady. “You’ll catch cold out here.”

  She doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even blink. Her fingers are white-knuckled on her shins, and her whole body trembles—not from cold, but from the effort of whatever she’s doing. Gai hesitates, then closes the last few feet, careful not to crowd her.

  “Elle?” he says, softer. He lays a hand gently on her shoulder, intending only to steady her.

  The reaction is immediate and violent: Elle’s body spasms, and she twists away with a hiss, nearly toppling from the ledge. He grabs her by reflex, yanking her back before she can fall. The contact sets off a shock between them—real, physical, like touching a live wire.

  “Don’t,” she snaps, breathless and wild-eyed. “Don’t touch me when I’m—”

  She stops, chest heaving. The wind tugs at her gown, flattening it to her legs. For a second, Gai is sure she’s going to push him off the balcony instead.

  “Sorry,” he says, releasing his grip, hands up in surrender. “I didn’t mean to—”

  She shakes her head, the tension draining from her shoulders all at once. “It’s not your fault,” she says, her voice breaking around the words. “I was channelling, storing the charge. You can’t break the connection once it starts, not without—” She cuts herself off, searching for the end of the thought. “It’s dangerous. For both of us. Please. Next time, just let me be.”

  He nods, backing up a step, uncertain whether to apologize or just disappear.

  Elle draws a shaky breath, then reaches out and touches his sleeve—a gentle, deliberate gesture. “Thank you for not letting me fall,” she says. Her eyes were sharp and startling, the colour unsettled—bright with currents that seemed to spark just under the surface, restless and alive.

  “What was that?” he asks. “The…energy.”

  She shrugs, shoulders rising and falling with weary resignation as raindrops pool around her feet. “Call it a headache, but bigger. Sometimes I have to draw in the storm’s energy to keep everything else in check,” she whispers, voice barely audible under thunder. When she lifts her gaze to Gai, rain traces silvery paths down her cheeks and her warm amber eyes glimmer with electric intensity. “I’m connected to the storm—when it rages like this, I feel it coursing through me, demanding release. If I don’t channel it properly, it builds up and becomes unstable, like a storm trapped under my skin. I need to let some of it out… or risk losing control entirely.”

  She extends a hand, palm up, and tiny sparks dance across the raindrops cupped in her fingers. A low rumble punctuates her words, and the air around her crackles with static, making the hairs on Gai’s arms stand on end. She clenches her fist, dissipating the water in a flash of light, then manages a wry smile despite the tension still flickering across her features. “It’s not just about power—it’s balance. Too little, and I weaken. Too much…” She glances at the roiling clouds, and a thin tendril of lightning arcs down to meet her outstretched fingers in a brilliant gleam that eases the tension in her posture, though her eyes remain fiercely alive.

  He wants to say he understands, but he doesn’t. Instead, he just stands there, feeling the prickling static fade. Before either of them can say more, the glass door swings open behind them. Sheh’zar stands there, unmoved by the wind or the spectacle.

  Sheh’zar’s eyes scan the scene—Elle dripping with rain on the stone rail, Gai hovering uselessly, both of them charged like struck bells. The Drow’s voice is more steel than flesh. “Your Highness. You have a visitor arriving presently. Zephyrian and his apprentice. They have heard of your ‘free morning’ and made an urgent request for audience.”

  Elle wipes her palm down her face, smearing rain across her cheeks, and slides down from the balustrade. “Of course,” she says, pulling herself back together in real time, every bone snapping to place. “Take them to the library. I’ll join in five minutes.”

  Sheh’zar slips out as efficiently as always, leaving the tension behind like she never touched it. Gai expects Elle to sweep past him without a word, but instead she slows, her gaze dropping to his boots like she’s recalculating her next move. She tucks a sodden lock of hair behind her ear—slow, deliberate—and finally looks up, meeting his eyes. Her expression is caught somewhere between wary and resigned.

  "Stay here," she says, her voice still carrying traces of the storm. "I need to change. I refuse to let Zephyrian see me looking like I've been swimming in the moat—and you're not exactly presentable either." She nods at Gai, who stands just inside the doorway, rainwater dripping from his hair and the edges of his cloak.

  Gai glances down at himself. His outer armor gleams with beads of rain, but otherwise appears unmarred by the weather. However, he can feel the dampness seeping through at his collar and cuffs, his inner garments clinging uncomfortably to his skin.

  "There's a fire inside," Elle continues. "Dry off before you catch a chill. I'll be quick."

  There's no point arguing, so Gai trails her inside, blinking as the warmth of the study hits him. The fire isn't large, but it radiates enough heat to sting his chilled hands and ears. Elle disappears through another door without another word.

  He stands awkwardly by the hearth, the weight of his armour suddenly feeling heavier in the stillness of the room. Water drips from the edges of his pauldrons, creating small puddles on the floor. The flames gnaw quietly at the damp air, sending up a faint smell of smoke that mingles with the scent of wet metal. He rubs life back into his exposed hands, uncomfortably aware of each quiet clink and scrape of his armour as he moves.

  A few minutes later Elle reappears in fresh clothes—a deep blue gown that looks both strict and comfortable, her hair mostly tamed into a braid down one shoulder. She actually resembles herself again: poised, sharp-edged, tired but collected. Her eyes flick from him to the puddles to the fire.

  “Much better,” she says as she drops into the chair nearest the hearth. “And sorry about earlier. I don’t always know where I am when the storm gets bad. Sometimes I wish I could ignore what’s going on in my own veins.” She lets out a breath and gestures for him to sit too. “You don’t have to keep watch on the door now—Sheh’zar has that covered.”

  He sits where she points, careful not to make a mess of the upholstery, though a dark patch immediately blooms beneath him. The warmth from the fire creeps into his legs and makes his damp clothes itch. They both sit in silence for a moment—rain beating steadily on the balcony, thunder faded to a distant mutter. Gai’s thoughts keep circling back to Elle on the balcony, every muscle wired tight.

  He watches as she dries her hands with a bit of towel, jaw set, firelight catching in her eyes. She still looks raw around the edges, like she hasn’t quite let go of the storm, but at least she’s pretending to be settled.

  He coughs. “Are we going to get in trouble for letting Zephyrian wait?”

  At that, her mouth twists into a smile that holds zero affection. “If he were actually bothered by waiting, he’d never have risen to his current position,” she says. “Honestly, letting him fume for five minutes is the most excitement he’s had all month. Maybe it’ll remind him he doesn’t make all the rules.” She shifts in her chair, crossing one ankle over the other with extra emphasis. “He and my mother are basically twins when it comes to expecting royal treatment. They’d both expire if left unattended.”

  Gai gives it a beat and then asks, “Sheh’zar mentioned he brought his apprentice?”

  Elle’s reply is a needle, shiny and precise: “You probably know more about his apprentice than I do.” She lets the words settle, her gaze flicking to the rain. “Zephyrian’s not the sort to travel without a purpose. If he’s here now, it means something’s gone sideways for him in the city. Whatever it is, he’ll try to fix it by making everyone else miserable. That includes us.”

  “Is it a bad idea to refuse him outright?” Gai asks. “Or just a dangerous one?”

  Elle’s mouth twitches. “Both. Zephyrian has a bad habit of making people vanish—or ruining their names, whichever is more convenient.” She pauses, glancing at Gai with a dry look. “He’s not technically a murderer, if you want to split hairs. He just lets other people handle the mess.” She gives the armrest a tap and stands up. “Come on. We’ll face him together. Maybe he’ll actually let something slip for once.”

  She sets off down the corridor, each step brisk and measured. Gai falls in behind her, armour squeaking with every move, nerves set for whatever comes next. The hallway is hushed; Sheh’zar waits by the door ahead, bowing Elle inside without a word—though her eyes flick over Gai like she’s expecting trouble.

  The library beyond feels cut off from the rest of the world. Stormlight crowds the windows; only the candelabra on the table pushes back the gloom. In the centre, Zephyrian is already settled in the grandest chair, black robes pooling around him as he waits.