The sound of the guards’ boots traveled the length of the hall.

  It was cool. The floor held the memory of shade. Narrow openings high in the walls pulled wind through the corridors in steady currents. It moved the loose edge of her sleeve. It carried a trace of dried mint.

  The sound of water threaded through the passageways—thin channels running somewhere unseen.

  She was guided into a walled courtyard enclosed on all sides. The sky above it was a square of pale blue. A narrow stream cut through the center of the space, flowing from one carved stone mouth to another. A small basin waited beneath an arch of shade.

  “The water has been measured for you,” a servant said.

  When she lowered herself into the water, the dust of the square loosened from her skin in pale streaks. The basin clouded, then cleared. She scrubbed the grit from her arms. From her neck. From the hollow at her throat where the fragments lay quiet.

  They brought her to a guest chamber once the sun had shifted higher. The room held no excess. Layered rugs in muted rust and indigo. A cedar chest open at its foot. A bronze mirror polished bright enough to return her reflection without sharp edges.

  Clothes had been laid out carefully. A long robe of fine linen the color of sand just before dusk. Another layer deeper, earth-red. A woven sash.

  Servants entered and parted her hair. They braided it back from her face and bound it with narrow ribbons dyed a faded pomegranate red. The rest they left loose along her shoulders.

  The fragments did not stir. For a moment she tried to sense outward—toward the main basin, toward whatever lay beneath the palace stone.

  Nothing answered.

  A knock.

  The servants withdrew. Guards replaced them.

  The corridor widened as they approached the inner hall. The stone here was smoother, more carefully worked. Brass lamps hung along the walls, their light soft against carved surfaces. Thin lines of gold edged certain fixtures. The air carried spice now. Cardamom. Clove. Tea steeping somewhere close. Beneath it, always, that faint mineral trace.

  The doors opened.

  The hall beyond was enclosed and high-ceilinged, supported by thick pillars carved in repeating geometric lines. A carpet ran its length. Courtiers stood in layered linen and wool, tones of sand and deep indigo and muted saffron. Their voices hushed when she entered.

  At the far end stood Nasim al-Rashid.

  He wore deeper fabric than at the square. Gold at his waist. A ring at his hand. A falcon perched behind him on a carved stand.

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  As she approached, his gaze fixed on her. He waited until she stood close enough that he did not need to raise his voice.

  “You missed your prince.”

  The words struck somewhere low and unguarded. Her stomach tightened before she could stop it. For a heartbeat she forgot how to stand. Miralys had trained composure into her bones; she let it surface now, steadying her face, smoothing her breath.

  “He came months ago. When storms swallowed your coast and Dazarim knew calm.” Nasim examined a grape before he chewed it. “He probably suspected you were here.”

  Something in her chest pulled tight, then tighter still—sharp enough to make the air thin.

  Hope.

  She had not prepared for that.

  It hurt more than she remembered.

  Elowen remained before the prince, holding her gaze towards him. Silent.

  She wasn’t defying him, she simply had nothing to say.

  He met her eyes, measuring.

  He stood.

  “Please, walk with me.” He said as he began walking towards the hall. “There is something I’d like to show you.”

  They left the hall through a narrow arch at the rear. Two guards fell in behind them. The sounds of the court dimmed with each turn of the corridor. The air cooled. The scent of tea gave way to stone and oil.

  They descended.

  The stairwell curved downward into a chamber cut deeper into the palace foundation. The temperature dropped another degree. The sound of water moved faintly through the walls.

  Wall niches carved into stone held wax-sealed bundles and leather-wrapped ledgers. Clay tablets rested in shallow shelves, edges worn smooth by handling. A long table stood at the center, dark wood scarred by years of weight and ink. Maps lay unrolled across it, their corners pinned by carved stones.

  He had prepared this.

  He stepped aside without comment.

  Her attention narrowed to the table.

  The first parchment held a map she knew too well. The Wall stretched across the realms in ink—clean lines, deliberate borders. But small marks broke its length. Fracture points. Notations in Dazarim script ran along the margins.

  Her fingers hovered above the page before touching it.

  The next sheet overlaid storm paths in thin, sweeping arcs. The curves cut across Miralys. Dates were written beside them. Years she remembered. Seasons she had endured. The storm cycles aligned with markings near the Wall.

  Another parchment.

  A rendering of the Sphere, charcoal pressed hard enough that the page bore slight grooves beneath it. The lines were careful but incomplete, the lower half fading where the artist had either stopped or lacked knowledge.

  She did not move for several seconds.

  “You have been watching,” she said at last.

  He stood across the table from her, hands resting lightly against the wood.

  “Dazarim survives by paying attention.”

  She did not look at him yet.

  She traced the incomplete Sphere once more, her fingertip stopping at the unfinished curve.

  “What are you missing?” she asked quietly.

  “Isn’t it obvious, Elowen of House Caerthwyn?” Nasim asked, the hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “You are the missing piece.”

  Her expression changed so quickly it was almost imperceptible. The softness left her eyes. Something colder settled there. A draft moved through the chamber, lifting the corners of the parchments across the table.

  Nasim raised his hands slightly, palms open.

  “I want what you want,” he said.

  “And what is that?” Her voice held steady.

  “To restore the Wall.”

  The movement in the room quieted. Even the loose edges of paper settled against the wood.

  She studied him.

  “How?”

  He did not rush to answer. Instead, he gathered several parchments and shifted them aside, revealing one beneath.

  He turned the sheet toward her.

  The drawing was older than the others. Elyon sketched above the Sphere. Below, five crowned figures stood with their hands extended, each receiving a fragment of light from the whole.

  Her breath changed.

  “You were not subtle in Miralys,” he said, almost mildly. “In Dazarim, it will not come to that.”

  He met her eyes fully now.

  “We unite them.”

  The word did not feel symbolic. It felt logistical.

  “All fragments restored to the Sphere.”

  He waited for her to understand.

  “I will provide Dazarim’s.”