The soft carpets didn’t muffle footsteps that afternoon—they swallowed them whole, as if the floor itself had learned to fear silence.

  No music drifted through the Grand Hall’s corridors. No laughter. No clink of goblets or rustle of crystal-fruit trays. Only a listless wind slipped through cracks, and the heavy red-and-gold curtains hung motionless like suspended corpses in the corners. Even they didn’t dare dance.

  The oak doors opened with a shriek so sharp Aelinor nearly dropped her grimoire. The sound ricocheted through the chamber like a warning shot.

  Someone was entering.

  She lifted her eyes—not with the haughty indifference mages usually reserve for the ignorant, but like someone bracing for a lash. Like every visit to this hall might be her last.

  But it was only the Shadow.

  Or… not only the Shadow?

  The thing glided across the room like smoke pushed by reluctant wind. It skimmed the floor without touching it, wrapped in black bands, face forever hidden beneath an opaque hood. No sound—not footsteps, not breath. Yet the presence pressed down. The gaze weighed. An invisible hand on the nape.

  Aelinor swallowed. Pretended to reread the same paragraph for the fifth time.

  “Your Majesty… still resting?” the Shadow asked—not to Aelinor, but to the throne. The empty throne.

  The question hung like smoke refusing to dissipate. A treacherous whisper, almost gentle. And still laced with acid. With a blade.

  No answer came.

  The throne sat there, emptier than usual. The crimson cushion still bore the faint imprint of an absent body—like he’d just risen. Or perhaps not. Perhaps he’d been gone for days.

  Aelinor didn’t dare speak. Didn’t dare move her lips.

  The creature turned slowly. The hood pointed at her like an ancient cannon primed to fire.

  “Aelinor.”

  Her name fell with petal softness—and coffin weight.

  “Yes?” she answered, voice sweeter than intended, the tone screaming “I’m hiding nothing” even when there was nothing to hide. Or maybe there was. Doubt was poison.

  “We have come for something.” The Shadow drifted closer. “His Highness’s presence… is missed. The people hunger for orders. The nobles… starve for direction.” Long pause. Too long. “And there are rumors. There are always rumors.”

  Aelinor nodded. Head dipped slightly—like a well-trained servant.

  “I can relay a message in the king’s name, if you wish.”

  The Shadow laughed. Or something close. A rasping, humorless sound. Almost wind dragging through a forgotten tomb.

  “A storm comes tonight.” It turned slowly toward the hall’s center. “Clouds from the north.”

  Aelinor didn’t reply. But something deep in her mind snapped—a silk thread almost breaking.

  She knew. The northern storm wasn’t just weather.

  The Shadow stopped before the gold-and-linen tapestry: an ancient scene of a young king raising his sword in a long-forgotten battle.

  “He searches for her, doesn’t he? The blood daughter. The blue-eyed priestess.” It turned again. “But what if the daughter doesn’t wish to be found?”

  Aelinor opened her mouth. Said nothing.

  And what if the daughter is found first by someone who doesn’t share the king’s dreams? What if she’s killed? What if the king must use what he has at hand?

  Aelinor’s skin crawled beneath layers of fabric and magic. She felt the room sinking. Everything in it—curtains, tapestries, books, soul.

  The Shadow moved to the door. Before vanishing, it turned its unseen face back.

  “Your position is delicate, Aelinor.” Pause. “Be careful what you study in empty nights.”

  The door closed.

  The hall returned to silence. Thicker. More suffocating.

  She stood there minutes. Heart beating in a strange rhythm. Like a muffled war drum. Like an axe might fall any second.

  She never knew if the Shadow knew. But now… perhaps it did. Perhaps it always had.

  …

  There was a part of the castle Solariis never reached.

  Not the hearth warmth, not banquet echoes, not drunken bards’ pipes. A chamber hidden behind double doors of black stone—deep and smooth as tombstones. No one knew if it was bedroom, temple… or prison for the king himself.

  There, Balthier slept little. Or not like others.

  The moment Aelinor’s door thudded shut behind her, she knew she’d made a mistake. Small. Silent. The kind only your stomach notices when it clenches for no reason.

  She hadn’t been summoned.

  She’d only come to leave council records. As always. As expected.

  But he was there.

  Standing. Center of the room.

  No armor. No crown. No retinue—just him and shadow. Simple white robe, pristine, like she’d never seen. Yet he seemed larger than any man she’d met. Larger than any elf.

  He turned.

  It was like staring into the bottom of a frozen abyss.

  Eyes—those eyes—cerulean that wounded. Glacial. A blue so deep it froze light around it. No warmth. No emotion. No rage, no kindness. Only… absence.

  Aelinor—powerful, ancient—felt her spine crack.

  She’d never felt so small.

  “Aelinor.” His voice—low. Like distant thunder holding its breath.

  She bowed. Not by choice. By instinct.

  “Your Majesty. I… only came to leave the arcane council records.” Eyes on floor. Not forbidden to look. She just didn’t want to.

  “Then why are you still here?”

  The question hung.

  Simple. Soft. Heavy as a collapsing wall.

  Aelinor swallowed.

  “Because… I…” Voice vanished. Cold breeze brushed her neck. No windows.

  “Do you fear me?” he asked.

  Yes, she thought. Yes I do. And I don’t understand why.

  What she said:

  “No.”

  He walked. Slow. Deliberate. Stone vibrated faintly under each step. Not weight. Power. Hidden force overflowing his bones.

  He stopped before her. Close enough to smell—subtle ancient wood, ice, and… something metallic. Dried blood.

  “You are not like the others.” No mockery. Observation. “You don’t flatter. Don’t flee. That intrigues me.”

  Aelinor drew deep breath. Breath fogged before her face.

  “I am a royal mage, not a courtier.”

  He smiled. Light. Brief. No teeth. Still terrible. A smile saying “I don’t care what you are—only what you can become.”

  “Yet… you serve me.” He lowered his face until cerulean eyes nearly met hers. Nearly. Still above.

  She didn’t answer.

  He raised a hand.

  Aelinor braced—for gesture, magic, touch—anything. He only brushed aside a fallen strand of her hair.

  Fingers cold. Large. Too strong for human hands. And yet… careful? Not gentle. Never gentle. Merely cautious. Like handling fragile glass not yet decided to break or keep.

  “Do you feel it?” he whispered. “The world… thinning. Fragile. Ice about to crack. Can you hear?”

  Aelinor heard. Or thought she did. A snap. A moan from somewhere below earth. Like castle roots writhing.

  “Something in the north.” Voice lower. Intimate. Infinitely dangerous. “Something that belongs to me. Something… that must be mine.”

  She knew exactly.

  Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

  “I don’t—” Aelinor began.

  He cut her off.

  “You are precious, Aelinor. Did you know?”

  She froze.

  “The world won’t spare you. Neither will I. But… while you remain here, under my roof, under my word… I will protect you.” Eyes closer now. Almost touching hers. “As long as you remain useful.”

  Aelinor nodded. Fragile. Nearly breaking.

  He withdrew—same calm he’d approached with. Shadow larger than the light that cast it. Without turning:

  “Rest tonight. Tomorrow we work. And perhaps—if you listen closely—the wind will bring answers.”

  Door opened itself.

  She left without looking back.

  But even after five stone corridors, descending stairs, crossing chambers—the watched feeling never left. Like his eyes had imprinted inside her skull.

  And no matter how powerful she was… That night, Aelinor slept with lights on.

  …

  No stars that night. But looking up in the main hall of the Sand Lions Palace made you forget the sky. Crystal chandeliers hung like captured constellations—golden reflections dancing on black marble and blood-red stained glass eternally bathed in sunset.

  Walls towered like ramparts, draped in ancient tapestries: winged lions devouring moons and gods, Friedhor’s history told not in dates… but scars.

  At the head—stone-and-iron thrones, one larger, adorned with darkened-gold forged flames.

  And in it… the king.

  Balthier.

  Pious as an earthquake.

  Cerulean eyes—cold as crystal in ice water—cut the hall with blade precision that never missed. Attire sober yet battlefield-elegant: midnight black, embroidered with rubies pulsing like sacrificed hearts.

  To his left—Aelinor.

  Still as elven statue. Alive as thunder-waiting wind.

  Deep-wine robe, obsidian brooch at shoulder throwing strange reflections when no one looked. Interlaced fingers never stopped moving. Like holding something the world mustn’t see.

  Music ceased.

  Doors opened.

  Like profane temple wings, they announced Dalmástia’s delegation.

  King Edsor XV entered first—hall seeming to shrink in welcome.

  Navy-blue mantle moved like silk sea. Seven rings caught every light ray with ancient enchantment precision. He didn’t walk. He floated with purpose.

  Deep green eyes—like fate itself charcoal-lined his lids. Elegant. Lethal. The kind of man who rips out hearts… smiling.

  Beside him—Esplendor.

  Magical advisor in severe-tailored suit, subtle arcane symbols. Caramel skin under dying sun seemed to drink the hall’s lost heat. Eyes… observed everything. Not here to please—but to see who fell first.

  Behind—Dalmástia’s elite guard. Twelve men. Twelve honor shadows. Silver armor, anil cloaks, ceremonial lances. Each a living statue.

  Leading them—her.

  Captain Alice. Or at least… that’s what her insignia claimed.

  She moved in absolute silence. Black hair—wet-obsidian—fell veil-straight past hips. Narrow violet eyes hid faint crimson glow subtle as death memory. Gaze… oblique. Distorted. Like seeing whole hall through reality’s edges.

  Power there. Not roaring power. Waiting power. Sword never drawn… because never needed.

  Blue-gray armor marked officer rank—but trained eyes (royal eyes always are) saw more. Faster. Denser. Deadlier than anyone present.

  Balthier noticed. Or merely suspected. Didn’t speak. Never spoke on impulse.

  Silence.

  Then Friedhor’s king raised his goblet.

  “King Edsor." his voice—deep, low—reverberated like thunder holding breath. “Welcome to the land of free men.”

  Edsor smiled. Gesture lasted too long.

  “Your Majesty Balthier. Honor to finally stand in Lohr’tis, Friedhor’s jewel.”

  Gaze swept tapestries, stained glass, flame-clawed candelabras.

  “So much splendor… I almost feel small.”

  “Impossible.” Balthier—lips only moving. “If you were small, I wouldn’t have received you.”

  Tension sat at table like third king.

  Then came dishes.

  Whole boars roasted with red fruit and golden nuts, thick wine sauce smelling of sin. Birds on black-petal beds, southern spiced butter. Cheeses from twelve kingdoms—arcane-cut, some steaming mist, some glowing. Breads infused with enchanted herbs—steam like sleeping dragon breath when broken. Rare vinegars. Magically-marbled meats. Near-extinct fruits.

  Feast was fork warfare.

  But no one ate.

  Alice—motionless. Aelinor—alert. Esplendor—counting steps, plates, pauses. Balthier—unblinking watch. Edsor—smiling like he already knew the ending.

  Outside, under fevered city, desert breathed.

  And something… listened.

  …

  Balthier leaned back in throne. Light gesture—like yielding space—but forcing others to fill void. He twirled goblet like man shaping liquid fate.

  “So…” after long sip. “Let us speak of the road.”

  “Of course.” Edsor leaned slightly. Not much. Just enough for civility, never submission. “The road is vital to our peoples. Trade. Cultural exchange. Idea flow.”

  Balthier smiled.

  “Cultural exchange. Such a delicate phrase.” Picked black grape—crushed between fingers before eating. “Once we called it ‘don’t kill us and we won’t kill you.’”

  “Times change.” Edsor laughed with eyes.

  “Man’s nature doesn’t.” Balthier countered. “Only learned more elegant killing.”

  Aelinor’s goblet trembled faintly on table. Untouched. Watched like wine there older than both kings combined.

  Esplendor took mental notes. Face betrayed nothing. But hidden hand formed defensive seals. In case plates flew.

  “Road linking our realms is under strain.” Edsor cut boar piece—returned to platter uneaten. “Northern tribes. Dishonest merchants. And something… older. Forest whispers too much lately.”

  Balthier leaned one centimeter. Shadow behind throne leaned too. No sound. But roasted meat suddenly louder.

  “Your forest whispers.” Balthier—still smiling. “Mine… screams.”

  Alice—right of Edsor—lifted eyes first time since entering. Not at Balthier. At ceiling. Like already mapping Friedhor’s hidden watchers.

  “Magic routes shifting—” Esplendor finally spoke. Voice clear, elegant, cutting. “Subsoil energy surging. Arcane pulses recorded… no origin. Only unknown purpose.”

  Aelinor looked away. Discreetly. But Shadow noticed.

  And whispered.

  “She knows.” Voice wasn’t sound. Sensation. Cold hand on spine.

  Balthier didn’t reply. Didn’t need to.

  “Maybe ground is just tired.” Balthier murmured. “Carries too much weight.” Looked at Edsor. “Kingdoms. Rules. Missing queens. Forgotten princes. Bones.”

  Edsor didn’t blink.

  “That’s why I come to propose we share the burden.”

  Silence.

  Balthier raised eyebrow.

  Edsor continued:

  “Pact. Transit and protection. Shared road guard. Mixed company training. If imbalance… face together.”

  “That sounds… rational,” Balthier—no irony.

  “It is.” Edsor said. “And rare.”

  Balthier took another grape. Crushed again.

  “Rationality isn’t what I expect from man wearing seven magic rings, ancestral diadem, sword still echoing First City tunnels.”

  Aelinor couldn’t hide surprise. Edsor smiled.

  “I use what I inherited.” Heritage is responsibility. Power shouldn’t be buried just because it’s old.

  “Sometimes we bury to keep it from crawling back,” Balthier replied.

  Shadow behind him purred. Room felt smaller.

  Alice moved. Slowly. Raised goblet. Only that.

  But Aelinor felt. Air whisper. Pressure shift. Like wolf breathing deep behind tapestry.

  Esplendor noticed too. Didn’t react. Only added thumb-ring seal. For explosion case.

  “Friedhor can accept this pact,” Balthier said. “But I want something in return.”

  “Of course.” Edsor—elegant as scalpel. “What do you desire?”

  Balthier didn’t answer immediately.

  Looked at Aelinor. At Alice. At shadow behind him.

  “One thing,” king said. “Truth.”

  Then… smiled. Smile that cut like desert under traitor’s bare feet.

  …

  There was music in the air—even without instruments. Composition of glances, pauses, words never spoken—not there. Not yet.

  Aelinor—left of Balthier—kept spine straight as enchanted staff. She listened. Always listened. But now she felt.

  Felt Esplendor.

  Woman two seats away, flanking Dalmástia’s king like sheathed blade of honor. Esplendor didn’t move much. But dark eyes mapped hall like chart needing thousand reads before burning.

  Aelinor recognized instantly.

  The look. Elbow placement. Chin tilt at provocation. Polished copy of Amy. Without outbursts. Without untamed soul. Esplendor was focus. Discipline. Politics.

  “She’s the version world tolerates,” Aelinor thought—“the one shaped by bureaucracy without losing edge.”

  And that worried her. Made her… unpredictable.

  Across, Esplendor observed too. Saw more in Aelinor than most. Not just renowned mage. Living relic. Who taught Amy barefoot-grass thinking and song-like conjuring. Aelinor was root. But roots rot if soil forgets.

  “What are you doing here, Lady of the Forest?” Esplendor thought, noting dry-branch bracelet on Aelinor’s left wrist. “Casting shade on rotting throne?”

  Aelinor turned face slightly. Green eyes met dark. Exchange lasted two seconds. Like crossing chasm in single leap.

  Alice didn’t stare. But knew everything.

  She watched servants. Hall angles. Friedhor soldiers’ breathing frequency. Most important: watched shadow.

  Didn’t see it. Not exactly. But blood burned. Like marked to react to presences not belonging here.

  Alice didn’t understand Aelinor. Didn’t trust Esplendor. But fulfilled role. Captain more than captain. Right arm of king never showing full hand.

  “The road,” she thought. “They speak of road. But what are they really trying to cross?”

  Semi-narrowed eyes seemed drawn to see lies before becoming words.

  She wouldn’t speak tonight. But would remember everything. Every Aelinor gesture. Every Esplendor pause. Every Balthier inflection.

  Edsor spoke alliance. But Alice already wondered what Friedhor would deliberately let slip.

  Shadow behind throne slid along stone. For instant Aelinor felt it. Didn’t see. Didn’t touch. Felt.

  Memory of fear. Ancient. Nameless.

  The elven mage closed eyes, breathed deep, returned upright pose. Like telling fate: “Not today.”

  …

  Last goblets clinked with weight of dessert no one ordered: unspoken promises, questions never to be asked.

  Balthier wiped lips with scarlet cloth. More performance than need.

  “So… we have a possible pact.” Deep voice—like sentence read before trial. “The road… jointly guarded. We divide ground. Troops. Silence.”

  Edsor smiled.

  “And bureaucracy, Your Majesty. Don’t forget her. She cuts fingers before war even starts.”

  Balthier leaned one centimeter. Shadow behind leaned too. No sound. But roasted meat suddenly louder.

  “And what does Friedhor receive?” Balthier asked.

  Question danced like drunk circus knife-thrower’s blade.

  Edsor didn’t answer immediately. Picked grape. Didn’t crush. Bit. Chewed.

  “Border peace. Route stability. Magical cooperation…” like reading menu. Then raised eyes: “…and perhaps… information.”

  Balthier blinked. Slow.

  “Information?”

  Edsor interlaced fingers in lap.

  “A name… reached my ears. Group traveling western plains. Green-haired cleric. Sword on back. Eyes… not of this world.”

  Aelinor stiffened. Slightly. Enough. Shadow felt. Esplendor observed. Alice recorded.

  Balthier didn’t move.

  “You’ll tell me this is a gift?”

  Edsor shrugged.

  “If girl is who I think… not something traded for promises and wine. But don’t worry, Majesty… some pieces better protected outside game.”

  Balthier smiled. With teeth.

  “You’re generous, Edsor. Perhaps too generous for man who still hasn’t said why he’s really here.”

  Edsor answered without hesitation:

  “Because I prefer you look in my eyes when you decide to betray me.”

  Silence.

  Good silence. Taste of aged wine and sword rust.

  Balthier rose.

  “Delegation housed in eastern towers. House guards will escort. Hope you enjoy Friedhor hospitality… while it lasts.”

  Edsor rose with equal solemnity.

  “May it last long enough, Majesty.”

  …

  Night fell—not on sky already dark—but on golden halls. Glow faded slow. Like palace—sated—now slept… one eye always open.

  Nobles and soldiers escorted to quarters. Servants moved like candle-shadows. Floral perfumes masked ancient dust and condensed magic in walls.

  Aelinor walked silent, escorted by two mute servants—enchanted literally. Silk steps barely touched floor. Obsidian brooch pulsed softly. She felt… something. Like led to living thing’s belly.

  Turning corridor… met Esplendor.

  Not coincidence. Both knew. Both pretended.

  “Lady Valyra.” Esplendor polite nod. “Didn’t expect to see you here. Not so… deeply installed.”

  “And I didn’t expect you so polished, Esplendor.” Aelinor replied. “Last time I saw you with your master—she was knocking over goblets and threatening nobles with broken wands.”

  “That’s why position mine now.” Esplendor smiled. Lightly.

  Both stopped. Face to face.

  Silence between.

  But conversation happened. Unwritten book exchange. “What do you know?” “What can’t you say?” “Why accept place beside him?”

  “Some things in Friedhor don’t want seen, Esplendor.”

  “Some things in Dalmástia prefer ignored, Aelinor.”

  Both knew. Both stopped. And walked. No more words. Moment wasn’t now.

  …

  Alice wasn’t in quarters.

  Nor corridors allowed.

  Barefoot, moved through inner courtyards like furtive breath. Cold stone kissed soles; night air—resin and torch oil—clung damp veil to skin. Between massive columns she slipped—light as shadow aware it shouldn’t be there—and therefore alive.

  Guards passed. Avoided effortlessly.

  Shadows moved. Danced between.

  Delicate fingers brushed ancient tapestry—threads worn, fabric heavy with symbols time should’ve buried. Shouldn’t touch. Touched anyway. Fabric reacted—like recognized—or denounced. Behind her eyes flashed faint crimson, pulsing soft like invisible radar beat.

  Alice stopped before wall older than rest of fortress. Moss gave acid scent; stone seemed to sweat, alive. Raised hand—almost casual gesture, loaded silent authority.

  Stones shivered. Not yielding… awakening.

  Hidden passage. Not open. Not dead. Merely locked. And still breathing.

  Alice tilted face; smile blooming on lips held nothing innocent. First time in hours—found something worth it.

  “Found you…” murmured—voice low enough to lose in courtyard cold, clear as blade.

  ?