The tall gates of the Court of Chains groaned as they opened, slow and deliberate, like a sentence being passed.
The sun had just breached the horizon, painting the sky in golden pinks, casting the marble towers of Irithiel in warm hues. Light spilled into the stone courtyard beyond the gates—where two figures stood waiting.
Cael. And his mother.
Velastra stepped out, still in her armor, silver-threaded cloak torn at one edge, her sword at her back, her eyes dull with what she had just endured.
She barely had time to breathe before Cael's mother hurried to her.
"Your Highness," the woman said, her voice soft and laced with worry, "are you hurt? What did they say? How are you?"
Velastra blinked.
The sunlight hit her face. Her eyes squinted slightly, but not from the light.
"It's done," she answered. Her voice was even, but not cold. Just tired.
The older woman reached up instinctively, brushing a strand of hair away from Velastra's cheek, like she would with her own child.
"He couldn't sleep," she said, glancing back at Cael. "Didn't eat. He stood at that window all night, watching for a sign. You should've seen his face when he heard the gates shift."
Velastra didn't look at Cael. Not yet.
She simply walked with the mother, their footsteps falling into soft rhythm down the stone path leading away from the court.
"He was like that as a child too," his mother continued, her tone light, trying to breathe warmth into the heavy morning. "He used to stare out the garden wall waiting for his father, even when we knew he wouldn't come back. Quiet as ever. But always watching."
Velastra's lips parted slightly.
Not a smile.
Not yet.
But her gaze, once dim and distant, slowly warmed.
The faintest shimmer of brown returned to her irises, the telltale glow of her calmest joy. She listened—not to respond, but to absorb.
Behind them, Cael followed silently.
He didn't speak.
He didn't oppose his mother's chatter, or Velastra's silence.
But his eyes never left her.
He had seen it.
The thin, angry lash marks etched just beneath her hairline, where her armor no longer reached. Red. Incomplete. Fresh. He knew it.
**Veytashil's marks.**
He said nothing—but something in his gaze tightened. Not from anger. Not from horror. But from something deeper. A memory. A mirror.
He knew the burn of those lashes.
He knew the ache beneath armor.
And now he saw it on her.
Velastra felt his gaze.
For a moment, she almost faltered in her step.
But she did not turn around.
Instead, she lifted her chin, freed her braided hair, letting the wind cloak her wounds and hiding them once again.
----
The sun had risen fully by the time they reached the East Wing—once a hollow wing of stone and silence, now softened by the scent of herb steam, the sound of fabric brushing over smooth floors, and the comfort of living things.
The guards stationed there straightened at the sight of Velastra but did not bow. They simply stepped aside, as though they knew—without command—that this wing was no longer just Cael's.
It was **theirs**.
Inside, the air held a familiar warmth. And as they crossed the threshold, a delicate fragrance met them—a faint sweetness carried on rice steam and herbs kissed by flame.
Velastra paused, then looked at Cael.
His mother smiled from ahead.
"I saw you two last night, trying to cook that… Suveril ball."
She let the amusement color her tone without teasing. She disappeared briefly behind a curtain and returned with a covered bronze tray, setting it down on the low cedar table.
"So I made it the way we used to. Properly this time."
She uncovered it, and the steam rose, curling in the air like morning prayers.
Golden-hued rice balls, still warm, flecked with starlight grains and dusted with herb powder from the southern cliffs of Nirhaleth. Tucked at the edge of the tray was a small leaf of sealing mint, used only for meals prepared for warriors returning from battle.
Velastra stepped closer.
She stared—not at the food, but at the care in its making. At the shape of it. How precise the rolls were. How the warmth wasn't just in the steam, but in the **intention** behind it.
She didn't reach for one immediately.
Instead, she asked quietly:
"Is there… a way to preserve these? To keep them from rotting?"
Cael and his mother exchanged glances.
It was not a question about rice.
His mother answered gently, brushing her hand over the tray's edge.
"Even if they lose warmth, the taste remains in the memory."
Velastra didn't reply.
She simply looked down at the rice again.
"But memory can be cruel," she murmured. "It changes taste. Warps it."
"Then," Cael said softly from her side, his voice finally breaking his long silence, "you'll have to make them again. And again. So the taste never has time to fade."
Velastra turned her head toward him, slow, searching.
He didn't smile. He rarely did.
But his eyes held **a promise**.
And without thinking, Velastra reached forward and picked up one of the rice balls—careful, reverent.
She held it for a moment, then took a bite.
She chewed in silence. The room was quiet but full.
"...Still not as good as Cael's," she lied, obviously.
Cael's mother laughed aloud.
And for a heartbeat—
Velastra's eyes gleamed gold.
The color of eternity.
---
Deep in the heart of the obsidian palace, where no sunlight touched and even time seemed reluctant to move, King Vorelin of Irithiel stood before a bed draped in shadowed silks.
Upon it lay **the Queen**—her body unmoving, her breath faint and mechanical, a puppet strung to life by ancient sigils and the last remnants of an oath long broken. Her silver hair, once braided in battle-crowns, now sprawled lifeless across the pillows.
A single candle flickered beside her, its flame sustained only by ritual oil—never wax.
The king's crown sat discarded on a nearby table, tipped sideways, as though ashamed to wear his head.
He stared at the sleeping queen. Not with sorrow. Not even with longing.
With fury.
"Our daughter," he hissed through clenched teeth, "has lost herself."
He began pacing, slow, controlled.
"She speaks to the court, like he is hers. Like he has worth. Do you know what the Court whispered this morning? That she's starting to forget the kingdom for him."
He stopped. His fists clenched, knuckles white.
"She defied the decree. She never did that before. She took him from chains and gave him—a title as hers."
He turned to face the queen again.
"You would've stopped her, wouldn't you?"
"You, who once brought an entire city to ash and never mercied enemies."
The queen did not stir.
But something in the air shifted—a coldness that ran beneath the words, as if her stillness approved.
Vorelin's lips curled.
"Do you remember what you were before you lay here in velvet? Do you remember what you did to the Aether Coast, when they refused your hand in treaty?"
His voice dropped lower. Acid dripped from every word.
"She has your madness."
"Your cursed devotion."
He stepped closer to the bed, lowering his voice, as if taunting a corpse into waking.
"But not to me nor the kingdom we built…"
He leaned in, whispering now.
"It's to our enemy's son."
The candle beside the queen flickered violently.
But the queen did not wake.
She simply lay there—breathing, faintly. A ghost pinned to flesh. A goddess dethroned by silence.
And from behind him, a voice—barely a murmur—emerged from the shadows:
"Do you want to wake her up before her fated awakening?"