Four hours was a long time. Especially when you weren't used to riding in something so smooth. When your body didn't know how to relax. When your muscles stayed half-tense even as the cushion under you shifted gently with the road.
The silence filled most of that time. But it wasn't the kind of silence that made the air tight. It didn't press against my ears or force my thoughts to be louder. It was still. Watchful. The kind of silence that gave you space to think without demanding anything in return.
Caelum didn't push. But now and then, he asked me questions. Nothing sharp. Nothing deep. Just… light touches. Invitations, not commands. Simple things. And I answered. Not everything. Just enough. Short sentences. The kind that didn't need to echo.
He didn't tell me to speak louder. He didn't press when I fell quiet between thoughts. He didn't repeat the questions if I didn't respond right away. He just listened. Like the cat. Still and patient. Sometimes, after I answered, he would nod to himself and return to the window. Sometimes, his eyes would flick to me.
Not to watch me. Not like the caretakers had, trying to read what I might break or steal or hide. Not like the priests had, as if trying to decide if I was worth blessing. Not like the noblemen who sometimes walked through the orphanage halls, their gazes brushing over us like we were glass.
No. Caelum looked just to make sure I was fine. Not sick. Not stiff. Not scared. He'd glance only long enough to know if I needed something. Then he'd look away. It was… strange. I didn't know how to feel about it. So I didn't try to feel anything. I just let the moments pass.
I climbed onto the cushion after a while, shifting so I could lean closer to the window. My satchel stayed by my feet, and I folded my arms over the edge of the frame. The glass was clear and smooth, and the wind outside made faint smudges of sound.
He didn't say anything when I moved. Not "Be careful." Not "Sit properly." Not "Don't touch that." He just glanced once to be sure I was steady, then returned to his own seat and looked out his own side of the carriage.
We didn't need to speak. The world beyond the window did that for us. We had already passed the outer villages and the slums. The road had straightened. The dust had settled. The smells of livestock and smoke had faded, replaced by something else—baking bread, sharp perfume, polished stone.
And there, in the distance, rising like a breath between the hills—the Capital. I didn't say anything, but I stared. It was the kind of sight that filled your chest without permission. The walls were enormous. Smooth and clean and pale like polished bone, stretching in long curves that caught the sunlight and scattered it like water.
Tall spires rose behind them—towers of all shapes and heights, some capped in blue glass, others in gold leaf, all shimmering. The gates were open, though I couldn't see the people from this far. Only the shape. The movement. The pulse.
The closer we got, the more everything changed. The houses became buildings. The buildings became halls. Windows grew larger. Doors wider. The roads more even. The fences higher. We passed rows of shops with wooden signs shaped like birds, books, stars.
I saw a woman buying bread from a cart with wheels trimmed in silk. I saw a boy in a silver coat walk beside a knight in armor that caught the sun like mirrors.
And then the mansions began. First small. Then taller. Then taller still. Four stories. Balconies with carved railings. Stained glass windows. Trees with flowers that didn't grow in the wild. Servants in matching coats moving in and out like clock hands.
The Lower Noble District, Caelum called it. Though he didn't say it like a tour guide. He just noted it, softly, when he saw me looking. "These are the merchant nobles," he said. "Landed knights. Barons. Inherited wealth and recent titles. Most of them don't live here full-time. Just during Season." Season. Capitalized. Like it was a time people performed in.
I watched a fountain shaped like a swan spit water into a shallow marble basin. A girl with braids leaned over to touch it, her governess watching nearby. I had never seen a fountain in person before. The orphanage well had always been covered. Capped with a rusted lid. Water was something we hauled, not something that sang.
I pressed my hand to the glass. Not hard. Just… to feel how solid it was. The glass was cool and dry beneath my palm. The outside world kept moving, but my heart had stilled. Not with fear. Not exactly. More like awe. Distant. Unclaimed.
Soon, we passed through a second set of gates.
No wood. No iron. Not even stone. Glass. Tall, arched, enchanted. I could see the faint shimmer of runes beneath the surface as the carriage passed under them. The guards didn't stop us. They bowed as we passed. "The Upper Noble District," Caelum murmured. And I believed him.
Here, the air smelled like roses and parchment. The buildings weren't buildings anymore. They were estates—walled-in gardens with stone houses large enough to contain the entire orphanage three times over. White columns. Mosaic roofs. Gates trimmed in gold or black steel. Trees with blue flowers. Paths paved in tiles. Windows arched like the ones I'd seen in church murals.
I didn't know how to understand it all. Not yet. So I didn't try. I just looked. We didn't speak again for a while. I sat curled on the cushion, eyes out the window, one finger brushing the ribbon on my wrist. And Caelum sat across from me, hands folded over one knee, his wolf-mark faint in the light that slipped through the carriage.
He didn't press. He didn't smile unless I looked at him. And even then, it was soft. Not like someone trying to be liked. But like someone who wasn't afraid to wait.
"We'll be there soon," he said finally.
His voice didn't rise. Didn't fall. Just gently filled the space. I looked out the window one last time as the road narrowed. Beyond the trees, something massive waited. Not just the palace. The heart of the Empire. And it was waiting for me.