Caelum looked at me after we passed through the hall. Not sternly. Not urgently. Just… expectantly. His eyes flicked to the servants and knights still bowing with practiced stillness, and then back to me. There was a small pause, a silence that curled in the space between us like a suggestion. I understood. He wanted me to dismiss them.
I hesitated. My heart skipped, and I could feel it in my throat. My voice wasn't something I used often. Not loudly. Not for others to hear. And this hallway… it wasn't like the orphanage, where the floor creaked and the windows whistled and the stone echoed nothing.
This hall was open, tall, smooth. Sounds would carry here. Still, I swallowed once and tried. "You… you can r-raise your heads."
It came out softer than I meant. The words wobbled, thinned at the end. The "r" caught against my teeth and the last syllable dipped like it wanted to disappear. I doubted anyone beyond the knight carrying me even heard it.
But they moved immediately. Gracefully. Quietly. The knights returned to their posts, the servants stepped back into motion, and the hum of the palace resumed its rhythm like I hadn't interrupted it at all.
No one laughed. No one whispered. No one looked at me like I had failed. The knight who held me gave no sign of judgment. If he noticed the weakness in my voice, he didn't let it show. His hands remained steady beneath me, his steps measured, his breath even.
We passed through another set of halls, this one softer. The floor changed beneath us from polished stone to something warmer—floorboards that glowed faintly with old oil and years of careful cleaning. The walls here were paler, the windows longer. The air smelled faintly of parchment, mint, and something herbal I couldn't name.
He carried me through a curved corridor, then up a short flight of steps to a smaller landing, where two maids and a servant stood waiting outside a door. The maids were young. One had her hands clasped nervously, the other held a cloth that looked like it had just been used to wipe dust from the windowpanes. The servant stood straighter, older, eyes flicking once to me, then down again.
When we arrived, all three bowed. Then, with murmured voices and words I couldn't quite catch, they stepped aside and slipped down the hallway, shoes muffled against the rug. The knight set me down just inside the doorway. Not roughly. Not abruptly. Gently. Like I was something that still mattered after being delivered.
I stood there, still holding my satchel with one hand and the ribbon around my wrist with the other. Caelum remained by the doorway but said nothing. He waited. So I looked around. The room wasn't gold.
I had imagined—maybe not out loud, maybe not with purpose—but somewhere in the back of my mind, I had expected… more. More velvet. More jewels. More shining walls and overwhelming light. But this room wasn't loud. It was quiet.
The colors were soft. Cream and dove-gray and pale blue. The walls weren't crowded with paintings or drapes, just smooth and gently lit by the high windows along the right side of the room. Sunlight touched the corners, and the air felt still, not stale.
A king-sized bed sat near the center wall, dressed in white silk sheets tucked perfectly over a thick mattress. A thin gauze canopy draped from the four corners, tied back for now. A bed stool rested at the foot of the frame, upholstered in pale gray velvet.
To the right, beneath the windows, stood a tea table and two matching armchairs, angled slightly toward each other. The teacups on the table were empty but clean, the porcelain pale blue with a silver edge.
A mirror leaned against the far corner—not overly tall, not framed in gold, just oak with silver accents. Next to it sat a narrow chest with three drawers. The top was empty except for a folded cloth and a hairbrush.
In the far-left corner stood a writing desk, simple but elegant, made of soft white wood with delicate legs and silver knobs. A few books rested on one side, neatly stacked, next to a pile of notebooks and a case of pens and ink bottles. A small glass jar held sharpened quills.
The carpet was plush beneath my feet, a soft cream color with pale embroidery swirling like flower stems across its surface. It muffled the room. Made it gentler. I turned around slowly, taking it in without knowing what I was supposed to say.
Then I saw the doors. Not the one I entered from—but three more. One directly ahead, its brass handle in the shape of a curling vine. When I pushed it open later, I'd find it led to the balcony, a private terrace framed by tall columns and overlooking the western gardens.
To the left, another door—a little heavier. That one opened to the bathroom. I peeked inside briefly. The floor was smooth white tile. The tub was carved stone, deep and long enough to fit two people. Beside it stood a set of silver faucets shaped like birds, their beaks curved to pour water. Shelves lined the wall—soaps, oils, towels so clean they almost glowed.
And the third door? The closet. Caelum gestured toward it as I stepped closer.
"I had them prepare it with some options," he said. "You'll find formalwear, of course, but I made sure most of it was simple. You can choose what you wear. No one will dress you without permission."
I opened the door. Inside were rows of clothes, hung with care. Most were neat, soft in color. There were prince-like tunics, with silver thread and embroidered cuffs, and a few cloaks lined in fur or wool. But alongside them were plain shirts, soft trousers, boots made for walking—not display. Nothing felt showy. Nothing felt like it was trying to prove anything. And somehow… that made it feel mine.
Caelum remained quiet, standing just outside the threshold. "This is your space," he said. "You'll have privacy here. No one will enter without knocking. You can decorate it as you like. If there's something missing, you only need to ask."
I didn't respond. Not because I didn't hear. But because I didn't know how to say thank you without the words breaking. He didn't press. He just stepped back. "I'll leave you to rest," he said. "We'll talk again later."
Then he left. No warning. No long goodbye. Just a door that clicked softly behind him. I stood in the center of the room, alone now. Everything was clean. Everything was new. I set my satchel down at the foot of the bed and walked slowly to the mirror.
Not to look at my face. Just to see what I looked like here. In this place. This light. I didn't look different. Still small. Still pale. Still stained with hair dye that had started to flake near my ears. Still wearing the ribbon the cat gave me. Still me.
But something else had shifted. Not inside. Not fully. But around me. The walls didn't watch me like the orphanage did. The bed didn't sigh when I sat down. The floor didn't creak when I moved. Nothing demanded anything.
I pressed my palm to the wall beside the desk. It was warm. Not magic. Not cold like stone. Just warm. I looked toward the bookshelf. Then the window. Then the balcony door. And for the first time in my life— I wondered what I might do if I could choose.