VIVIAN’s POV
The palace looks different in morning light—paler, quieter, older. The marble no longer gleams; it exhales. By the time I reach the gates, dawn has already climbed the eastern towers, painting everything in reluctant gold.
My horse snorts beneath me, hooves striking against stone. I dismount quickly, leading him to the corner of the stables, praying no curious eye recognizes me at this hour. If the Queen sees me before I want her to… well, she promised I’d vanish from her sight if I ever returned late.
I slip through the servants’ entrance. The corridors are half-lit, candles still fighting the last of the dark. Footsteps echo in the distance—guards on patrol, too disciplined to glance my way. I walk with purpose, cloak brushing the floor, the hidden parcel under my arm feeling heavier than it should.
Captain Solomon’s chambers stand at the far end of the west wing. The wood of his door is old oak, scarred by years and secrets. I don’t bother with courtesy—I knock hard, enough to wake the devil himself.
It takes three strikes before his voice growls, “Who dares—”
“Vivian.”
A pause, then the door opens.
He looks the same as always: tall, sharp, every inch of him built from military precision. His shirt is half-buttoned, sword belt slung across the chair behind him. For once, his hair isn’t perfectly combed.
“You’re late,” he says.
I walk past him, setting the parcel on his desk. “I’m alive. That should count for something.”
He eyes it as though it might burn through the wood. “Did anyone see you return?”
“No.”
“Good.” He unties the twine and opens a drawer, sliding the papers inside without even a glance.
My fingers twitch. “You’re not going to read them?”
His expression doesn’t change. “The King’s orders are not to be questioned.”
The King again. Always the King.
I fold my arms, exhaustion making my tongue bold. “Then tell me, Captain—if His Majesty is giving out orders, should we take that as a sign his illness has miraculously improved?”
His eyebrow arches, slow and deliberate. “Illness?”
The word leaves his mouth as though it’s foreign.
“That’s what the court whispers,” I say carefully. “That he’s bedridden. That no one’s seen him in months.”
Solomon studies me, unreadable. Then, with a dry tone, “You should know better than to believe gossip.”
“It’s not gossip if the Queen won’t speak his name either,” I murmur.
He doesn’t answer. Silence stretches between us, taut as bowstring.
Then his eyes narrow slightly. “Something happened.”
I meet his gaze evenly. “Nothing of consequence.”
His attention drifts to my cheek. “You’re bleeding.”
My hand rises before I can stop it, fingers brushing the shallow cut. I forgot it was there.
“A fall,” I say lightly.
“From what? Grace?” His tone is half-mocking, half-concerned.
“From my horse.”
“You?” He looks genuinely surprised. “You’ve ridden since you could walk.”
“Not over half a kingdom,” I remind him. “It’s been years. The road was rough.”
He leans back in his chair, still unconvinced. “And your clothes?”
I glance down—mud on my cuffs, grass stains on my knees, a tear near my hem. “Apparently the ground missed me too.”
For a moment, his eyes soften. Then discipline returns. “Very well. I’ll write it as fatigue and inexperience.”
“That would be accurate enough.”
He nods, though something in his expression tells me he doesn’t believe a word I’ve said. Still, he doesn’t push. “You’ve done your duty, Vivian. Go rest. The Queen will demand you before the sun remembers its name.”
“She always does.”
“And, Vivian…”
I pause at the door.
“Whatever you think you saw, or whatever you think you know—forget it.”
I almost smile. “I usually try.”
The door shuts behind me before I can add and fail.
***
By the time I reach my quarters, the palace has fully awakened. Voices hum through the corridors; footsteps scatter like rain. I remove my cloak and sword in one motion, sliding the blade under the wooden chest at the end of my bed. My reflection in the small mirror catches me—hair wild, cheeks pale, eyes tired but too awake to rest.
Blue eyes flash in my memory. That man—the one who came from nowhere and vanished just as quickly. His strikes. His silence. The way he didn’t kill me even when he could.
I tie my hair back, pushing the thought aside. I’ll think of him later. If I start now, I’ll forget the face I’m supposed to serve.
Fresh clothes—pants, cream blouse, no hood. The Queen allows only a handful of women to wear trousers in her presence, and I happen to be one of them. A privilege, she once called it. I’m not sure I agree.
The Queen’s wing gleams like envy itself. Gold drapes, perfume-heavy air, jewels scattered on every surface. I knock once before entering.
“Finally,” Arinelle says without looking up. She’s lounging on her velvet chaise, one heel half-fallen from her foot. “You will arrange breakfast with the west and south ladies by the third bell. Have the kitchen serve rose-petal custard, not orange. I despise orange.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
She waves a hand as if conducting an orchestra. “And fetch the seamstress by noon. We must discuss the fabric shipment from the south docks. That woman will ruin me if she keeps cutting lace like a peasant.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
I keep my tone even, my face serene.
The Queen’s attendants scurry around, fitting her jewelry, brushing her hair, carrying fabric swatches worth more than villages. I stand beside her like a shadow that knows better than to breathe too loudly.
Between orders, she pauses, staring at her own reflection. “Which dress makes me more divine, Vivian? The gold or the silver?”
“You’d outshine both, Your Majesty,” I answer automatically.
She smiles faintly. “You’ve learned flattery at last. About time.”
She turns slightly. “How’s your sister, by the way?”
For a split second, my heart skips.
“My sister?”
“You mentioned her yesterday. You said you were going to meet her. Do not tell me I imagined it.”
Ah. That lie. I steady my breath. “She’s recovering well. A small illness, nothing fatal. She needed company.”
“Of course she did.” Arinelle studies her own nails. “All sisters do. Though I must say, if I had a sister and she ever demanded my time, I’d remind her I have a crown instead of a family.”
She dismisses the thought with a flick of her wrist. “Very well. Have the seamstress brought after the bell.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
She stands, her gown trailing behind like sunlight itself, and walks toward the corridor. Two guards open the doors instantly. She doesn’t even glance back.
“Clean this up,” she says before leaving. “Every thread, every gem. I expect my chambers spotless when I return.”
The doors close with a soft, final thud.
I let out a slow breath.
Around me, chaos. Silks spilled across the floor in waves of gold and cream. Jewelry scattered on the table, gleaming like spilled stars. I kneel, gathering each piece with careful hands. This is my penance and my purpose both—silence dressed as service.
Halfway through, something catches my eye. A folded letter, lying half-hidden beneath the Queen’s bed curtain.
The parchment is sealed in deep crimson wax, the edges pressed with care. I reach for it before reason can stop me.
The handwriting on the front is neat, practiced.
To my dear Darius. The King. My heart stumbles—a letter to the man no one’s seen. To the ghost who still gives orders.
For a long moment, I simply stare at it. The rational part of me whispers to set it down, pretend it was never there. Another voice—the one that guided my sword last night—tells me otherwise.
I slide the letter into my pocket, the wax seal cool against my skin.
“I’ll return it later,” I whisper, though we both know that’s not the truth.
As the sunlight creeps through the tall windows, the Queen’s room stands immaculate again, every trace of disorder erased—except the missing letter pressed to my chest, heavy as a heartbeat.