Caden’s POV
Gold swallowed sound in the Verloren palace.
Servants glided over marble like ghosts, eyes down, mouths shut. Even my footsteps seemed too loud for the corridors, so I learned to walk as if I didn’t take up space at all.
“Prince Caden.”
I kept moving for three more steps before I turned. Making people wait was easy. It was expected. It was practiced.
“Yes?” I said.
“The King is in council,” the steward murmured, bowing. “He asked not to be disturbed.”
“He always asks that,” I replied.
The steward’s throat bobbed. “Shall I inform Her Majesty that you—”
“My mother knows where I am,” I cut in. “Go.”
He hurried away, relief in the speed of his retreat.
I stared at the closed doors leading to the council wing. Somewhere behind them my father existed—King Darius, voice of law, shadow of a man. When I was younger, I used to count how many days passed without seeing him. I stopped counting because the number didn’t change anything.
When the doors opened, it was never for me. Men in robes slipped in and out, carrying scrolls, carrying decisions, carrying the weight that should have lived in my father’s eyes instead of his absence.
I learned early that if I wanted anything from him, I would have to become something he could not ignore. So I chased fear, because fear was the language he respected.
In the training yard, the air tasted of iron and winter.
The older boys were finishing drills. They straightened, pretending they hadn’t been joking, pretending fear was respect.
“Your Highness,” Master Rook said, wiping sweat from his brow. “We’re done for the morning.”
“No,” I answered.
He blinked. “No?”
“Again.”
“My prince, you’ve trained for hours.”
“Again,” I repeated.
Rook nodded. He always nodded.
We drilled until my arms shook and my palms tore. When the pain rose, I forced it down. Pain was simpler than feelings. Pain was honest.
Afterward I washed in cold water and wrapped my bleeding hand. I followed the sound of laughter drifting through the gallery—light, bright, wrong.
My mother’s laughter.
Queen Arinelle stood by the tall windows, framed by pale sunlight. Velvet clung to her like a promise. An emerald hung at her throat like an eye that never blinked. She looked untouched by the years she had spent watched, whispered about, restrained.
“Caden,” she purred. “Come closer.”
I stopped several paces away. “You’re back in the galleries.”
“Back,” she echoed, amused. “As if I ever left. They simply stopped locking the door.”
“You were watched,” I said.
“We are all watched,” she replied. “Some of us just pretend it’s not a cage.”
Her gaze flicked to my bandage. “Training too hard?”
“Not hard enough,” I said.
A pleased curve touched her mouth. “Good. A prince who bleeds for discipline becomes a king who bleeds for power.”
“I don’t want to bleed,” I muttered.
“Then you don’t want the throne,” she said lightly, and walked past me as if I would follow. I did.
Courtiers bowed to her. Their smiles looked stiff, careful. They bowed to me too, but their eyes never settled on my face. They didn’t want to see a boy. They wanted to see a future.
Arinelle led me into a sitting room heavy with velvet and perfume. She dismissed the servants with a flick of her fingers. The door shut.
“Sit,” she commanded.
I stayed standing. “Where is Father?”
Her eyes glittered. “Ruling.”
“He doesn’t come,” I said, harsher than I meant. “Not to lessons. Not to meals. Not to—”
“Do not complain,” she interrupted. “Kings do not cater to children’s hunger for affection.”
I stiffened. “I’m not hungry.”
“You are,” she said softly. “That’s why you train until your hands split. You want to earn a glance.”
My jaw clenched. “I want to be worthy.”
“Worthy,” she repeated, savoring it. “Tell me what worth is.”
“Strength,” I said. “Control.”
“And kindness?” she asked, watching my face.
I hesitated for half a breath.
She smiled at the hesitation. “Kindness is weakness. Mercy is a luxury. The throne demands clarity, not softness.”
“My father says justice matters,” I argued.
Arinelle’s laugh was quiet. “Justice is what the powerful call their decisions so the weak will bow without revolt.”
Something in me recoiled. “That’s not—”
“That is,” she corrected. “If you want to survive this palace, you must learn to deny. Deny attachment. Deny pity. Deny yourself.”
The door slammed open.
Kaela stormed in, cheeks red, hair loose, too young to understand why doors mattered. She was eleven, maybe twelve, still daring to be loud.
“You promised to watch me train!” she shouted at me.
“I promised nothing,” I said.
“You did!” she insisted, stomping closer. “You said you’d be there and you weren’t, and everyone laughed when I fell.”
“I had lessons,” I lied.
Kaela’s eyes flicked to Arinelle and narrowed. “You’re here,” she said, voice wobbling. “You weren’t supposed to be here.”
Arinelle smiled sweetly. “How precious. My daughter misses me.”
“I didn’t say that,” Kaela snapped.
I felt irritation flare. “Stop talking,” I told Kaela.
She spun on me. “You think you’re better than everyone. You walk around like you own the world.”
“I will,” I said coldly.
Her eyes shone with angry tears. “You’re cruel.”
Arinelle hummed approvingly. “Cruelty is clarity.”
Kaela shoved me. The jolt made my torn palm sting. “Stop talking like her!”
“Don’t touch me,” I warned.
She shoved me again, harder. “You’re just like her! You’re going to become her and ruin everything!”
The words hit something tender I didn’t want to admit existed. Heat surged up my throat. I heard my mother’s calm breathing, felt her gaze like pressure, like permission.
I didn’t think.
My hand moved. The slap cracked through the room.
Kaela stumbled back, palm to her cheek, eyes wide and stunned. For a heartbeat she didn’t even cry. She just stared at me like I was a stranger.
My stomach dropped. “I didn’t—” I started.
Then she broke, sobbing, and ran out. The door banged behind her. Silence rushed in.
I stared at my raised hand as if it didn’t belong to me. The emptiness inside my chest yawned wider, cold and quiet.
Arinelle stepped close and took my bandaged hand in hers, ignoring the blood. “There,” she whispered. “You felt it.”
I swallowed hard. “I hurt her.”
“You corrected her,” Arinelle said gently. “You taught her the world doesn’t bend for tears.”
“She’s my sister,” I rasped.
“And you are the heir,” she replied. “You must be feared, even at home.”
I looked toward the corridor where Kaela had fled. I waited for guilt to crush me.
Instead, the hollow stayed.
Arinelle’s smile widened, satisfied and bright, as if she’d just watched a door lock behind me.