Gai wakes to a migraine pounding behind his eyes and the heavy smell of morning rain. For a minute he isn’t sure if he’s in the right city, let alone the right century—his brain fumbles over the fractured images from the night before, the meeting on the balcony, Yami’s sharp smile, the way the wind lashed his skin while Yami was her usual secretive self. He tries to roll over, but a cramp in his calf snaps him alert. It’s still dark, save for a jagged streak of light that slashes the servant’s suite from the thin east window. His blanket is tangled around his ankles, cold and damp as a rag.

  He sits up, blinking hard. For a second, he thinks he’s alone—then he clocks Raimondis, already upright, perched on the edge of his cot with the calm of a man who has never known a restless night in his life. Raimondis is smoothing his hair with both hands, eyes half-lidded, the blue-white edge of his cape bright even in the low light. Gai has seen corpses with more visible fatigue.

  “You snore,” Gai says, voice barely more than a rasp.

  Raimondis flicks him a look of clinical disdain. “You breathe like a drowning horse. I suppose we’re even.”

  Gai doesn't bother with a retort; his mouth tastes like he slept with a wool sock between his teeth. Instead, he stands, stretches, and tries to work the knots from his calves. The air is sharper than he remembers, and it prickles his skin as he fastens the breastplate to the backplate with practiced clicks. His fingers find the leather straps without looking now, cinching the pauldrons in place with half the fumbling of yesterday. The candle clock has long since guttered out, leaving only a hardened pool of wax, but the faintest glimmer of blue leaking through the glass tells him dawn isn't far off.

  In the hall, footsteps—deliberate, clipped, as if the owner is rehearsing the meaning of each impact on the stone. The door swings wide, and Sheh’zar enters, her silhouette stark against the yellow corridor lamps. She’s in full dress, midnight-blue uniform crisp as origami, and her helmet of black hair is lacquered to a hard shine. Her eyes sweep the room once, and Gai feels a familiar urge to stand at attention, as if the gravitational pull of her authority might snap his spine if he doesn’t.

  “You’re late,” Sheh’zar says, even though the sun has barely started to breach the horizon.

  Raimondis stands with a grace that is more self-regard than discipline. “We await your instruction, Chief-of-Staff.”

  Sheh’zar’s mouth does not move, but Gai senses the subtext: she would rather eat glass than spend another minute in the same oxygen with these two. She turns on her heel and gestures sharply for them to follow. Gai shoots Raimondis a look—he’s already gliding after her, cape fluttering just so, the picture of a man auditioning for statueship.

  The march through the private corridor is silent except for the rhythmic slap of Sheh’zar’s boots and the faint, sour odour of last night’s oil lamps. Gai registers a faint pain in his temples with every step, a consequence, maybe, of thinking too much when he should have been sleeping. He glances out one of the high windows; the city is still largely asleep, a blue-grey spill of rooftops slick with wet.

  At the end of the corridor, Sheh’zar stops before a double door, lacquered the same storm blue as her uniform. She fixes Gai with a stare that seems to measure his worth in microns.

  “The princess’s breakfast is in the dining room,” she says. “You will comport yourselves as befits your station. No talking unless spoken to, and you—” here she flicks her gaze to Gai, “will not touch anything unless invited.”

  Raimondis snorts, a faint and practiced noise. Gai ignores him. The doors swing open with a whisper, and they step into a room so saturated with luxury that for a second, Gai can’t quite process it.

  A long table stretches the length of the room, draped in a runner the color of clotted cream. The air is warm with the scent of roasted nuts, dried stonefruit steeped in honeyed wine, and a faint trace of something earthy—perhaps a brew of darkroot or fireleaf steeping in the corner. Candlelight dances across polished goblets and pewter cutlery, casting soft glimmers on the worn oak. At the centre, a pyramid of oranges rises like a harvest offering, their skins glowing amber in the flickering light

  Sheh’zar moves to the head of the table and gestures for Gai and Raimondis to sit. This is so unexpected that Gai nearly hesitates; he’s never been invited to a meal in his life, let alone one with a place setting that costs more than most of his belongings, together.

  Sheh’zar sees his confusion and offers a brittle half-smile, teeth perfectly square. “It is the princess’s wish that her guards be fed properly. Appearances matter.”

  Gai lowers himself to the chair, feeling the stiffness of the uniform bite into his shoulder blades. Raimondis settles next to him, making a show of inspecting the flatware before picking up a knife.

  The food is extraordinary. Soft rolls still steaming from the oven, platters of sliced ham and pickled vegetables, cheeses glistening under a faint sheen of oil, eggs whipped and folded like silk scarves. Gai is so hungry he could eat the tablecloth, but he forces himself to take small, measured bites, pretending to savor each one as if his taste buds aren’t just screaming yes in all directions.

  Raimondis eats with a precision that borders on contempt; every movement is calculated to minimize sound, maximize superiority. He lifts his cup—steam curling from the dark brew within—and sips with his pinkie extended, which Gai hadn’t believed anyone actually did. And yet, here they are.

  Sheh’zar doesn’t eat. She stands at the end of the table, arms folded, watching them as if she’s expecting one or both to combust at any moment.

  It’s several minutes before Elle arrives. The double doors swing open without warning, and she enters with her hair wet and slicked back, skin glowing from some ferocious wash. She’s in a red gown, looser than the ones Gai remembers from the day before, and there’s a subtle, deliberate defiance in her stride—like a fuse has already been lit, and she’s the flame inching toward the powder.

  Sheh’zar bows, as do the aides behind her. Gai starts to rise, but Elle’s gaze freezes him mid-motion.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  “Sit,” Elle says, her voice lower than usual.

  She drops into the chair at the head of the table, a little harder than necessary, and reaches for the ceramic pot beside her. The brew she pours is dark and unsweetened, its bitter scent curling into the air—sharp, earthy, and unmistakable. Gai’s never liked it, but he recognizes it now: kavé, the signature drink of Elle’s homeland. Imported through mountain passes and guarded trade routes, it’s said to keep warriors sharp and courtiers sharper. She drinks it like it’s lifeblood.

  Elle doesn’t look at Gai, not right away. Her gaze settles instead on Sheh’zar, who tips her head in silent inquiry.

  "What's the agenda for today?" Elle asks, setting her cup down. She looks at Gai for the first time; her eyes are cool, unreadable, but there is something pulsing beneath the calm, a heat or an anger that wants to break the surface.

  Sheh'zar's eyes flick to Gai and Raimondis, then back. "The schedule is tight, Your Highness. Council at third bell, then two meetings with the city's trading guilds. The morning is clear, if you wish to walk the gardens."

  Elle makes a noncommittal noise. Her gaze remains fixed on Gai, that underlying tension still evident in her demeanour.

  She breaks the stare first, picking up a wedge of orange and biting into it. The juice drips down her hand, and she licks it off with a mechanical thoroughness. Gai watches her every movement, his stomach twisting with the certainty that she had overheard his meeting with Yami. Her icy demeanour could only be explained by that revelation. He searches desperately for a way to broach the subject, to explain himself, but the words stick in his throat.

  “Gai.” Elle’s voice cuts through the quiet, sudden enough that he nearly jumps.

  He snaps to attention, heart stuttering. “Yes, Princess?”

  Her expression is unreadable, perfectly level. “Coffee or tea?”

  He hesitates, sure this has an extra edge he can’t see. Still, he answers. “Coffee, though I’ve never actually had any.”

  Without a word, she fills a cup and slides it down to him.

  Gai catches it—just barely avoiding disaster—and mumbles, “Thank you,” meeting her eyes before he can stop himself.

  Elle holds his look for a beat, then glances away, lips drawn in a narrow line. Gai takes a sip; the brew is so bitter it nearly startles him into coughing. He manages to swallow without incident.

  Across from him, Raimondis deadpans, “If that doesn’t wake you up, nothing will.”

  Gai sets the cup down with more focus than necessary and stays quiet. The silence that follows feels dense—awkward at first and then simply heavy with things neither he nor Elle can say out loud.

  Elle stands abruptly, flicking her napkin onto her plate. “I’ll be in the blue room until second bell,” she announces, then looks straight at Gai. “Walk with me.”

  He gets up to follow—hesitating just long enough for Sheh’zar’s look to remind him: leave the coffee, move your feet.

  He trails after Elle down the corridor, the silence between them so sharp it might cut. For a few paces, neither says anything. Gai’s nerves buzz, every step more awkward than the last.

  Elle finally stops in a patch of sunlight spilling through a high window. She turns, and this time the anger is clear.

  “Why didn’t you tell me she was here?” she asks, voice a hard whisper.

  Gai blinks, confused. “Who?”

  She doesn’t answer—just stares at him, her expression caught somewhere between wounded and disappointed. Her eyes are sharp, searching his face for something.

  “Forget it,” she says quietly. “Just watch who you trust. You’re in a position that others will try to use.”

  Without waiting for a response, she turns and walks away, leaving him blinking in the sunlight, a mixture of confusion and disappointment settling heavily in his chest. He stands in the corridor for what feels like an hour, the sunlight shifting by degrees across the marble, throwing gold lines over his boots. He’s not sure whether to find Elle, or to give her the distance she’s made so clear she wants. In the end, it’s Sheh’zar who finds him first, striding down the hall with a bundle of papers and the air of someone who’s already seen the day’s worth of idiocy and is counting down to bedtime.

  “Her Highness requires you in the small council room,” she says, not breaking stride. “Bring the other one.”

  Gai nods, then makes for the servant’s suite, where he finds Raimondis still perched on the cot, polishing his boots with a square of white linen.

  “Council room. Now,” Gai says, not caring if it sounds like an order.

  Raimondis smirks but gets up, smoothing the invisible wrinkles in his tunic. “Let’s not keep the princess waiting.”

  They walk in silence, neither willing to acknowledge the strange weight that’s settled since the breakfast table. The palace is waking up properly now; staff are everywhere, bustling in and out of chambers, the air thick with the tang of polish and the sweetness of fresh lilies. Gai’s head is pounding, but he tries to focus on his stride, keep his posture decent.

  The council room is nothing like the grand chambers used for state business. It’s compact, with a round table at the center, battered and clearly old. A cluster of straight-backed chairs circles it, each one just a little too tall for comfort. Elle sits at the table, her arms folded on the wood, staring at a trio of sealed letters stacked in front of her.

  Sheh’zar stands off to one side, already in deep conversation with a junior aide, her words so low and fast Gai can’t make them out. Elle glances up as they enter, then gestures at the empty chairs.

  “Sit,” she instructs, her tone brisk and cool, as if that’s introduction enough. “Raimondis, check with Sheh’zar about the festival procession. The schedule’s shifted—I need every detail. They’ve packed the day with unnecessary appointments: banquets, strolls, and an impressive number of utterly irrelevant meetings. I’m not interested in parading around for the benefit of every minor noble who wants a handshake. Clear?”

  Raimondis’s face is a study in composed irritation, but he bows his head. “I’ll see to it, Highness.”

  She flicks her hand at him. “Go.”

  Raimondis leaves without another word, closing the door behind him with barely a whisper. The silence that follows is absolute. Even Sheh’zar’s voice outside the door is too faint to reach them. For a long, brittle moment, Gai wonders if Elle’s going to ignore him until he leaves on his own.

  Instead, she lifts her gaze and fixes him in place. Her eyes burn: not with the easy warmth he remembers, but with something harder, splintered, and raw.

  “You met with her last night,” Elle says, every word measured. “Did you really think I wouldn’t notice?”

  Gai starts to answer, but she barrels on. “I saw you on the balcony. And I heard enough to know who she is. Why didn’t you tell me, Gai? Of all people, why her?”

  He flinches, unable to hide it. “It’s not like that,” Gai says, trying—and failing—to sound steady. “Yami’s… she taught me, all right? She was gone for a while, but she reached out, just to check in. That’s all.” He hesitates, picking his words. “She told me about Myrkenna—the woman who attacked me. And she… well, she recommended me for this job.” He shakes his head, clearly baffled. “I still don’t know why.”

  Elle barks out a laugh—short and sharp and not at all amused. “Oh, you think that’s all there is?” She folds her arms tighter, eyes narrowing on him. “People in my homeland tell stories about Yami. She isn’t just some wandering ranger—she’s practically a myth in Sonhogia. Exile, prison, a pardon, then somehow captain in someone else’s army? That doesn’t just happen.” Her gaze sharpens even more. “If she’s here now, trust me, it has nothing to do with you.” She pauses, and he realizes it’s for effect, not for composure. The silence swells, loud as a wound. “Yami is dangerous. More than you know. If she’s here, someone wants something from us—me, you, this city. Maybe all three.”

  Elle’s hand flexes against the table, nails leaving half-moons in her palm. “I feel like a fool. I trusted you, Gai. I thought if there was anyone who’d tell me the truth, it’d be you. Was that just for show? Or are you actually this dense?”

  He forces the words out. “I didn’t want to put you at risk. I thought the less you knew—”

  She slaps the table, not hard but loud enough to startle him. “Don’t insult me,” she says, her voice shaking just enough to betray the hurt underneath. “That’s the oldest lie in court. I can handle risk. I was born in it. What I can’t handle is being left out, especially by you.”

  He wants to unpack everything—the mess of reasons, the half-truths, the whole story—but knows it’s wasted effort. All of this is about more than secrets or safety; it’s about trust, and she’s sick of being left on the outside looking in.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, and he means it.

  Elle doesn’t blink, just looks at him with her jaw set tight. For a moment he’s bracing for her to brush him off, tell him to leave like she did with Raimondis. But instead she stands abruptly and moves to the window, turning her back on him as she stares out at the city.

  The silence sits between them, weighty and unfinished—neither is willing to fill it, both painfully aware of what’s gone unsaid. It lingers until Elle finally exhales, her voice softer now, careful but resolute. “Don’t make me chase you for answers, Gai. If something happens—good, bad, or just odd—I want to hear about it. I can deal with being angry. What I can’t put up with is being left in the dark, especially by you.” She gives a slight nod, as if she’s trying out the idea and hasn’t decided how it feels. “Where I’m from, trust isn’t handed out—it’s currency or a trap. So don’t sugarcoat things for my sake. Tell me the truth, even if it stings.” She puts her book aside and looks him dead in the eye. “I’ll handle the facts, Gai. What I won’t handle is you shutting me out.”

  He gives a short nod, then remembers she can’t see him. “I promise,” he says clearly.

  She stays at the window for what feels like ages. Then, barely above a whisper: “Go get something to eat. Come see me at ten.”

  That’s as final as it gets. He leaves quietly, not looking back, wondering if things will ever go back to how they were.