The air was thick with the scent of blooming flowers and the rain-soaked earth, a lingering gift from the storm that had passed earlier that morning. The soft patter of leftover drizzle drummed against the palace roof, a quiet rhythm that followed them like an echo of the downpour.
They had refused any servants to accompany them—by Aiden's insistence. He was pushing Elliott's wheelchair himself, his grip steady on the handles, shoulders tense with unspoken anticipation. A few guards followed at a respectful distance, their presence a silent formality for security, but none dared interrupt the heavy silence between the two men.
Elliott guided Aiden through the palace premises. The route was one Aiden had walked a hundred times before—marble halls with high arching ceilings and ornamental walls so familiar they might as well have been the backdrop of his childhood. That is, until it wasn't.
They veered into the southern quarter of the palace—the long-forgotten, once-dazzling region that had belonged to empresses and imperial consorts. It was a part of the palace few ventured into anymore, its grandeur long swallowed by time.
The silence here was suffocating. Overgrown ivy snaked up white pillars, curling into cracked balconies and faded silk banners. The smell changed too—less sweet fragrances, more dust and memory. Time had stained the marble in faint yellows and greys. The walls, once rich with tapestry and intricate art, now served as the faded ghosts of a bygone era.
It felt like walking into a mausoleum dressed in velvet and gold.
The southern palaces were a relic of a different era. A labyrinthine stretch of buildings and gardens that had once housed the women of the court—concubines, noble daughters, favored consorts. But since Elliott's ascension, the gates had been shut, the walkways untrodden.
Or so Aiden had thought.
Tradition dictated that after an emperor's demise, and the new ruler's coronation, the southern palaces were to be vacated. The women of the previous emperor—now considered widows—were sent elsewhere, hidden from courtly life. Some were granted quiet residences in the capital. Others were sent away, their fates unknown. It was not a kind end, particularly for those of common birth who lacked family or title.
Aiden had never thought much of it. Like most of the court, he had assumed the area was empty in both word and reality. After all, Elliott had never taken a consort or lover. What reason would he have to keep the southern palaces alive?
But he had been wrong.
As they moved deeper, the scenery changed.
The worn corridors gave way to pristine ones. Ivy ceased to crawl across the stone. The desolate palace, as it turns out, had been a front. The air turned warm, fragrant—heady with notes of jasmine, lavender, and something softer, older. The carpets were clean, the silks vibrant once more, the ornate vases and polished silver and gold fixtures gleaming as if they were cleaned daily.
Aiden reached out instinctively, brushing his fingers along an elaborately painted porcelain vase. He lifted it up for a closer look—no dust. Not a speck.
"This isn't abandoned, is it?" he asked, but the tone in his voice made it clear that he already knew the answer.
Elliott didn't look at him. His gaze remained fixed ahead, voice soft but unhesitating. "No, it's not."
They kept moving. Elliott led the way with subtle gestures, and Aiden silently followed, pushing him forward through the winding corridors. Eventually, they reached a large courtyard—a clearing of pale stone and glimmering ponds.
And there, Aiden saw it. Truly saw it.
Servants moved about briskly, clad in simple but clean robes, their hands full of linens and food trays and scrolls. In the gardens, women strolled and lounged. Some sat by the edges of the pond, idly dangling their feet in the water. Others sipped morning tea beneath the shade of flowering gazebos, chatting in low voices.
Aiden frowned, taken aback. "Why are we here—?"
Elliott gently laid his hand over Aiden's, stilling the younger man's stride. "You'll see," he murmured, voice unreadable—quiet and tight like it carried the weight of a secret long buried.
As they passed, the servants bowed. Their eyes widened slightly in surprise at seeing the emperor himself, but none dared to speak. The women, too, stood and bowed—each expression filled with a mixture of wariness and reverence.
Elliott returned their greetings with a silent wave of his hand, his expression a gentle dismissal, a silent message that they could relax. He wasn't here on official business. He was just passing through.
Aiden glanced sideways at him, waiting for direction. Now that they were in the main courtyard, he wasn't sure where to go.
Elliott pointed toward a glass dome at the far end of the gardens. "The greenhouse," he said simply.
Aiden nodded and began pushing him again, heading toward the path. But then—
Footsteps.
Running.
Aiden froze. His hand moved automatically to the hilt of his sword, the reflex so deeply ingrained it came without thought. His eyes sharpened, scanning the area, shoulders tensed. Even here, even inside the palace, the sudden noise made his instincts flare.
A woman was sprinting toward them, the fabric of her dress fluttering like wings around her. She looked to be around twenty-five, but there was a softness to her face—something too youthful, too bright for her age. Her blonde hair was braided into neat pigtails, strands of jasmine flowers woven into the plaits. Her cheeks were flushed from the run, eyes glimmering with excitement and something that looked an awful lot like joy.
"Your Majesty!" she called out, breathless. She slowed only when she reached them, bending slightly at the waist to catch her breath. Her smile was radiant, her entire face lighting up with childish glee.
"You finally came to see me!"