[POV: Ezekiel]
He returned to the tower without being seen.
No footsteps.
No guards.
The path simply shifted—one hallway folded into another until he stood once again before the iron door.
Still locked.
Still heavy.
But this time, it opened when he touched it.
He didn't question it.
He stepped inside.
And found her waiting.
---
She sat cross-legged near the center of the chamber, flicking dust off her boots.
Not a noble. Not a servant.
Her clothes were stitched from three different cultures—Quinsley silk, Bastorian rag-layering, and Below-Tier leathers, braided with carved bone and fossil-string.
One eye was gold.
The other was gray.
Not silver like his.
Gray like storms held in mirrors.
"Long walk?" she asked casually, as if they'd met before.
Ezekiel said nothing.
But the mirror behind him hissed faintly, forming a short line of crack-light near the edge.
---
"I'm Ilhera," she said, as if that explained anything.
She stood.
Dusted her hands on her coat.
"I've been watching you."
Still no response.
She tilted her head.
"You don't talk much."
The silence between them deepened.
She took a step forward.
He didn't move.
Didn't blink.
She narrowed her eyes.
"Do you know what the Empire's calling you now?"
He said nothing.
She smirked.
> "The Unspoken Prince."
---
He shifted.
A muscle moved along his jaw.
She saw it.
"Ah. So that gets a twitch. Good."
She paced slowly around him, eyeing the tower walls.
"Quinsley's about to break its own spine over you. They're afraid. Not because they think you're cursed. That's easy."
She stopped behind him.
"But because they think you're new."
Ezekiel turned.
Not quickly.
Just enough.
She met his eyes.
And for the first time, her smile faded.
She saw it.
The weight.
The vastness behind his silence.
---
"You've heard it," she said softly.
It wasn't a question.
He nodded once.
Her voice dropped.
"You let it inside."
His hand twitched.
Her voice dropped again, almost reverent.
"You're still alive."
---
She exhaled.
"Good."
She reached into her coat and pulled out something wrapped in red cloth.
She unwrapped it slowly.
Inside: a shard of mirror.
But it wasn't glass.
It was something older.
Polished crystal that shifted colors the longer you looked—white to black to red to bone.
She held it out.
"Take it."
Ezekiel didn't move.
She stepped closer.
"Come on. You can't stay here. You know that."
Nothing.
"Don't be dramatic."
Still nothing.
She sighed.
Then leaned close and whispered:
> "They signed your death order this morning."
---
Ezekiel's eyes narrowed.
At last, his hand moved.
He took the shard.
And the moment he did—
The key and the dagger on the floor caught fire.
Not with flame.
But with light.
White-gold script laced across their surfaces, burning like words written in breath and ash.
Ilhera stepped back.
"Looks like someone left you a message."
---
Ezekiel crouched.
The key pulsed like a heartbeat.
The dagger shimmered—but not in steel. In sentence structure. Words were layered beneath its surface, invisible until now.
He picked up the knife.
And suddenly, understood its name.
> Not Yet.
That was the name carved in its Conceptual layer.
Not a weapon for striking.
A reminder.
A promise.
A word unspoken.
---
Ilhera watched him, curiosity blooming behind her gray eye.
She said nothing.
He said nothing.
But they both knew:
The escape had already begun.