The corridors of the palace stretched long and dim, their marble floors gleaming faintly beneath the glow of wall-mounted lanterns. Illyen's footsteps echoed sharp and hurried, though his stride faltered more than once. It felt as though the night air clung to him even within these walls, carrying with it the echo of Cael's words.
Older than names. Older than crowns.
He clenched his jaw, as though force alone could banish the memory. His pride demanded he cast it aside, that he dismiss Cael's cryptic nonsense as nothing more than another of his cruel games. Yet pride, stubborn though it was, offered no relief.
At last, Illyen slowed, pressing a hand to the cool stone of the wall. His palm trembled against it. His chest felt tight, drawn taut by a thread he could neither see nor sever.
"Ridiculous," he muttered under his breath. "Utterly ridiculous."
But even as he whispered it, the denial rang hollow.
A faint sound stirred at the edge of hearing footsteps, steady, deliberate. Illyen's head turned sharply, expecting Cael. But when the figure emerged into the lantern light, it was Emily.
The princess paused, surprise flickering across her face before softening into concern. Her pale gown shimmered faintly in the low light, the hem brushing soundlessly against the marble. "Illyen? You're still awake?"
He straightened at once, drawing himself into composure, though he could not fully mask the tension lingering in his expression. "I was returning to my chambers," he said. His tone was clipped, but not unkind.
Emily tilted her head, studying him with quiet persistence. She was gentler than her brother, yet no less perceptive. "You look troubled."
"I'm not," Illyen replied quickly. Too quickly.
Her lips curved faintly, not quite a smile. "You never were a convincing liar." She stepped closer, her voice softening. "Did Cael say something?"
The name struck too near, and Illyen's composure faltered. His gaze slid away, back toward the shadowed length of the corridor. "He always says something," he muttered, low.
Emily's expression shifted, as though she recognized a weight in his words she could not fully name. "He has a way of pressing where it hurts," she admitted quietly. "But sometimes… it's not cruelty. Sometimes it's something else entirely."
Illyen's brows furrowed. He did not wish to ask, and yet the question rose before he could stop it. "Something else?"
Emily studied him, her eyes thoughtful, almost wary. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you," she said at last.
The reply unsettled him further. He wished to press her, to demand clarity, but his pride restrained him. He did not want to seem desperate for answers that frightened him.
So instead, he gave a sharp nod, brushing past her with what dignity he could muster. "It doesn't matter. Whatever he means, it has nothing to do with me."
But as he strode away, Emily's soft voice followed him, echoing faintly down the corridor:
"Doesn't it?"
When Illyen reached his chambers, he closed the heavy door with more force than necessary. The sound reverberated through the room, startling him into stillness.
The chamber was quiet, draped in silver light that streamed through the tall windows. Outside, the garden lay veiled in shadows, the fountain glimmering faintly in the distance. He turned from the sight too quickly, unwilling to let memory drag him back.
His hand found the ribbon on his desk a strip of deep crimson silk, once a careless token from a childhood game, now frayed at the edges. He picked it up, turning it between his fingers.
It was foolish, he told himself, to keep such a thing. Foolish to let it remain when it held no meaning. And yet he could not bring himself to discard it.
The silk caught the moonlight, glinting faintly like spilled blood. A shiver raced through him.
Why did Cael's words feel as though they brushed against this memory this thread he had never dared unravel?
Illyen pressed the ribbon flat against the desk, forcing himself to release it. His chest rose and fell unevenly, his breaths shallow. "It's nothing," he whispered. "Nothing at all."
Yet even as he said it, the air seemed heavier, as though the night itself waited for him to understand what he refused to see.
Illyen closed his eyes, sinking into the silence.
But in the distance faint, almost imagined he thought he heard Cael's voice, low and steady, carrying on the edge of memory.
Not always. You just don't remember.
The words lingered long after the night had swallowed them.