Illyen did not slow until the echo of his steps swallowed him whole. The corridors wound endlessly, each turn a blur of pale stone and gilded trim, yet the heaviness in his chest refused to ease. He pressed a hand briefly against the cold wall, as though its solidity could anchor him. It did not.
His breath drew shallow. The crown, the crest, Cael's words—they circled within him like a storm without end. You fear what you remember. Perhaps I do. The phrases had no right to take root, and yet they did, curling tightly around the fragments of unease he tried so hard to dismiss.
The silence pressed against him until it grew unbearable. With effort, he straightened his shoulders and resumed walking, though his steps no longer carried their earlier certainty.
When another tread fell behind him, steady and inevitable, Illyen's hand curled into a fist.
"You insist on shadowing me," he said, not turning.
"I insist on nothing," came Cael's voice, low and even. "I merely follow where you lead."
The words drew a bitter laugh from Illyen, though it held no true amusement. "Then perhaps I should lead you to the farthest wing of the palace, where even echoes tire of themselves."
"Even there," Cael answered without hesitation, "you would not be rid of me."
Illyen's stride faltered, though he forced it onward. The quiet between them stretched thin, taut with things unsaid.
They turned into a quieter passage, where the gilding gave way to plain marble. At its end stood carved doors half-open, and within, the faint glow of lamps flickered. The shrine of Serethis—the palace's oldest chamber, small and unadorned compared to the rest, where priests kept vigil for the empire's patron deity.
Illyen had not meant to come here, yet his steps carried him inside as if drawn by unseen thread. The air was thick with incense, fragrant smoke curling like ghostly ribbons. Rows of candles burned low, their flames steady but fragile.
A priest lifted his head at their entrance, bowing with quiet respect. "Your Highness. My lord duke."
Illyen gave no reply. He moved further in, gaze drawn against his will to the carved altar at the center. Upon it lay the crest of Serethis wrought in gold—whole, gleaming, perfect. Yet as he looked, for a flicker of a breath, it was broken. Splintered edges, fragments scattered across stone. He blinked, and it was whole again.
His chest tightened.
Behind him, Cael stepped forward, his presence pressing steady and close. "You falter," he said softly.
Illyen steadied his voice, though it wavered. "I falter at nothing."
Before Cael could answer, another voice intruded—bright, curious. "Brother? Illyen?"
Emily, the princess, stepped lightly into the shrine. Her gown caught the dim light, her expression open with concern. She carried in her hands a small bundle of flowers, clearly meant as an offering. "I did not expect you here."
Her eyes flicked between them, sharp enough to catch the unspoken tension. "You both look as though you've quarreled."
Illyen forced a smile, brittle at the edges. "Only words, Princess. Nothing of consequence."
Emily tilted her head, studying him with quiet sharpness that belied her gentle tone. "Words are never nothing, my lord duke." She laid the flowers at the altar, bowing briefly before straightening. "In this place, even silence is heard."
Her remark sent another ripple through him, as though the shrine itself listened.
The priest returned with a younger acolyte carrying fresh incense. The boy's voice carried clear as he murmured a prayer—something about light revealing what darkness hides. The words struck too near, and Illyen's hands tightened at his sides.
Cael watched him all the while, unyielding. "You hear it too," he said quietly. "The weight in every word, every symbol. You cannot escape it."
Illyen turned sharply, his composure fracturing. "And you cannot seem to speak of anything else." His voice rose, echoing faintly against the shrine walls. The priest and the acolyte glanced up, startled, before bowing their way out to give the royals privacy. Only Emily remained, her brows furrowed in worry.
"Cael," she said softly, "perhaps—"
But Cael did not relent. His eyes stayed on Illyen, unwavering. "You think me cruel for pressing you. But what cruelty is greater—to let you walk blind into what will consume you, or to prepare you for the day it comes?"
Illyen froze, caught between anger and fear. He wanted to deny it, to turn away, but the shrine seemed alive with unspoken witness—the crest gleaming like an eye, the incense curling like breath, Emily's gaze steady on him.
"I do not need your preparation," he said finally, his voice low and trembling. "Nor your riddles. Nor your shadow."
He turned then, striding for the door. Emily stepped aside quickly, her expression unreadable, though sorrow shadowed her eyes.
Cael remained still, his posture regal yet weighted, as though he bore not only his crown but centuries of memory and silence. His voice followed Illyen as he left, quiet enough to barely reach him:
"Not required. But inevitable."
The doors closed softly behind Illyen. Within the shrine, the candles flickered, their flames bending as if stirred by unseen breath. Emily looked at her brother, her voice hesitant. "You frighten him."
Cael's eyes lingered on the golden crest, unblinking. "I do not wish to."
"Then why—?"
"Because if he will not remember willingly," Cael whispered, "then memory will come for him regardless. And I… I would rather it come through me than through his nightmares."
Emily's hands tightened together, her gaze falling to the altar. The silence of the shrine deepened, and the air seemed heavy with unseen things, waiting.