The corridors outside the shrine were quiet, yet Illyen's heart would not still.
He walked without direction, each step ringing faintly against the marble, swallowed by the hush of the palace night. The air was cold, carrying the scent of incense that still clung to his sleeves — the shrine's breath, haunting him even here.
When he turned a corner, a soft voice called out.
"My lord duke."
It was Sir Aldren, the captain of the royal guard, his silver armor dulled by torchlight. He bowed low, his posture sharp with discipline. "Your presence is requested at the council chamber. His Majesty has returned from the western border and demands word from all attending houses."
Illyen's steps faltered. "At this hour?"
"The king rests little when the empire stirs," Aldren said, though his eyes flickered briefly with sympathy. "If I may, my lord, you seem… pale."
Illyen managed a faint smile. "A trick of the candles, perhaps."
The guard hesitated, as though to speak further, then bowed again and departed.
Left alone, Illyen exhaled. The thought of facing the king — and Cael, likely beside him — sent an ache spiraling through his chest. Yet duty was duty. The empire of Serethis demanded composure even when the soul trembled.
He straightened his collar, smoothing his attire until it hid the trembling of his hands, and began his way toward the council wing.
⸻
The council chamber glowed with restrained grandeur. High windows spilled pale moonlight across the polished floor, mingling with the steady flicker of crystal lamps. The King of Serethis, stern and deliberate, sat at the far end beneath the imperial crest that gleamed like sunlight caught in gold.
At his right stood Prince Cael, his bearing composed, unreadable — yet his gaze, when it lifted, found Illyen instantly.
Emily was there too, seated beside the queen, her expression composed though worry lingered in her eyes. Across the long table sat Duke Rhael, Illyen's uncle and advisor in his father's stead, and several other lords whose murmured greetings filled the air with restrained formality.
Illyen bowed deeply. "Your Majesty."
"Rise," the king said. His voice was deep, measured — the kind that carried command without need for force. "You are late."
"My apologies, Your Majesty. I was delayed at the shrine."
That drew the faintest pause in the room. The king's brow arched slightly. "The shrine? An unusual place for one of your age and rank to find comfort."
"I did not go seeking comfort," Illyen replied quietly. "Only… stillness."
Cael's gaze lingered on him, and something unreadable flickered in the prince's eyes — a trace of emotion quickly masked beneath the veil of court restraint.
The king leaned back, folding his hands. "Be that as it may, there are matters to discuss. The western provinces grow restless. Reports claim omens in the skies — falling stars, storms where none should be. The priests speak of divine signs."
A murmur rippled through the lords.
Emily glanced up. "If the gods truly send warnings, should we not consult the High Priest before the council decides its course?"
The queen, serene yet weary, nodded in agreement. "The gods of Serethis have long guided the throne. To ignore their silence—or their voice—may prove unwise."
Cael's voice entered then, calm yet carrying weight. "The shrine's incense burned blue tonight. The priests believe it a sign of awakening — that the deity stirs once more. Perhaps we should listen."
Illyen's pulse stilled at the word awakening. The memory of the crest—whole, then shattered—flashed behind his eyes like a cruel reminder.
Duke Rhael spoke next, skeptical. "Omens, incense, whispers. We have seen such things before, and yet the empire endures. It is men, not gods, who shape its fall."
"Perhaps," Cael replied, his gaze never leaving Illyen, "but when men forget what gods remember, ruin begins there."
The words struck Illyen like an unseen blow. His fingers curled tightly at his side, nails biting into skin.
The king's gaze flickered briefly between them, his tone turning sharp. "Enough riddles, Cael. The council will not drown itself in superstition. The west must be pacified through diplomacy, not prayer."
"As you command," Cael said, though the faint edge in his voice did not go unnoticed.
The meeting pressed on — discussions of trade, unrest, alliances — yet Illyen heard little. His mind wandered to the shrine, to the flickering candles, to the faint whisper of the acolyte's prayer: Light reveals what darkness hides.
When the session finally drew to a close, the lords bowed and began to depart. Emily approached Illyen quietly.
"You shouldn't bear his words alone," she said gently. "Cael means well, even when his truths sound cruel."
Illyen forced a tired smile. "Perhaps kindness and cruelty are not so different when one cannot tell which wounds more."
Before she could answer, the chamber doors opened again. A priest entered — the same one from the shrine. His robes were marked with ash, his face pale. "Forgive the intrusion, Your Majesty," he said breathlessly, bowing low. "A sign appeared at the altar just after your sons departed. The crest burned gold, and beneath it, the stone cracked."
A hush fell.
The king rose slightly, his eyes narrowing. "Cracked?"
"Yes, Your Majesty. As if split from within. The acolytes swear they heard a voice — faint, like wind through glass. It spoke a single word." The priest swallowed, his voice trembling. "Remember."
Illyen's heart stopped. The word echoed through him, threading through his mind like a ghost that had finally found its name.
Cael's expression did not change, but his hand tightened imperceptibly against the table. Emily covered her mouth in shock.
The king dismissed the priest with curt disbelief, yet tension lingered heavy in the air.
As the others dispersed, Cael stepped forward. His voice was soft but unyielding. "You see now, Illyen. Even the gods whisper of what you try to forget."
Illyen's breath trembled. "And what if I do not wish to remember?"
"Then memory will burn its way through you until it's done," Cael said, his tone threaded with sorrow. "It always does."
For a moment, neither moved. The chamber seemed to hum — the torches wavering, the air alive with something unseen. Then Cael turned and bowed to the king, his cloak sweeping the floor like shadowed silk.
Illyen stood in silence long after he left, Emily's hand resting gently on his sleeve.
Beyond the council windows, thunder rumbled faintly in the distance, though the skies above Serethis were clear.
Somewhere, deep within the palace, a crack spread along the shrine's stone floor — thin as a thread, glimmering faintly in the dark.