The Sun Gate swallowed sound.
The carriage rolled under the arch and the city noise faded like someone had closed a book. Even the horses seemed to step quieter on the white stone. Guards stood in pairs along the inner approach—Sun-Knight tabards, polished helms, eyes forward—so still they looked like part of the architecture.
Henry adjusted his cloak once, more habit than vanity.
"Remember," he murmured without looking at either of them, "you don't win in here by swinging. You win by not giving them anything to swing at."
Aldric leaned toward William and whispered, loud enough to be heard by the saints, "He means you, Gate Knight."
William hissed back, "Shut up, cus."
Henry didn't blink. "Both of you. Quiet."
The carriage slowed and stopped on a marked line in the stone—clean enough that even the mud on their wheels looked like an insult.
A palace officer approached—ink-stained, crisp, carrying himself like every word he said could become law if he wrote it down fast enough. Two Sun-Knights flanked him.
"Lord Henry Lockhart. Lord William Lockhart. House Roses," the officer said. His eyes flicked to each face, cataloguing. "You will be received shortly. Follow the route. No detours."
Henry nodded once. "Understood."
Aldric smiled brightly. "Detours are my love language."
The officer stared at him like he'd just spoken blasphemy in the cathedral.
Henry's jaw tightened. "House Roses observer," he added, flat as a stamp.
"…Yes," the officer said, and gestured them onward as if he wanted the conversation to end before it infected the courtyard.
They stepped down from the carriage.
The stone under William's boots was so white it felt unreal—like it had never seen blood. Above them, stained glass caught the sun and painted the courtyard in faint bands of color. Red banners ran down the ribs of the walls like veins.
It was beautiful.
And it made him feel dirty.
They were led through the lower ring first—guardworks and terraces cut into the hill, barracks doors, armory yards. Everything was practical. Everything was clean. Soldiers drilled in tight lines that looked like choreography. No one shouted. Commands were clipped, precise, swallowed by discipline.
William caught himself staring too long.
Henry bumped his shoulder once, subtle. Eyes forward. Not harsh. Just a reminder.
Aldric leaned in again, whispering, "If you blink wrong, they'll write a report about it."
William whispered back, "Stop talking."
"I'm helping," Aldric insisted. "Your face does a thing when you're nervous."
"My face does nothing," William muttered.
Henry made a low sound that might have been a laugh if it wasn't Henry.
The route angled upward. The Saint Walk—a ceremonial climb built like a spine through the rings—began to show itself: stairways and ramps set into the stone, statues of sun-knights watching from alcoves, small stained-glass shrines embedded in the walls like reminders that even their architecture prayed.
Oath plaques ran along the path in neat carvings. William tried not to read them. The words made his chest tighten anyway, as if the castle could hear him thinking.
They crossed a high bridge—cathedral wing to court wing—and the city fell away beneath them in a dizzy drop. From here you could see Albion's rings spreading outward: outer wards like veins, bridges like bones, banners like lines of scripture.
Then the inner corridor swallowed them.
The middle ring smelled like wax and stone and expensive incense. Light poured through colored windows and broke into reds and golds across polished floors. Footsteps echoed like they mattered.
Aldric straightened without being told, suddenly behaving like he remembered this was the place stories got edited.
Henry didn't change. He just moved like a man who belonged in war corridors and palaces both.
William tried to do the same.
He almost managed.
They rounded a corner and the hallway opened into a junction with a wide set of doors ahead—tall enough to feel ceremonial even closed. A waiting antechamber sat off to the right, guarded by two Sun-Knights who didn't so much as glance at them.
The palace officer slowed.
"This is as far as I—"
A voice cut in from behind them, light but unmistakably royal.
"Henry."
William's stomach dropped like he'd missed a step.
He turned.
Princess Elizabeth Maximilian stood in the corridor as if she'd always been there.
Not a whole entourage this time. No parade. No carriage. Just her—blue cloak, hair braided back in a neat crown, silver circlet catching the colored light. Two ladies-in-waiting lingered a respectful distance behind her, and a Sun-Knight officer stood to the side like a shadow that could stab.
She looked composed, as always.
But her eyes warmed a fraction when they landed on Henry.
"Your Highness," Henry said immediately, bowing with the clean precision of someone who had done it since childhood.
Aldric bowed too—deep enough to look respectful, shallow enough to keep his ego intact.
William did the same, slower. His ribs twinged at the motion.
Elizabeth's gaze slid to him and paused.
Just a beat too long.
The last time they'd spoken, he'd been in a solar with bandages and awkward gratitude. Before that, he'd been a rumor. Before that, a boy spilling wine.
Now he was here—mud in his boot seams, scars under his shirt, and an entire kingdom ready to decide what he meant.
"Lord William," she said.
Her voice was formal.
Her eyes weren't.
"I—Your Highness," William managed.
Aldric made a tiny sound behind his hand. Henry's shoulder shook once. Both of them were doing a terrible job of not enjoying this.
Elizabeth's gaze flicked—briefly—to Henry and Aldric, and something like dry amusement touched her mouth.
"I see your escorts remain… consistent," she said.
Henry's eyes stayed forward, but his tone went faintly teasing. "We do our best, Your Highness."
Aldric smiled bright. "I am here purely as moral support."
Elizabeth looked at him. "For whom?"
"For the kingdom," Aldric said solemnly. "It needs my guidance."
William muttered, "Shut up, cus."
Aldric's grin widened. Henry outright smirked.
Elizabeth's mouth twitched—almost a smile, quickly hidden.
"You didn't say you were coming," William said before his brain could stop him.
The moment the words left his mouth, he regretted them. Too direct. Too familiar. Too—
Elizabeth tilted her head slightly.
"I didn't know I needed permission to walk in my own palace," she said, perfectly calm.
Henry made a quiet cough that sounded suspiciously like a laugh being murdered.
William's ears went hot. "That's not what I meant."
"I know," Elizabeth said, and her voice softened just enough to make it worse. "But you looked as if you expected to be greeted by a wall."
"I do very well with walls," William said, then immediately wished he hadn't.
Aldric's shoulders bounced. Henry's eyes narrowed like he was trying not to enjoy his brother's suffering.
Elizabeth's brows lifted a fraction. "So I've heard."
The corridor felt warmer than it had a second ago. Or maybe it was just William's face.
Elizabeth stepped closer—not close-close, but near enough that William could smell clean soap and faint winter herbs under her cloak. Not perfume. Something practical.
"Father is occupied," she said, switching to business in a way that sounded practiced. "The War Office has gathered. Your report will be received in two parts—first the Ashford account, then the road ambush evidence."
Henry nodded. "Understood."
Elizabeth's eyes flicked again to William's posture—how he favored one side, how he held his shoulders like he was bracing for a hit even in a corridor.
"And," she added, quieter, "you will wait here until called."
A palace servant moved to open the antechamber door.
William swallowed. "You're… guiding us?"
Elizabeth looked at him like the question was both obvious and not.
"Yes," she said. "You're in Crown Quarter. You're about to speak to my father about a village that is now a story being fought over. I would rather you not be eaten alive by ceremony before you even reach the table."
Henry's lips twitched. Aldric practically glowed with suppressed delight.
William's nerves flared hotter.
"I'm not—" he started.
"You are," Elizabeth said, calm as a blade. "Your hands are doing that thing again."
William blinked. "What thing?"
She nodded toward his fingers.
He looked down and realized he'd been flexing his hand against his cloak—open, close, open, close—like he was counting without numbers.
He stopped instantly, as if he could hide the evidence by ceasing it.
Aldric whispered, "Adorable."
William hissed, "I will throw you off a bridge."
Henry murmured, "Not in Crown Quarter."
Elizabeth actually smiled then. Just a small one, quick and real, like it slipped out before she could lock it down.
It hit William harder than any punch.
She turned slightly, gesturing toward the antechamber with a practiced motion.
"This way," she said. "And before you ask—no, I'm not doing this because of flowers."
William's brain shorted. "I wasn't going to—"
"Mm," she said, and walked them into the waiting room as if she hadn't just set him on fire with one sentence.
Henry and Aldric followed.
William followed last, feeling like he'd somehow stumbled into a duel without drawing a sword.
Inside, the antechamber was polished stone and quiet warmth. A small table set with water and tea. Sun motifs everywhere, subtle but constant. A stained-glass panel on the far wall painted gold across the floor in a narrow strip.
Elizabeth paused at the threshold.
She looked back at William.
Her voice was formal again, just enough to remind him where he stood.
"Lord William," she said, "try not to look like you're about to charge someone."
William swallowed. "I'm not charging."
"Good," she replied. "Because in here, they'll call it treason instead of bravery."
Henry coughed. Aldric bit his lip so hard he looked pained.
William couldn't help it—he smiled, small and helpless.
"Yes, Your Highness," he said.
Elizabeth's eyes softened a fraction.
Then she turned and left them there, the door closing with a quiet finality.
Aldric waited exactly three heartbeats before leaning toward Henry and whispering loudly:
"Our wounded prince is doomed."
William leaned back in his chair and covered his face with one hand.
Henry's low chuckle finally escaped.
"Welcome to Albion," Henry murmured. "Try not to die. It's inconvenient for the Crown."