The emperor's palace rose over the plain as something inevitable, not as a construction, but as a conclusion. It did not dominate the horizon through excess or arrogance; it did so through precision. Every proportion seemed calculated with ancient patience, as if the structure had been designed to exist when everything else was already gone.
Its walls, pale gold and ivory white, captured the daylight and returned it without glare, in soft, controlled reflections. They did not shine to impress, but to affirm their permanence. The building ascended in three stepped levels, each more restricted than the last, like a silent filter separating the common world from what lay at its core. There were no towers raised out of vanity, no unnecessary ornaments to distract the eye. Straight columns, wide terraces, and tall windows formed a sober, solid design, meant to withstand not only time, but the erosion of the world itself.
As one drew closer, a subtle pressure settled in the chest. It was neither fear nor warning, but a quiet certainty: this place did not need to be defended. Its presence alone was enough.
Daverion arrived at the palace accompanied by Lyra. Several people were entering at that moment, their steps shaped by habit and obedience. However, when they saw him arrive beside the princess, the flow stopped. Conversations faded one by one, and without anyone giving an order, everyone stepped aside. Eyes slid toward him with contained curiosity, assessing him, silently wondering who the one walking at her side might be.
Daverion crossed the threshold without changing his pace.
Lyra walked half a step ahead, turning her head slightly as she spoke.
"Following this way, we'll reach the grand hall," she said casually. "Everyone passes through here."
Her voice bounced softly off the stone, clear and lively. She kept talking as they walked, as if the space itself invited her to fill the silence. Daverion did not interrupt her. He let her speak as much as she wished, listening without rushing her, without steering her.
She is very extroverted, he thought.
As they advanced, the walls closed in with a cold perfection. Polished to an almost unnatural degree, they returned each step with a clean, distant, measured echo. They did not amplify sound; they examined it, as if the palace itself were recording the presence of those who passed through it. The corridor stretched straight ahead, without curves or deviations, long and monumental, forcing forward movement without distractions or visual escape.
Lyra lifted her arm and pointed to the walls as they walked.
"Look, all of this is symbols and portraits of our glory."
The paintings were aligned with absolute precision, one after another: depictions of conquests, imperial figures, moments frozen in time. They were not placed to move the heart, but to remind. To impose continuity.
Daverion observed them in silence, reading beyond the paint, sensing the intent behind each image.
Lyra smiled slightly as she added, with a tone that blended pride and learned repetition, "That's what my grandfather says."
As they continued, the end of the corridor began to open before them. The light grew stronger with every step, filtering in from the grand hall like a silent promise. It was no longer just brightness; it came accompanied by sound. Overlapping voices, crossing footsteps, brief laughter, and colliding conversations reached them, growing louder as they approached.
Even the air seemed to change, filling with motion and presence.
When they crossed the final stretch of the passage and entered the hall, the sense of scale asserted itself immediately. Light descended from high windows, open and natural, falling in broad beams that blended with the warm glow of the lamps. Both sources merged without competing, bathing the space in a serene, constant clarity that did not dazzle, but revealed everything.
The hall was vast and full of life. People moved in different directions, some talking, others walking with purpose, creating a continuous flow that gave the space a sense of constant activity. The hall was supported by four columns on each side, solid and symmetrical, each adorned with golden details that caught the light as people passed.
The same material repeated itself in every ornament, without exception. Moldings, reliefs, symbols: everything was gold. Not as chaotic excess, but as a constant assertion, present in every corner, reminding anyone who entered where they were and to whom the place belonged.
At the center of the hall, Lyra turned to Daverion with an expectant expression, her eyes bright with enthusiasm.
"So?" she asked. "It's big and pretty."
Daverion surveyed the space calmly, evaluating it without haste.
"Yes, it's pretty," he replied, "but it's very big."
Lyra frowned slightly.
"For a little girl like you."
Daverion let the comment fall naturally, a light provocation, almost careless.
Lyra stopped short. She planted her feet, placed both hands on her waist, and looked at him with her chin raised.
"I'm taller than all the girls my age," she said firmly. "And besides, I haven't finished growing yet."
She turned her head slightly to the side.
"Right, Lila?"
Lila inclined her head slightly, her voice calm and respectful.
"Yes, Princess. You will surely grow taller than your sister."
Lyra nodded, satisfied, as if that settled any possible discussion.
Without wasting more time, she turned again and walked forward decisively.
"Come," she said. "I'll take you to the kitchen. We'll go straight there, get some pastries with juice, and then we can go to the garden."
With every step she took, people parted. It was not an order or a demand; it simply happened. Bodies shifted, conversations paused briefly, forming an invisible corridor in front of her. Meanwhile, those arriving at the grand hall were directed to the left by the attendants managing the flow, guiding them with precise, repeated gestures.
Lyra glanced that way and gestured with her chin.
"Over there is the reception hall," she told Daverion. "And also the room where everyone will gather."
Lila, observing the opposite side, added in the same neutral tone as always, "And over there is everything related to the guard. Barracks and such."
She said it generally, without emphasis, as if those places held no interest for her at all.
Lyra kept walking.
"When they serve the food, we can also go to the event hall."
Daverion's group stood out immediately from the rest. While most were absorbed to the left, they advanced straight ahead, directly through the center of the hall, breaking the established flow. The difference did not go unnoticed. One by one, heads turned to follow their path.
Some watched with restrained attention. Others with open annoyance.
Many had tried to gain the princes' favor with gifts of every kind, rehearsed words, calculated gestures. Nothing had worked. And now they saw Daverion walking beside the princess, with a closeness none of them had achieved. Envy and jealousy accumulated in tense silences. Several young men looked at him with evident disdain.
At the same time, not all gazes were hostile.
There were young women who watched him with barely restrained boldness; others looked away only to glance back seconds later. Daverion drew attention effortlessly. His beauty stood out even when restrained, impossible to fully conceal.
Daverion sensed the emotions around him like a subtle tide: resentment, discomfort, poorly hidden desire. When he caught the looks from the young women, he sighed softly and murmured, almost to himself, "I should at least indulge them with a glance. The price of my beauty is hard to bear."
He lamented with a touch of irony.
"Perhaps I should speak about beauty," he continued, "so it can be preserved and recited throughout the world, and people won't be ignorant… and won't be led by it."
Daverion lifted his gaze and looked at each of those who had been captivated. When they realized he was looking directly at them, many blushed, lowered their heads, or turned away awkwardly.
At the entrance of the hall, a woman dressed in red had arrived. Her presence was striking, elegant. When she saw Daverion casually adjusting his hair and then directing his gaze toward so many women, her expression changed.
She stiffened.
As she noticed them blushing, an unexpected irritation ran through her. She nearly wrinkled her dress with her fingers, without fully understanding why it bothered her so much.
Then, suddenly, a voice echoed throughout the hall.
It came from Daverion.
He could not stop the words from taking shape.
Daverion's voice spread through the hall naturally, without effort, as if the silence had been waiting for it.
"Beauty does not stay," he said.
He did not raise his voice. He did not need to.
"It is a breath. It appears, it is felt… and it goes. And when one tries to look at it again, it is already gone."
Some people held their breath without realizing it.
"It is a moment," he continued. "It happens once. It does not last long enough to promise anything."
His gaze passed slowly over the attentive faces.
"What is beautiful ends," he said calmly. "Always. Not because it is flawed, but because it was never meant to last."
The silence deepened.
"That is why beauty stumbles," he went on. "Because it is not something you can hold in your hands. It is an emotion."
No one moved.
"It is not the person," he said. "It is not the object. It is not the form that pleases the eye."
He paused briefly.
"It only awakens something."
Several gazes fixed on him.
"What is truly beautiful," he continued, "is not out there."
His tone was serene, certain.
"It is in what one feels," he said. "In that emotion that appears without permission, that confuses, that draws us in."
Some frowned. Others could not look away.
"That is why beauty calls to us," he added. "Because it cannot be held… and yet, we desire it."
The hall fell silent.
It was not discomfort. It was attention. Admiration.
Daverion let the words settle, seeking no reaction. And those who watched him did not know whether they wanted to understand him better… or simply keep looking at him.
For another moment, the silence held.
It was not emptiness. It was restraint.
Then a single sound broke the stillness.
Clap.
Slow. Isolated. Measured.
It did not come from the center or from any obvious place. It rose from a point few were watching, from someone who had been there all along without being noticed. The applause did not seek attention, and precisely because of that, it drew it. It was not enthusiasm or courtesy. It was recognition.
Clap.
The rhythm did not change. It did not quicken. Each palm met the other with exact spacing, as if the one applauding were marking something more than approval, weighing the value of what had just been heard.
Some began to turn their heads, searching for the source. Others did not know why, but felt that the applause carried a different meaning.
Clap.
Then it happened.
A second applause joined the first. Then another. And another. The sound spread like a wave, extending through the hall until palms met from every corner. It was no longer slow. It was full. Continuous.
The hall filled with applause.
Lyra was among the first to react. Her eyes shone wide, fixed on Daverion. She did not clap out of obligation or ceremony. She did so with clean admiration, almost pride, as if she had just discovered something even greater in someone she already found special.
Valeria, dressed in red, did not join immediately. She observed. Her eyes shifted first toward Daverion… and then, almost unconsciously, searched for the place from which the first applause had come. She did not fully understand what she had heard, but something had sparked her curiosity, not only because of the words, but because of what lay behind them.
The leader of the place inclined his head slightly before applauding. He did not clap loudly. He did so with respect. His hands moved with the serenity of someone who recognizes wisdom when he hears it, even if he does not fully grasp its origin.
Lila took a second longer than the others. When she reacted, it was with evident astonishment. Her eyes had widened, her posture tightened slightly, as if she had witnessed something she had not expected to see. She applauded, yes, but more than that, she looked at Daverion as if she had just confirmed something she did not know she had been questioning.
Somewhere in the hall, the slow applause continued for one last moment, keeping its original rhythm before being swallowed by the rest.
No one pointed it out.
No one named it.
But for those who knew how to look closely, it was clear that Daverion was not the only one who understood the weight of those words.
While the applause still echoed, not everyone reacted with their hands.
In different parts of the hall, there were those who did not take their eyes off Daverion for even a second. People who, instead of being carried away by the sound, lowered their gaze quickly and pulled out scrolls, thin tablets, carefully folded pieces of paper.
Pens slid.
Ink touched the surface with contained urgency.
They did not copy word for word clumsily. They wrote attentively, pausing only to recall the exact order, the cadence, the meaning. Some murmured silently as they traced the lines, as if afraid the phrases would dissipate if they did not fix them immediately.
Others did not write everything. Only fragments. Loose sentences. Ideas that had burned more deeply than the rest.
"Beauty does not stay."
"It is a breath."
"It is not the form… it is the emotion."
No one gave them instructions. No one asked them to do it.
And yet, they did.
Because there were words that were not meant only to be applauded. There were words meant to be kept.
Daverion did not look at them. He did not need to. His expression did not change as pens moved and hands hurried, as if he knew that once spoken, those ideas no longer fully belonged to him.
With time, long after that day, those same words would be repeated in other halls, in open courtyards, in places where his name would not be present. They would be recited with different voices, interpreted in ways he would never hear.
Some would understand them.
Others would only admire them.
But they would continue to travel.
That, however, did not happen there.
That… is another story.
Daverion perceived the soft scratch of pens, the faint sound of ink spreading across paper. He did not need to turn to know. Some were writing, trying to anchor his words before they faded, as if afraid the moment would slip away if they did not catch it immediately.
For an instant, his attention rested there.
That is another story, he thought.
One that may never be told.
There was no regret in the idea. Only a quiet certainty, an understanding born of things that had not yet happened… and of others that could no longer be avoided.
As the applause began to fade, Daverion lifted his gaze.
He did not direct it toward the crowd or toward those still watching him with open admiration. His eyes moved precisely to the exact point from which that first slow applause had arisen.
There he was.
A man with striking features, pale skin, hair black as a moonless night, and eyes even darker, deep, as if they looked from a place that did not fully belong to that world. He did nothing to draw attention, and yet there was something about him that did not quite fit.
His posture was firm, contained. Not tense, but controlled. A calm that did not seem learned here. His presence carried a strange sensation, as if the rules of that place recognized him only halfway.