⚠️ Content Warning
This chapter contains depictions of child neglect, psychological trauma, and obsession. It is fictional and written with care, never for shock. Please read thoughtfully.
Silence lasted longer than I expected.
Not the kind that invites peace.
The kind that lets you know you've been forgotten.
No one entered my room for three days. Maybe four. I lost count after the second.
Not a maid. Not a guard. Not a priest to bless the body they thought they'd buried in a bed of silk.
Someone left a pitcher of water once. It was lukewarm and covered in dust. I drank it anyway.
Then vomited, quietly, into the basin.
No one cleaned it.
The sheets were too clean.
I dirtied them on purpose.
If they were going to treat me like something unwanted, I wanted to look the part.
My back ached where bruises had begun to settle. I traced them with one finger—not to check if it hurt, but to confirm I was still there. Still... real.
Pain has a way of proving you exist.
I started counting time by the flicker of the old rune in the corner of the ceiling.
It wasn't stable—just a cracked marking that once lit the royal quarters during prayer hours. Now, it glowed at random.
Sometimes blue. Sometimes red. Sometimes nothing at all.
Like the gods couldn't decide whether this room deserved light.
Aeloria worships the Divine Five—gods of fire, breath, bone, blood, and silence.
Each has a temple. A scripture. A following.
But here, in the palace, only silence is considered sacred.
Speak when spoken to. Bow before answering. Never interrupt. Never ask.
Especially not if you were born wrong.
When the door finally creaked open, I didn't turn.
My head was too heavy. My breath shallow. My body hollowed out from the inside, like a fruit left too long in the sun.
I didn't care if it was the queen.
I didn't care if it was death.
But it wasn't either.
It was Kael.
He didn't walk like a child.
He walked like someone who owned the floor he stepped on.
His robes didn't rustle. His mask didn't shift. His gaze didn't search the room.
He already knew where I was.
I looked up, slowly.
He tilted his head, eyes glinting beneath the candlelight.
"You're still alive."
I wanted to ask if he was disappointed.
But I didn't speak.
Not anymore.
He crossed the room and sat on the edge of my bed without asking.
His legs didn't swing. His hands didn't fidget.
He sat with the stillness of something carved from cold stone.
Then, after a while:
"Mother says we shouldn't keep things we don't use."
A pause.
"But I think you're interesting."
I closed my eyes.
Not because I was tired.
Because if I didn't look at him, maybe he'd go away.
He didn't.
Instead, he leaned in close.
His hand brushed my hair from my forehead, slow and deliberate.
Then he whispered:
"Don't make me regret it."
And left.
That was the first time I cried without making a sound.
◈
The North Wing wasn't built for royalty.
It used to house the old Flame Wardens—monks who tended the Eternal Pyre before it was moved beneath the capital. The architecture is older. The magic, unstable. The runes flicker. The walls hum.
There's no light that doesn't buzz.
And no silence that doesn't breathe.
I wasn't supposed to be here.
Firstborn princes are usually raised in the Sapphire Chambers, closer to the throne and far from the priesthood. Surrounded by tutors, weapons masters, mages, expectations.
But I was raised near ash.
Near empty rooms and cracked stones.
Because ash doesn't threaten anything.
And it blows away on its own.
They gave Kael a ceremonial robe made of spider-silk thread from the House of Bone.
They gave me a pair of worn shoes that didn't match.
He trained in the Courtyard of Saints—the royal combat ring lined with statues of Aeloria's founding generals.
I swept the outer halls. I wasn't allowed to touch the stones within.
But I could hear the strikes.
Sword against post.
Instructor's voice, clear and low.
Kael's breathing—steady. Measured. Never strained.
He never made mistakes.
Once, I stopped sweeping to listen.
Just for a moment.
A guard noticed.
He slapped me hard enough to knock the broom from my hands.
"Don't watch what doesn't belong to you," he said.
I told myself I wasn't watching.
But it was a lie.
That night, something was left on the floor beside my bed.
A folded square of black silk.
No seal. No note. No explanation.
I didn't touch it.
Not at first.
But by morning, it was still there.
Waiting.
Black is the color of mourning in Aeloria.
It's also the color worn by priests in silent prayer.
And by slaves in training.
I didn't know which one Kael meant.
But I wore it two days later.
Not because I wanted to.
But because I didn't know what would happen if I didn't.
Kael saw me from across the throne room.
He didn't say a word.
Didn't stop walking.
But I felt it—the pause of his gaze on my chest, where the cloth wrapped under my collar.
That night, another gift arrived.
A ring.
Black, like the cloth. Sized for a child's hand.
I didn't wear it.
So the next night, it was gone.
Replaced by a smaller one.
It fit.
Perfectly.
The queen never asked where I got it.
She didn't need to.
She didn't care.
In the palace, gifts are not gestures of kindness.
They are claims.
To wear another's color is to admit servitude.
To bear their crest is to acknowledge protection—or ownership.
The highborn trade rings during betrothals.
Soldiers are branded by their captains.
Slaves are collared in black.
And me?
I received all three.
I learned to recognize Kael's footsteps. Not because I feared them.
Because they were the only ones that never sped up when passing my door.
Everyone else rushed.
Maidservants. Pages. Guards.
But Kael walked slowly. Like he had time. Like time belonged to him.
Sometimes, I would stand behind the door and press my palm to the wood when I heard him coming.
Sometimes, he stopped too.
We never spoke.
But the wood between us always felt too thin.
One afternoon, I was sent to clean the Prayer Hall of the Forsaken—a crumbling stone room filled with broken statues and ash bowls long since gone cold.
It was the one place no one visited anymore.
Which meant it was safe.
Or so I thought.
I knelt beside the altar, scrubbing the dust from ancient tiles that bore forgotten names.
The water in my bucket had long since gone murky. My knees ached. My sleeves were soaked.
And when I looked up…
Kael was already there.
Sitting in the first row. Watching.
He didn't speak.
Didn't move.
Just… watched.
Eventually, he broke the silence.
"Do you think the gods still hear you?"
I didn't answer.
"They don't."
He leaned forward slightly.
"But I do."
Later, I found another note under my pillow.
One word this time.
Mine.
I didn't show anyone.
I didn't burn it either.
I folded it. Tucked it into the lining of the collar he'd given me.
I still don't know why.
Kael never punished me.
Not directly.
He didn't need to.
Because Kael never gave.
He claimed.
And everything he touched… stayed his.
The palace kept spinning.
The queen held court.
The king signed laws he didn't write.
Priests chanted to gods no one saw anymore.
And I…
I swept.
I bowed.
I bled in silence.
And every night, I wondered what it would mean
if I ever started wanting something back.