Chapter Thirty-Eight · Where the Sun Cannot Reach

The captain stood outside the doors, watching Haris vanish down the corridor.

“…Prince Orlas feels… different today.”

He tapped one foot to the rise and fall of the melody. The Queen’s music from within seemed to blur his thoughts, washing away whatever he had been about to consider.

Haris had already circled around through the back corridor and cut straight toward Moontis Chamber.

His nose prickled. He lifted a hand and scratched.

“Something’s—”

He caught his reflection in the polished stone wall.

His heart skipped.

This isn’t good.

He jammed the key into the lock, his hand unsteady. He eased one door open just enough to slip through the gap, then shut it behind him and locked it.

His gaze swept the room, searching for what Obewich had described.

The cabinet beneath the table came open in one pull.

“There you are.”

Haris slid Voxath inside his cloak.

Footsteps approached. Haris pressed himself against the door, listening.

“I’ll light the candles on this side. You take the other.”

Haris let out a quiet breath.

Just servants.

A moment passed.

No sound outside. Haris cracked the door and glanced into the corridor.

The hall was bright now with candles. The harp still drifted faintly from the Turquias Chamber.

He slipped out, careful and quiet.

Stay calm.

He straightened, slowed his pace, and forced his gait into something unhurried.

He took an unguarded staircase toward the palace exit.

By then, his face had returned to normal.

A few servants bowed as he passed.

He moved as he always did within the palace—natural, unremarkable, only a shade faster than usual.

By the time he reached home, his father was already at the entrance.

“Where have you been?”

“Inside,” Haris said, catching his father’s arm.

He went straight into the main hall. Rogan followed.

“I disguised myself as Orlas and got into the Turquias Chamber.”

“What?”

“The Queen is alive. Shaken, but holding.”

Haris pulled Voxath from his cloak and slipped it into a leather pouch, quick and precise.

Time was running out.

“I have to find the princess. Tonight. The Chancellor will realize soon enough.”

Rogan watched him for a long moment.

Something in his gaze shifted.

“…You’ve grown. Good.”

Then he turned toward his private chamber.

“Wait here.”

Haris stayed where he was.

A moment later, Rogan returned with something wrapped carefully in golden silk.

He placed it in Haris’s hands.

“Keep this safe.”

Haris looked down at the silk. “What is it?”

“If your path takes you through Hemaliel, give it to the High Lord there.”

Rogan’s voice lowered.

“We will have a trustworthy ally.”

Haris accepted it without another question and slipped it into his inner pocket.

Rogan met his eyes again.

A flicker of unease stirred in Haris’s chest.

Will he be all right…

Rogan stood still for a moment more.

Then he pulled Haris into a firm embrace and struck his back once, decisive.

“Go.”

A breath.

“The kingdom’s fate is yours now.”

Haris nodded.

He took his sword, mounted, and rode hard from the outer court.

The palace receded behind him.

Haris didn’t slow. He didn’t look back.

There was only one thing driving him now.

“Lyra…”

The same name echoed elsewhere, in the Chancellor’s residence.

The courtyard outside burned with torchlight. Inside, only a single candle lit Orlas’s room.

Orlas paced.

Since sending the unsigned letter, he hadn’t been able to settle.

Had he made a mistake?

He stopped.

What exactly was he risking?

He started moving again.

What would he say when his father questioned him?

Orlas took a drink of water. Barely a sip.

How had he gotten pulled into this?

He sank into a chair, bracing his head in his hands.

His father would be home soon.

He didn’t want to face him. Not now.

Orlas frowned. The same thoughts circled, over and over.

A knock at the door.

Orlas stood and drew a slow breath.

No more thinking.

The door opened. A draft of cold air slipped in.

“Father.” His gaze shifted at once, no trace of the fear from moments before.

Syveris stepped inside, unhurried.

Father and son faced each other.

A pause.

Syveris looked away.

“The captain says you went to the Turquias Chamber today.”

A hint of surprise entered Orlas’s voice.

“There must be some mistake.”

He turned and lit a few more candles.

“After the funeral, I stopped by the library to pick up a few books, then came straight home.”

He gestured to the old volumes on the table.

Syveris’s brow furrowed slightly.

“Is that so?” His gaze lingered on Orlas a moment longer.

“Yes, Father.” Orlas didn’t blink.

The answer was so brief it left nothing to catch on.

Syveris watched him—every movement, every breath.

He asked nothing more.

A small nod.

“Then the captain is mistaken. Get some rest.”

Syveris turned and left. The door closed behind him.

Orlas sank onto the bed and let out a long breath.

I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore.

He looked around, then pushed himself to his feet and went to the table. His hand trembled as he lifted the glass and drained it.

He thought he was in the clear.

He wasn’t.

Outside the door, Syveris remained for a long moment before finally walking away.

There are steps that, once taken, cannot be undone.

While one story seemed to close in silence, another continued far away.

Lyra and Sion had just crossed the Veilspire Mountains after a long journey.

Their supplies were nearly gone.

They rode the same horse, wrapped in goose-down cloaks bought from an Aulith border market.

“Gods…” Sion clenched her teeth. “I’m freezing.”

“Hold on. We’re close.” Lyra reached over and gave her hand a brief squeeze.

The horse slowed, each step heavier as they moved into the thickening fog.

“It’s been light for hours. Why can’t I see the sun?”

Lyra frowned. “This light… it isn’t right.”

The last winding turn gave way.

They passed through a veil of mist.

Cold air cut through their cloaks and sank into their bones.

Then the trees emerged.

Black trunks.

Leaves shimmered violet, edged in metallic light. Beautiful in a way that felt wrong.

Far ahead, shapes took form.

Houses.

Not quite standing on the ground.

They seemed to hover above their own shadows.

Lyra tightened the reins.

“Drazhune Fae.”

Sion pressed closer behind her.

“The air… it feels heavy here.”

Lyra didn’t answer.

She had heard of Drazhune.

But no one had ever described it like this.