Chapter Thirty-Seven · Borrowed Face

The royal library was as silent as ever, its towering shelves stretching into shadow.

Haris had been sitting there for a long while. Every so often, his gaze flicked toward the door, then back to the page.

At last, he closed the book, one finger still marking his place, as if deciding whether to keep waiting.

“That’s enough,” he murmured under his breath. “I’m done waiting.”

He rose.

Then the library doors opened.

Someone stepped inside.

“Orlas.”

Something in Haris’s expression flickered, then stilled.

So he finally came.

Orlas gave him only a brief glance. Barely there.

Then he walked past, as if Haris didn’t exist.

He headed straight for the spiral staircase leading to the upper level.

Haris scanned the room.

No one else.

He moved after him.

The upper floor was nearly deserted. The light was dimmer there, the shelves taller, forming narrow aisles like a maze.

Orlas stopped in a shadowed corner. He pulled a book at random, opened it, and let it fall to a page he didn’t bother to read.

Haris stepped beside him and did the same.

They stood close, shoulder to shoulder, eyes fixed on the pages.

“I need your help,” Haris said under his breath.

Orlas didn’t look over, only angled himself a fraction closer.

“Say it.”

“I need to borrow your face.”

Orlas stilled.

“For what?”

“To get into the Turquias Chamber.”

Orlas’s hand went still on the page. His voice dropped.

“Are you insane? You want me dead?”

Haris didn’t look up. He knew how it sounded. He had no other option.

“I’m going to find Lyra.”

Orlas snapped the book shut. His gaze left the text but didn’t meet Haris’s.

Impossible. No way he was agreeing to something like that.

Haris slid his book back onto the shelf, pulled another free, and opened it. His eyes stayed on the page. His voice cooled.

“Your choice. We don’t have time to think.”

The space around them seemed to tighten.

“Either you take one risk in your life—”

“—or regret it forever.”

Orlas said nothing. He stood there while everything in his head moved too fast to catch.

His father’s face. The punishments. The consequences he had never forgotten.

Haris turned a page, calm as if reading something else entirely.

“Don’t bother thinking. I know you don’t have the nerve.

Looks like Lyra trusted the wrong person.”

The words landed like a stone dropped into still water.

Orlas swallowed and looked away.

Haris closed the book and slid it back into place.

“I’m leaving. Too many eyes in the palace.”

His gaze settled on Orlas. Orlas still said nothing.

Haris turned and walked off.

Orlas remained where he was.

His thoughts tangled.

Lyra trusted the wrong person.

Why couldn’t he just say the request was too much?

But…

Haris wasn’t wrong.

He wanted his life back.

And he’d never risked anything. Not once.

The book was closed in his hand.

He hadn’t even noticed.

That afternoon, Haris lay on his bed, eyes open, staring at nothing.

The light outside the window thinned by the hour, and emptiness seemed to spread with it.

He turned onto his side, then onto his back again, one hand over his brow.

“Guess not…”

He let out a long breath.

“I’ll have to find another way…”

“What way?”

He closed his eyes, forcing his thoughts to line up.

—

A knock.

Haris sat up.

A Spirit Bird perched on the windowsill.

He crossed over and opened the window. The bird lifted one leg. A letter was tied there.

“No sender…”

He untied it.

No writing.

Just a few curled strands of hair.

“…This is—”

His heart kicked once.

The window shut. The curtains drew tight. The room sealed itself off from the outside.

Haris ran downstairs, grabbed a mirror, and brought it back up, setting it on the desk.

The strands of hair stayed clenched in his left hand. With his right, he opened the old book to a marked page from a text every royal child was taught.

He stood before the mirror, looking straight at himself, then closed his eyes for a moment, fixing the image in his mind.

Orlas’s face.

Every line. Every detail.

He opened his eyes.

“Om Sokapapa Hakapapa Nakapapa.”

The air trembled.

The mirror rippled like disturbed water.

Then, slowly, it changed.

The eyes in the glass were no longer Haris’s.

The bridge of the nose narrowed. The lines sharpened.

Orlas’s face emerged, clear and exact.

Haris stared without blinking.

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“That’ll do.”

He tilted his head, testing small movements. Everything matched.

Excitement surged, sweeping away the earlier fatigue.

Then he glanced down at his body.

“…Not good.”

The clothes didn’t match.

He threw open the wardrobe, rummaged, and pulled out a long winter cloak that covered him from neck to hem.

He slipped it on and pulled it close.

“Good enough.”

Without another second to waste, he stepped out and headed for the inner palace.

The late-afternoon sun hadn’t fully set, but the guards were already fighting off yawns.

A royal figure approached the doors of the Turquias Chamber.

The captain on duty stepped forward, lowering his spear to bar the way. He knew exactly who this was.

“Prince Orlas. The Chancellor’s orders—no one goes in.”

“Father sent me. There’s something he needs handled.” The Prince kept his tone light.

The captain looked him up and down. Something felt off. He couldn’t place it.

“I haven’t received any orders, my lord.”

“If it were routine, you’d have them.” The Prince’s gaze hardened. “Do you intend to delay my father’s business?”

The captain hesitated. “Your voice, my lord… it sounds—”

“I’m unwell. Must you question everything? Or would you rather be responsible if this goes wrong?”

The spear lowered. The captain stepped aside.

“Yes, my prince.”

The Prince went in. The captain watched him go, unease lingering.

The door shut.

The Queen sat on the floor beside a harp, one hand resting on the strings without playing.

Her head leaned against the frame. No crown. Her hair hung loose, unbraided.

The Prince approached and dropped to one knee.

“Your Majesty. Are you well?” His voice was quiet.

She turned.

“Orlas?” Her eyes blinked fast. “Why are you here?”

He shook his head.

“I’m not Orlas. It’s Haris.”

“Haris?” Obewich stepped forward from the back, a tray of soup in his hands.

He set it near the Queen. “Your Majesty, please try to eat. You haven’t touched a spoonful in a week.”

She waved it away.

“I see no meaning left in any of it.” Tears brimmed in her eyes, swollen as if she hadn’t stopped crying.

She looked back at him. “You’re truly Haris? That face—”

He produced the Rogan signet.

“It’s a long story. I’ll explain later.” He glanced at the door. “I had to come like this to see you. I can’t stay long.”

Obewich crouched, peered at him, then pinched his cheek.

“Convincing,” he muttered.

Haris looked up.

“I’m going to find Lyra.”

A flicker of light touched the Queen’s eyes.

“If you find her, take her to Sonareth and tell my father everything that’s happened.”

“Do you know where she is?”

“I don’t. But go to Gemariel. You may find a lead there.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Haris rose and bowed.

She turned to Obewich. “Show him where to get Voxath. Quickly.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Flustered, Obewich pulled a small key from his pocket. “Use this for the Moontis Chamber. There’s a cabinet beneath the table. A spiral instrument—that’s Voxath.”

“Take the back corridor to the hall opposite,” the Queen added. “If you find Lyra, give it to her.”

Haris nodded and left at once. He had been inside barely long enough to drink a cup of tea.

Halfway down the corridor, his face began to feel heavy, the skin tightening. He quickened his pace.

Inside the Turquias Chamber, all attendants had been dismissed. Syveris had left only Obewich with the Queen, sealing them both inside.

There weren’t enough candles. Not enough firewood.

The Queen didn’t seem to feel the cold.

A fragile spark of hope had been lit.

At last, the notes of the harp began to sound, slow and steady.