Princess Thalia sat atop the dais, her back straight, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her every movement a performance perfected through years of training. The music echoed faintly in her ears, a delicate waltz composed more for appearances than artistry.
She wore the light smile expected of her, practiced until it looked real. She responded to the whispers of her mother, offered nods to lesser lords, and acknowledged the toasts made in her name.
All of it was a mask.
And behind the mask, her mind churned.
Her heart pulsed again. But in an odd way only she could feel. Like a heartbeat that wasn't hers—older, deeper, closer to the earth than blood should be.
She didn't remember when the feeling started. Weeks ago? Months?
At first, it was just dreams. Wild, vivid dreams of places she'd never seen and people she didn't know. A sea of glass. A tower wrapped in chains. A battlefield beneath two suns. She'd wake drenched in sweat, her throat raw from screaming words in a language she didn't understand.
Then came the sensations—small but growing. The necklace, a gift from her mother years ago, had started to feel alive. Sometimes, when she wore it, she could sense others' moods with uncanny clarity. Feel the weight of lies. Hear the fluttering heartbeat of a servant girl as she passed by.
And tonight… it was stronger than ever.
She glanced across the ballroom. Hundreds of faces. Painted, powdered, gleaming with wine and desire. But two figures stood out in her peripheral vision—figures she had never seen before, but who felt as if they didn't quite belong.
One was a man—tall, dark-haired, eyes alert, body held with a soldier's poise even under fine clothes.
The other was a woman with a gaze like ice and a presence that drew the eye despite her silent approach. Neither bowed. Neither preened.
They were watching.
Thalia's fingers curled slightly in her lap, brushing the pendant.
It pulsed again.
A storm was coming. She could feel it—not in the room, but within her. Like something buried beneath her skin, slowly waking.
"My dear," the queen whispered beside her, breaking the trance. "You've gone quiet."
Thalia turned her head and smiled gently. "Just… taking it all in."
The queen offered a proud nod. "Good. You must learn to listen in silence. A ruler hears more through stillness than speech."
But Thalia wasn't listening to the music anymore. Or the guests.
She was listening to the beats of hearts.
And they were listening back.
The ball continued as though nothing beneath its silk was amiss. Laughter chimed like glass, wine flowed like spring rivers, and nobles whispered scandal behind fans and false smiles.
But Thalia wasn't listening to any of it.
Her eyes trailed the white-haired woman—Maire—as she silently disappeared into the throng. One moment, she was standing beside the dark-haired man with the sharp eyes… the next, she was gone, absorbed by the crowd like smoke.
Something about her unsettled Thalia. Not fear. Not even suspicion. Just… awareness.
She doesn't belong here, Thalia thought.
Not in these halls. Not among these masks.
Then came the moment.
A flash—not of light, but of sensation. Sharp and overwhelming.
Across the hall, the dark-haired man—the one who had watched everything too closely—brushed fingers with a servant girl as he took a glass of wine.
It was distant, physically meaningless. Yet Thalia felt it.
The world shifted. Briefly.
Not in her body, but in her spirit. Like someone had placed a hand over her heart. Like someone had opened a door in a place she hadn't known existed.
Her eyes widened slightly.
The necklace—her necklace—grew warm against her skin. Not burning. Not painful. Just… responding.
As if the something had recognized something.
Or someone.
She stared at the man. He didn't notice her—his attention lingered on the servant girl, brow furrowed, expression tightened as if he too had heard something that wasn't sound.
Thalia's lips parted, just slightly.
"Who are you?"
The question rang in her mind like a whisper in a dream. She didn't know if she was asking the man, or herself.
Then, slowly, her fingers moved to the necklace resting above her collarbone. The pulsing had faded… but it hadn't vanished.
And for the first time in a long while, Thalia's curiosity outpaced her duty.
She rose from the throne.
The queen turned sharply. "Thalia?"
"Just going down to greet our guests, mother," the princess answered gently.
She descended the stairs, her gaze fixed not on the crowd—
—but on the man with the wine in his hand.
Cael stood near the edge of the ballroom, still watching the spot where the servant girl had disappeared. His thoughts were fractured—caught between the rising pressure of the shards, Maire's absence, and the quiet pull of something stirring in his bones.
He didn't notice the shifting of the crowd until it was too late.
A space had opened. Not dramatically, not with announcement or fanfare—but with deference. A hush rippled subtly through the nearest nobles. Heads dipped, bodies shifted. Cael turned his head—and found himself face to face with Princess Thalia.
She walked toward him with eerie calm, like a dream made flesh, gown gliding silently across the marble. Her eyes were fixed on him—not in the way royalty looked at strangers, but in the way someone looks at something that shouldn't exist.
Her presence washed over him like a stormcloud descending.
Then she reached out.
Her hand moved slowly, fingers extended, as if she meant to touch him. Not a greeting. Not etiquette. Something else entirely. As if drawn to him by instinct, or memory
Cael tensed, startled, caught between movement and hesitation.
And that's when Rhosyn stepped between them like a blade from the shadows.
Her hand intercepted Thalia's wrist—not roughly, not disrespectfully, but firmly.
"Forgive me, Your Radiance," Rhosyn said with a smile that didn't touch her eyes. "But my date is easily overwhelmed by beauty. Especially royal beauty. I fear if you touch him, he might actually die from the experience."
Thalia blinked, expression unreadable. Her gaze didn't leave Cael—not even for a second.
"He's… familiar," she murmured. "I've seen you before. Haven't I?"
Cael tried to speak, but his mouth was dry. Something inside him echoed with her words. She hadn't seen him before. But some part of her had.
Rhosyn's grip on Thalia's wrist softened, but she leaned in slightly. "A lot of faces blend together in a palace, Your Radiance. You probably mistook him for a noble from the northern provinces. He has that dull expression."
Thalia pulled her hand back, still watching Cael. "Maybe…"
Then, as if some inner voice reminded her of where she was, the princess turned gracefully and walked away—back into the tide of silk and masks, disappearing once more behind the weight of her title.
Only when she was gone did Cael exhale.
Rhosyn turned to him, voice low and sharp. "What in the void was that?"
"I don't know," Cael murmured.
Rhosyn frowned.
Rhosyn was still watching the direction the princess had gone, lips pursed, hand twitching near the concealed blade at her waist. Cael, however, wasn't looking at Thalia anymore.
He was looking for her—the servant girl with the soft step, the one whose hand brushed his with a weight far heavier than flesh.
The shard had sung in that brief touch.
"She's one of them," Cael murmured under his breath, eyes scanning the ballroom for the splash of brunette hair among the swirling gowns and liveried attendants.
Rhosyn turned back to him. "Who?"
"It's nothing"
Rhosyn gave him a sideways glance, tone half-mocking. "What, already chasing the next girl now that the princess lost interest?"
Cael didn't answer her sarcasm. He took a step back, the tightness in his chest growing sharper.
"I need to follow her," he said. "Stay here. If I don't come back in ten minutes—"
"I'm not staying anywhere if you're running off to get killed."
Cael placed a hand on her shoulder, steady but brief. "Rhosyn. Please. Just stay. Watch the floor, cover Maire if she does something stupid."
She narrowed her eyes at him but didn't argue further. "Ten minutes," she said. "And if you're not back, I'll assume the worst and come drag your corpse out myself."
Cael gave her a small nod, already moving.
He slipped through the edge of the ballroom, avoiding the grand pillars and lit arches, his steps silent. Nobles and guests were too caught up in music and wine to notice one more shadow passing through. He made his way to where the servers gathered—plated trays, half-emptied goblets, murmured orders from gold-laced stewards. It was there, at the edge of the side corridor, that he spotted her again.
Brunette hair tied up. Slender form. Silver tray in hand. She moved with the practiced grace of someone trained to be invisible. But Cael saw her.
And more importantly—he felt it.
The Worldheart shard hummed again, like a thread pulled taut between them.
She disappeared down the servants' corridor, past the velvet curtain, vanishing into the back halls of the palace.
Without hesitation, Cael followed.
The air grew colder, quieter. The laughter and music dulled behind the heavy walls, replaced by muffled footsteps and the clatter of dishes. He quickened his pace, careful not to alert the others—until he turned a corner and found nothing but empty space.
No footsteps.
No servant girl.
No shardbearer.
She was gone.
Cael paused in the silence of the service hall, eyes scanning the dim corridor. His pulse was steady—but his thoughts were not.
Who was she?
Why was she hiding?
And why, if she bore the shard, was she still pretending to be just another servant?
The corridor was quiet, save for the distant sound of clinking glassware and the rush of servants. Cael moved like a shadow, ears tuned to the echo of soft steps, his eyes adjusting quickly to the dimness.
He followed where he thought the servant girl had gone, trailing through a hallway that twisted behind the grand ballroom. The air smelled faintly of candle smoke, sweat, and the lingering scent of roast meat.
But then—he heard something else.
Voices.
Low. Sharp. And not speaking like nobles or staff. Cael flattened himself against the stone wall, inching closer to an iron-banded door slightly ajar.
Inside, he saw them.
A group of six. Rough clothes beneath servant coats. Blades hidden in baskets and bundles of linen. One man held a palace schematic on a scroll, pointing at marked halls near the royal chambers.
"We grab the girl when the king gives his speech. No mistakes," one of them whispered, voice like gravel. "Two of you cover the east wing. The rest of us flank the garden balcony. We move when the bell tolls."
"And the guards?" another hissed.
"Dead men. Just like the crown."
Cael's jaw clenched. Rebels. Just like the old farmer at the gate warned him. Only this wasn't drunken tavern talk. This was real. Precise. Planned.
They weren't just here to make a statement.
They were going to kill the royal family and kidnap the princess.
And Thalia is one of the shardbearers—
He was already moving.
Cael retraced his steps through the winding corridors, slipping past staff and guards, emerging again near the ballroom archway. Music swelled again, drowning the sound of his boots against marble as he crossed toward Rhosyn, who was nursing her drink and making a show of being amused by the nobility around her.
Her expression shifted the second she saw his face.
"Let me guess," she said quietly as he reached her side. "The brunette stabbed you and vanished in a puff of smoke."
"Worse," Cael said, voice low. "I found rebels. In servant garb. They're planning to abduct or kill the royal family."
Rhosyn blinked once, smile fading. "You're serious."
"They've got weapons and a route. It's happening tonight—when the king gives his speech."
Rhosyn's eyes flicked toward the thrones. The queen was speaking softly to a foreign diplomat, the king still seated like a sculpture carved from pride. Princess Thalia stood just beside them, distracted—but glowing, radiant, unaware.
"Timing's perfect," Rhosyn muttered. "Everyone's drunk, guards are relaxed, and the nobles wouldn't even notice until their wine stopped flowing."
Cael nodded. "I need to find Maire. Now. Whatever she's planning with Thalia—she needs to be warned."
Rhosyn tossed back the rest of her wine and set the goblet down.
"I hate palace politics," she said. "They're messier than back-alley deals and smell like perfume trying to cover a corpse."
Then she looked at him.
"Then let's go"
"No you stay"
"What?"
Cael leaves Rhosyn behind, moved swiftly, cutting a path through the ballroom's gilded chaos, his eyes scanning the crowd for any sign of white hair or ice-blue fabric. Rhosyn matched his pace, skirts swishing subtly with each purposeful step.
Then he stopped.
She nearly bumped into him.
"Rhosyn," he said, turning to face her. His voice was calm, but edged with urgency. "You don't need to come any further."
She raised a brow, her lips already half-curved into sarcasm. "Excuse me?"
"This is more than pickpocketing nobles. You're a thief—not a fighter. I've already dragged you too far into this. The rebels are going to strike the throne, and I need to get to Maire before she starts something we can't undo."
Rhosyn folded her arms. "And let you run into an armed rebellion alone? How noble."
"Rhosyn—"
"I know what I am," she snapped, voice low but sharp as flint. "I'm a thief. I take things. But don't mistake that for cowardice."
Cael hesitated, watching her.
She leaned in slightly, eyes locking with his. "You want the princess? So do I. Maybe I don't care what you think—but that necklace is the biggest mark in this entire godsdamned ballroom."
Her tone shifted then, softening just enough to feel real.
"And let's be honest—you'll have a hard time doing this without someone who knows how to slip through walls without leaving footprints."
Cael stared at her for a beat.
Then nodded.
"Alright," he said. "But stay close. If this goes sideways, you leave. No heroics."
She gave him a crooked smile. "Please. I only do heroics if there's gold at the end."
They pushed through the crowd together once more—two figures in borrowed finery, moving against the tide of music and masquerade.
Somewhere beyond the ballroom, Maire was already hunting the princess.
And the rebels were waiting for the bell to toll.
The palace beyond the ballroom was a maze of marble and shadow, an endless coil of side corridors, curtained galleries, and servants' passages half-hidden behind ornate tapestries. Cael had trained eyes, sharp instincts—but subtlety had never been his strongest trait. Every servant he passed gave him a suspicious glance, and the guards began to eye him longer with each hall he crossed.
He clenched his jaw. Too slow. Too loud. Too visible.
Beside him, Rhosyn moved like water—gliding past stewards and noblemen with casual indifference, occasionally flicking her eyes to someone who seemed out of place, or listening in on whispered conversations while pretending to admire a nearby painting.
After a few turns, she clicked her tongue.
"We're never going to find her at this pace," she muttered. "She's quiet. Smarter than you look. She'll be where the guards are thinnest, but still close to the target."
Cael frowned. "Any ideas?"
Rhosyn grinned. "Dozens."
Without another word, she stepped away and vanished into a cluster of loitering courtiers. Cael watched her go, unsure whether to feel relieved or more anxious. He leaned against a stone pillar, feigning nonchalance as he scanned the hallway beyond.
Five minutes passed.
Then ten.
Just as Cael began to suspect something had gone wrong, a whisper touched his ear.
"Library wing. Second floor. West end balcony. A white-haired ice sculpture asked for directions from a servant boy and paid in actual silver."
Rhosyn stood behind him again, her dress unwrinkled, her smirk intact.
"Hard to miss a woman like her," she added with a wink. "Even the stable hands were gossiping."
Cael exhaled. "You're disturbingly good at that."
"I am disturbingly good at a lot of things."
They moved quickly now—past the music, deeper into the halls where the tapestries grew older and the air colder. Here, the palace quieted, fewer nobles roamed, and the flickering torches barely reached the vaulted ceilings.
"She's close," Cael murmured. "I can feel it. —it's faint, but she's there."
Rhosyn drew a dagger discreetly beneath her sleeve. "Let's just hope we reach her before the rebels do."
As they turned the last corner, Cael's eyes narrowed. A balcony door was slightly ajar. The faint sound of voices—Thalia's, unmistakable—and another, colder one, likely Maire's.
He reached for the hilt at his side.
The storm was about to break.