Aeryn's first day as a member of the Crown Prince's personal guard began before sunrise.
The east wing was still wrapped in mist, silent except for the low murmur of guards changing shifts. She followed a steward through the curved stone halls, each corridor more lavish than the last. Embroidered banners hung like silk ghosts, and polished marble gleamed under torchlight.
Her new uniform was plain but clean—gray tunic, dark trousers, and a clasp with the silver insignia of the royal crest. It felt heavy, not because of the material, but because of what it meant.
She was no longer hiding in alleyways. She was no longer pretending to be a guard.
She was one.
Her first assignment was simple: accompany the prince to the council chamber and remain posted just inside the door. Listen. Observe. Say nothing.
The chamber itself was vast and circular, its ceiling lost in shadow. Twelve high-backed chairs ringed a stone table. The air smelled of parchment and politics.
Kael entered without fanfare, dressed in a sleeveless black tunic, his sword strapped across his back. Aeryn stood a step behind him, back straight, hands folded. She didn't look directly at him—she didn't need to. His presence moved like gravity.
The council was already assembled. Ministers, generals, scholars, and noblemen of varying age and arrogance.
But it was the man sitting nearest the throne who made Aeryn's skin prickle.
Prince Soren.
Kael's half-brother.
Born of the queen, polished by court, and known for his silver tongue and iron ambition. Soren was a mirror image of Kael in some ways—same dark hair, same royal posture—but the resemblance ended there.
Soren's smile was always too smooth. His eyes always too calculating.
"Brother," Soren drawled as Kael approached, rising from his chair with theatrical grace. "How good of you to join us. We were just discussing border tensions in the north. Though I'm sure your... ah, firsthand perspective will be invaluable."
Kael's gaze was cold. "If you'd read the reports I sent, you'd know the situation's deteriorating."
"Oh, I read them," Soren said lightly. "All twenty-seven pages. I was simply impressed by how often the word 'strategy' was used without an actual plan."
"Strategy involves not alerting the enemy to your moves with pompous speeches," Kael replied, voice clipped.
Soren's smile thinned. "And yet here we are—speechless but still losing supply caravans."
"The saboteurs use the same merchant routes your allies in Valten own. Convenient, don't you think?"
A ripple of tension spread through the room.
Soren chuckled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Careful, Kael. You might make the council think you don't trust your own blood."
Kael stepped forward, slow and deliberate. "Trust is earned. Not inherited."
A beat of silence.
Then, Soren looked at Aeryn with mock curiosity. "And who is your silent shadow today?"
Kael's eyes didn't leave his brother. "My personal guard."
Soren's brows lifted. "Interesting choice. He seems young. Green."
"He's sharper than most men twice his age," Kael said evenly. "And unlike many here, he knows when to stay silent."
A murmur of laughter. Half-nervous, half-amused.
Aeryn held her posture, unmoving. But inside, she catalogued every word, every glance. The power struggle wasn't veiled—it was staged like theater, and every seat was taken.
The rest of the meeting dragged on, filled with talks of military allocations, economic shifts, and the persistent threat from across the sea. But the true battle had already happened in the first fifteen minutes—between princes born of two mothers, walking two very different paths.
Later, as Kael dismissed the council and stepped into the corridor, Aeryn followed. He didn't speak until they were alone.
"You watched him," he said quietly.
"Yes, my lord."
"What did you see?"
"A falcon smiling like a dove," she said.
Kael stopped walking.
Then, very softly, he smiled.
"Good."