They reached the greenhouse.
The dome stood like a jewel tucked into the forgotten corridors of the southern palace, its walls entirely made of glass panes that shimmered in the soft morning light. The air was different here—warmer, more fragrant. Lush vines snaked across the walls and crept along the stone path leading to the entrance. Blooming orchids spilled from hanging baskets, their petals glistening with dew. Sunlight filtered in through the stained glass ceiling above, casting soft, kaleidoscopic shadows on the floor below.
At the center of it all sat a woman at a wrought iron table, the delicate metalwork twined with pale pink roses. Her posture was upright, regal, despite the simplicity of her clothes. She looked to be in her fifties, her face lined gracefully by time. The remnants of her once-black hair were now streaked with grey and white. She looked up as they entered.
Aiden didn't recognize her at first. But there was something—some lingering sense of familiarity that stirred in the back of his mind, a déjà vu clinging like mist on a spring morning. He'd seen her before. Not in person, no. But in portraits. In the occasional dusty archive of imperial records.
She didn't move to stand, nor did she greet Elliott formally. And Elliott, for his part, didn't seem to expect it. He merely inclined his head with the weight of routine acknowledgment.
"Empress Dowager," he said quietly.
The woman's gaze drifted to them. It wasn't warm—but it wasn't cold either. Her expression remained unreadable. Not hostile, but certainly not welcoming. She had the kind of presence that didn't need to speak to command attention. Even the birds nesting in the greenery above seemed to quiet.
And then it clicked.
Aiden inhaled sharply, realization dawning. Of course. That's why she looked familiar. This was the empress of the late emperor. Elliott's stepmother. The one the court barely spoke of anymore. She had been absent from public life for years, whispered about like a ghost wandering the empty halls of a forgotten palace.
Aiden pushed Elliott's chair closer to the table. He moved to help him shift into the chair beside it—Elliott could manage fine on his own, but Aiden's jaw was tight, hands just a little too firm in their grip. Elliott noticed it, but said nothing. He let Aiden help him. Perhaps for peace of mind. Or perhaps because he knew this conversation would demand more from him than physical effort ever could.
As if on cue, the servants entered the greenhouse, moving with graceful efficiency. Trays of fresh breakfast were placed on the table— the delicate porcelain cups of tea, steaming bowls of rice porridge, freaky baked bread, bacon and eggs. Once the food was set, the servants withdrew a respectful distance—close enough to be summoned, but far enough to not hear their conversation.
"So," the woman said finally. Her voice was dry, soft as sandpaper. "This is the boy you took in." Her eyes landed on Aiden with a glint of something that resembled scrutiny.
Aiden stiffened. He had not yet taken his seat, and remained standing behind Elliott's chair like a silent sentry.
Elliott reached for his sleeve, tugging gently. Then, without a word, he tilted his head toward the seat beside him.
Sit.
Aiden did.
Elliott's voice was calm when he spoke. "Aiden, this is Her Majesty, Empress Dowager Sydney. The late emperor's consort."
Aiden offered a stiff nod in greeting. It was all he could manage.
Sydney acknowledged it with little more than a flicker of her eyes.
"Let us eat first," she said coolly. "Breakfast is already late as it is."
Aiden's gaze sharpened. He did not share her languid patience. His shoulders remained tense, body coiled like a wire stretched too tight. But Elliott didn't protest, and so Aiden didn't either.
For the next fifteen minutes, there was only the clink of cutlery against porcelain and the distant chirp of birds outside. Aiden didn't taste a single bite—his mind was spinning.
This wasn't what he expected.
When Elliott said they were visiting someone, he assumed it would be a court official. A noble with leverage. A scholar. An old general.
Not her.
He hadn't even been sure the woman still lived in the empire.
He knew the story, though. Everyone did—at least the pieces the court dared to speak aloud. Sydney was not Elliott's mother. Elliott's mother had been Gabriella—a consort, not a wife. The daughter of a merchant. Low-born. An oddity in the palace, and a threat to those who were not. She had no noble blood to protect her, and knew the fate that awaited a complacent concubine: silence and insignificance. Gabriella had chosen neither.
The court had called her "The Viper."
A cruel nickname, but not unfitting. Her rise had been swift. Sudden. She'd ensnared the late emperor, winning his favor with unshakable resolve. And with that favor, she secured a future for her frail, sickly son. Elliott. A boy no one had thought would live long enough to sit on the throne.
Gabriella made many enemies on her way to the top.
One of them, clearly, was Sydney.
Sydney, who had been born noble. Sydney, who had the name and the pedigree but never the love. Her own child—a daughter—had been quietly married off at sixteen, far from the palace. Some said it was the emperor's will. Others whispered about a woman's voice whispering in his ear.
After Elliott's ascension, Sydney vanished. No court appearances. No public decrees. Some claimed she was dead. Others said she was living out her final days on some faraway estate.
But she was here.
"You're wondering why she's here," Elliott said softly, breaking Aiden's train of thought. His voice was thoughtful, almost amused. "And why we're meeting her."
Aiden didn't bother denying it.
The answer came not from Elliott, but from Sydney herself.
"Your emperor has been kind enough to let me live in peace here," she said, her tone neutral but her words edged with something darker. "Far away from the viper's nest he calls a court."
Her voice caught—barely—on the word viper.
Elliott's jaw flexed.
"I'll cut to the chase," he said, voice firm. "We require your assistance."
Her brow lifted. For the first time, there was a flicker of intrigue behind her eyes. "Oh? And what use could I possibly be to the great emperor?"
He ignored the jab. Took a breath. "You were there. When the Rosetornes fell."
The air shifted.
Sydney's fingers, which had been gently tracing the rim of her porcelain teacup, stopped. She went still.
Her gaze slid to Aiden. Studying him. Measuring.
"Ah," she said slowly. "So that is what this is about."
Then she looked at him—really looked. And her mouth curved into something that might have been a smile, if not for how humorless it was.
"You don't look like your father," she murmured. "Perhaps you take more after your mother. But the mannerisms..." Her gaze sharpened. "That's a stubborn set of jaw, if I've ever seen one."
Aiden's throat tightened.
"You knew him?" he asked.
"I knew enough," she replied. "And I've heard plenty about you, too." Her eyes narrowed, gleaming with something sharp. "Bodies along the border? You have a flair for theatrics, don't you?"
Aiden's fist clenched under the table. His head snapped toward Elliott on instinct.
Elliott was already looking at him—his gaze thoughtful, inquisitive.
Right. He hadn't been awake when the reports came in. He didn't know. Not truly. Not yet.
And still, he said nothing.