The silence that clung to Caelan as they exited the witnessing chamber was different than before.
Not oppressive.
But marked.
Every step echoed through the palace corridors with the hush of stone listening. Seraphyne walked ahead, her posture straight and precise, saying nothing. But something in her presence had changed—less guarded, yet no warmer.
She did not glance back as they walked.
Caelan finally asked, voice low, "That was really him. Wasn't it?"
Seraphyne didn't stop. "You heard him speak."
"I heard something," Caelan murmured. "Not like a voice. Like the world… cracked open."
"He does not speak often. And never without meaning."
They descended a spiraling hallway of polished black marble, the walls reflecting flickers of crimson flame. Caelan trailed a few paces behind, still reeling from the echo of the throne room. His skin buzzed faintly, and the pendant at his chest was warm again, though dormant.
"He called me guest," Caelan said. "What does that mean?"
Seraphyne paused at a junction. A guard in silver-trimmed armor bowed and opened a pair of ornate doors.
"It means you are under his protection," she said. "But do not mistake it for trust."
The doors opened into a new chamber—smaller, but no less grand. Rich darkwood panels framed the walls, and a long table of onyx stretched the length of the room. Bookshelves lined one side, filled with scrolls and ledgers. On the other, glass-paned windows looked out over a high balcony and the city of Noctisfall beyond.
Three individuals waited inside.
They were not dressed like nobility, nor did they carry themselves like courtiers. One wore traveling leathers dyed black with crimson accents; another bore armor inscribed with sigils; the third held a ledger and ink stylus, expression unreadable behind round spectacles.
Seraphyne nodded to them.
"This is the Ward Circle. You'll report to them before entering the public levels of the palace."
Caelan raised a brow. "Report?"
The woman in armor stepped forward, offering a half-bow. She had dusky skin and a single braid lined with silver thread.
"Not report. Prepare," she said. "We are your shield, not your jailor."
Caelan glanced at Seraphyne. "That makes it sound like someone needs to be shielded from me."
"Not from you," said the man with the stylus. "From the chaos your presence might provoke."
He closed the ledger and bowed slightly. "Lord Caelan Duskwither."
Caelan winced. "I'm not—don't call me lord. I'm not even sure who I am yet."
"Yet," Seraphyne echoed. "But the moment your name was spoken before the King, you ceased being no one."
The woman in leathers stepped forward now. Her eyes were gray, and her voice carried a strange accent. "Protocol requires that all guests of the Throne be assigned an escort, a seal of passage, and a sanctioned cloak. You've already received the King's word. That simplifies much."
Caelan looked down at the spiral still faintly marked beneath his shirt. "Does anything feel… simple to you?"
"No," said the armored woman. "But clarity isn't the same as ease."
The escort stepped aside, revealing a small black pedestal. Upon it lay a silver brooch—shaped like a spiral sun eclipsed by a crimson moon.
"This is the Ward-Sigil," the man with the ledger said. "It marks you as a guest under the King's protection. It does not grant you freedom to do as you please, but it will keep most fangs from testing your blood."
Caelan picked up the brooch, turning it between his fingers. It was cold to the touch, yet he felt something thrum faintly beneath the metal—like a heartbeat.
He fastened it to his cloak.
"Is this supposed to reassure me?" he asked.
"No," said Seraphyne, already turning toward the doors. "It's supposed to keep you alive."
---
The corridors beyond shifted again—less ceremonial, more functional. Yet they bore the same austere beauty: smooth obsidian floors, crimson silk banners, pale white fire burning in suspended iron orbs overhead. Guards stood at attention at every junction, and their eyes tracked Caelan with quiet intensity.
At last, they stepped through a rounded archway into a balcony of sorts—overlooking the vast inner sanctum of Noctisfall Palace.
Caelan froze.
Below them was a sprawling tiered forum, carved into a wide circle and descending like a basin of stone and light. Twelve banners hung from its rim—each bearing a sigil he recognized now as a Count Clan.
This was the Lower Court.
Vampires filled its terraces—clan emissaries, aristocrats, scholars, warlords, seers. Their voices echoed in hushed exchanges. And now, all eyes were turning toward the balcony where Caelan stood.
Seraphyne did not announce him.
She didn't need to.
The brooch on his cloak was enough.
A wave of whispers rose from below.
"He bears the seal…"
"The boy… Duskwither…"
"The spiral has returned…"
Caelan's stomach tightened. The pendant burned faintly again, as if sensing the weight of history pressing against him from all directions.
"Get used to that," Seraphyne said quietly beside him. "They will never stop watching."
"Because I'm a prophecy?" Caelan asked.
"No," she said. "Because you make them uncertain. And nothing is more dangerous to our kind than uncertainty."
---
They turned from the balcony and made their way into the eastern wing of the palace—one reserved, Seraphyne explained, for "non-aligned residents." It was quiet here. The walls bore no clan sigils, only subtle geometric patterns. The halls were narrower, the ceilings lower. Still opulent—but not flaunted.
Seraphyne opened a set of tall doors.
"This is your residence until the King says otherwise."
Caelan stepped into a suite of black-stone walls and warm light. A four-post bed stood beneath a canopy etched with stars. A fireplace of silver-veined stone burned with violet flame. There were bookshelves already filled, a small writing desk, a basin of water that reflected no image, and a single window overlooking what looked like a dark garden cloaked in mist.
He turned to her.
"Why are you helping me?"
"I am not helping," Seraphyne replied. "I am obeying."
"And if the King ordered you to kill me?"
She didn't blink. "Then I would not hesitate."
The silence hung between them like a blade.
"But he hasn't," she added. "So you live."
"For now."
"For now."
Caelan looked around once more.
"How long do I have before someone tries to prove I don't belong here?"
"You mean politically, magically, or physically?"
"...Yes."
Seraphyne gave a faint smile—but it didn't reach her eyes. "Then I'd start preparing now."
She turned to leave.
"Wait," Caelan said. "What am I supposed to do here?"
She paused in the doorway.
"Learn. Listen. And survive long enough for the King to decide whether your bloodline is curse… or crown."
The door clicked softly shut behind her.
Caelan stood in silence for a moment.
Then, finally, he walked to the window. The garden beyond pulsed with pale red light, the flowers blooming only when the wind stirred.
From somewhere deep beneath the stone floors, he thought he heard something move.
Something… old.
Watching.
Waiting.