Once, there was a person with a dream—distorted, unclear, shaped by jealousy and ego.
Some called it ambition. Others called it madness. They told him he could never reach it.
He himself never knew what it truly was. At times, it seemed like power. At others, money. Sometimes knowledge, sometimes greatness, sometimes even love. Yet in his heart, he thought it was nothing more than greed.
At night, he cried and cursed the gods.
He compared himself endlessly—against those who worked harder than him, and against those who had everything from the start.
He worked, struggled, and still blamed the gods for the burden he carried—his weakness, the flaw the gods had cursed him with.
He was kind, but convinced himself that kindness was only a mask for greed.
He ran from responsibility, yet deep down, he knew the truth: no matter how far he fled, he would always return to the same place.
He longed to end it all. But the courage to do so never came.
He asked himself what the end would look like—
and when it would come.
Would it be silence, or fire?
Would it arrive by his own hand, or the hand of fate?
Would it end in darkness, or in a light he could never reach?
No answer came. Only the endless echo of the question itself.
But who is he? Me? You? Or someone else entirely—someone neither of us knows?
"What…" Vaelen jolted awake, his voice rough. "Damn that dream."
Morning pressed against the room in quiet layers. Pale light filtered through the curtains, dust motes dancing lazily in the sunbeams. The air smelled faintly of ink and old parchment, the lingering smoke of last night's fire clinging to the walls. Outside, a sparrow trilled once, sharp against the muffled bustle of servants already stirring in the courtyard.
A dry laugh cut through the stillness.
"Who gives that kind of book to a ten-year-old girl? And who reads it aloud to a baby?"
Vaelen let out a low groan. "Last night I had to spill everything to Nyssara. And now? Got this fancy little ornament strapped around my wrist—supposed to stop me from casting. Not just one, either. Four. Both wrists. Both ankles. Like I'm some prisoner on display."
He lay flat on his bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling as though it might finally hand him an answer.
And if that wasn't enough—how in the hells am I supposed to arrange this banquet?
Not that the banquet itself really mattered. That was noise.
What gnawed at him was the plan.
The fifth plan.
The one they'd forced into his hands.
They never even told me what the other four were. In case something leaks, they said. So here I am—blind, muzzled, under his hawk eyes like some obedient little heir.
He shut his eyes, breath pushing hard through his nose.
I can slip past anyone else. But not her.
She sees through everything. Every step. Every breath.
Her presence clung to him even now, a weight just outside his door. Silent. Unflinching. Guarding him like he was some fragile princeling—when he knew damn well he was the snake in the garden.
Unpredictable. That's what she was.
Didn't care for money. Didn't even want it. She just… watched. Like it was a game with rules only she understood.
And because of her, he hadn't even been able to attend the last planning meeting.
He rolled onto his side, gaze narrowing at the door.
I won't get anywhere like this. Not with her shadowing me.
Maybe I need to learn her instead. Learn how she moves. What she wants.
Find the cracks in her armor… before she finds mine.
And as if on cue, a sound broke the silence.
The faintest shuffle of boots against stone.
Vaelen's eyes narrowed.
She was still there.
Waiting.
Watching.
Guarding him, of all people.
The thought tightened around his chest like an iron band. He almost laughed at the absurdity of it—but the sound stuck in his throat, smothered by the weight of her presence seeping through the doorframe like smoke.
He rolled onto his back again, covering his face with one hand.
Guarding me. Or keeping me caged.
With a sharp exhale, he swung his legs off the bed and stood. His joints ached faintly, the aftertaste of the Monolith Art still gnawing at his body. He dragged a hand down his face, then walked to the door, every step echoing softer than he intended.
Another day, another act. I'll try showing her I don't need guarding—but last time, that backfired. And firing her won't do me any good.
He leaned down, peering through the narrow strip beneath the door. A pale sliver of light spilled through, catching the edge of boots planted firmly on the marble. Above them, the faint outline of a shadow stretched long across the hall. Velza. Standing tall. Always there.
His gaze shifted further—past her form, to the portrait hanging nearby. The painted likeness of himself as a boy… beside his dead sister. Dust clung faintly to the frame, yet the eyes in the painting gleamed, unblinking. Watching.
He straightened quickly, brushing dust from his shoulder. "Here we go."
The door creaked open.
Velza stood just as he expected—back straight, gaze cast downward, yet clearly adrift in thought. Her lips were slightly parted, brows faintly knit, as though she wrestled with something far away.
"Hey," Vaelen called.
No reply.
"Heeey."
Her head jerked slightly, eyes snapping into focus. "Yes, your highness—sorry for—"
"No worries. You're also human. And… thanks for saving me."
The words slipped out heavier than he meant them, weighted by exhaustion and honesty.
Velza froze. Her eyes widened, lashes trembling for a moment. The fire-hardened calm she wore like armor cracked—just a little. Surprise rippled across her face, leaving her almost vulnerable.
"It's… my duty, your highness," she replied at last, voice softer, almost unsteady.
"Yeah, I know. And I'm sorry for being rude to you earlier. I thought you were just—" he hesitated, then forced the words out, "—another pair of eyes sent by my father."
"Oh, no, your highness," she said quickly, shaking her head, sincerity ringing in her tone. "That's not true."
"Then tell me—why do you keep going to the capital?"
"You shouldn't worry yourself with that, your highness."
"Well, now I'm worried. So tell me."
"I… return to my dorms, your highness."
Vaelen's brows furrowed. "Why?"
Velza hesitated, her gaze flicking toward the far window as though the glass might offer her a safer answer. "Because I don't belong here. Not really. No one notices me when I stay, so I leave. The dorms are… quieter. At least there, I can sit down to a meal without feeling like I'm intruding."
Her words carried no bitterness, only a weary acceptance, like someone long used to slipping through the cracks.
For a moment, silence hung thick between them.
Vaelen's throat tightened. My servants are crueler than me… to a person who works for my father.
He bowed his head, shame burning his cheeks. "Forgive me. I'm ashamed of myself. If you want to punish me, please do. Please—honor me by allowing me to treat you with a meal."
A smile ghosted across Velza's lips. Small, fleeting—but real. He saw it even as his head hung low.
Yeah… go on ahead, a thought flickered in his mind, almost fond.
Her voice followed, lighter than before. "Then your punishment will be to treat me the same way you treat your other servants… your highness."
Vaelen huffed a weak laugh, words slipping out too quietly. "And here I thought you'd be devious."
"What was that?"
"Nothing," he muttered. Then, louder: "Let me treat you first. Then we'll talk."
The hall filled with small sounds—the distant crackle of torches, the faint cool draft winding through the old stone, the whisper of fabric as Velza shifted her stance. For once, it wasn't suffocating.
It was almost… normal.