Morning returned to the palace without ceremony.
It always did—slipping through the high windows, touching stone and silk and skin with equal indifference. But the palace, for all its composure, had begun to behave differently. Not in ways that could be measured. In pauses. In glances held a fraction longer than protocol allowed. In the subtle rearrangement of quiet.
Illyen felt it as he dressed.
The mirror reflected him faithfully: the familiar fall of pale hair, the composed lines of his face. And yet there was an undercurrent now, a depth behind the reflection that did not belong to this lifetime alone. It was not memory—not yet—but readiness. As though something within him had stood up and stretched, testing its reach.
He fastened the clasp at his collar and exhaled.
Not a sigh.
A decision.
When he stepped into the corridor, Cael was already there.
He leaned against the stone, posture unguarded in a way few ever saw, crown absent, dark hair tied back loosely. He looked up as Illyen approached, expression easing—not into a smile exactly, but into something open.
"You didn't sleep," Illyen said.
Cael shrugged. "I rested."
Illyen arched a brow.
Cael's mouth curved. "I lay still long enough for the palace to decide I wasn't causing trouble."
"That must have taken hours."
"Decades," Cael agreed gravely.
They fell into step together, no space left between them this time. The halls seemed to accept it. The banners did not stir in protest. The light did not dim.
"What happens today?" Illyen asked.
Cael considered. "Officially? Council session. Trade petitions. A letter from the western border that will pretend not to be urgent."
"And unofficially?"
Cael glanced at him. "Elara is opening the lower archives."
Illyen's pulse answered before his thoughts did. "The sealed wing."
"Yes."
"The one no one admits exists."
Cael nodded. "The one the Veil never fully touched."
They descended into the quieter levels of the palace, where footsteps softened and voices learned restraint. Guards straightened as they passed, salutes crisp but eyes uncertain. Not hostile. Not reverent.
Expectant.
The sealed wing lay beyond a door of unmarked stone. No sigils. No wards visible to the eye. And yet the air before it carried weight, as though it remembered being asked to keep secrets and had never been released from the task.
Elara waited there.
She stood with her hands folded, staff resting against her shoulder, eyes distant as if she were listening to something that had not yet spoken aloud.
"You feel it," Illyen said.
Elara inclined her head. "The Veil resists attention. It always has. But it no longer resists you."
Cael's jaw tightened. "That's not comforting."
"It isn't meant to be," Elara replied. She turned to Illyen. "Before we proceed, you should know—memory may come in fragments. Not in order. Not gently."
"I know," Illyen said.
"You may feel anger."
"Yes."
"Grief."
"Yes."
"Love," Elara said quietly, "that does not belong to this hour."
Illyen met her gaze. "All love belongs to some hour. Even if it's not this one."
Something like approval flickered across her expression.
She placed her palm against the stone. The door did not open.
Instead, it listened.
"Veils are not walls," Elara said softly. "They are agreements."
The stone shifted—not with sound, but with permission. A seam appeared, widening just enough to allow them passage.
The air beyond was cool and dry, scented faintly of dust and ink and old magic. Shelves lined the walls, stacked with records that had been deliberately misfiled, mislabeled, or simply forgotten.
Illyen stepped inside and felt it.
The corridor of memory stirred.
Not rushing. Not dragging him forward.
Waiting.
"These are the years the palace pretends did not matter," Elara said. "Edicts annulled. Names stricken. Events recast as accidents."
Cael's voice was steady. "And truths?"
Elara gestured to a long table at the center of the room. "Laid bare. If one knows how to look."
Illyen approached the table. Upon it lay a single volume, bound in dark leather, unadorned. No title. No sigil.
He did not touch it.
Yet.
"What is this?" he asked.
"The record of divergence," Elara replied. "The first choice that required a Veil to survive."
Cael's breath stilled.
Illyen felt the pull then—not forceful, not violent. A recognition. As though the book had always known him and was only now permitted to admit it.
"I don't have to open it," Illyen said.
"No," Elara agreed. "You don't."
"But if I do—"
"The Veil will loosen."
Cael stepped closer. "How much?"
Elara did not look at him. "Enough."
Silence pressed in—not heavy, but attentive.
Illyen placed his hand on the book.
The contact sent a ripple through him, subtle but unmistakable. Not memory—still not memory—but alignment. Like a lock turning, not to open, but to acknowledge the correct key had arrived.
Images brushed the edges of his awareness.
A garden under moonlight.
A promise spoken too young to understand its cost.
A crown lying broken at the foot of a throne.
Illyen closed his eyes and steadied his breathing.
"I won't read it," he said at last. "Not today."
Cael's shoulders eased.
Elara watched him intently. "Why?"
"Because," Illyen replied, opening his eyes, "the Veil is already preparing to fall. I won't tear it down out of impatience."
Elara studied him for a long moment. Then she nodded. "Wisely chosen."
They left the book where it lay.
When they returned to the upper levels, the palace seemed to exhale.
News travels differently in places like this. Not through words, but through alignment. By midday, the council chamber was restless. Questions were framed carefully. Assumptions were made and quietly revised.
Illyen stood beside Cael as petitions were heard, his presence no longer ceremonial but structural. When he spoke, the room listened—not because it was required, but because something in the air leaned toward him.
At one point, a councilor faltered mid-sentence, gaze caught on Illyen's face.
"You've been here before," the man said without thinking.
Illyen inclined his head. "In many ways."
The session ended early.
By evening, the eastern terrace was quiet again.
Illyen stood among the wild roses, fingers brushing a petal torn by wind. The corridor of memory glowed faintly now—closer than before. Patient.
Cael joined him, offering silence before words.
"You didn't open the book," Cael said.
"No."
"Thank you."
Illyen smiled. "You would have stood with me if I had."
"Yes."
"But this," Illyen said softly, "this was something I chose for us."
Cael turned to him fully. "For us?"
Illyen met his gaze. "The Veil will fall. I will remember. But today—today I am still becoming. And I wanted to be that with you."
The light softened, settling into gold.
Somewhere deep beneath stone and spell, agreements shifted.
The future leaned closer.
And the Veil, for the first time, did not brace itself.
It listened.