The chamber was still — only the faint glow of the hearth and the rhythmic tick of the clock breaking the silence. I had been sitting there for hours, the same way I had sat over countless treaties and coded letters, trying to read meaning in every flicker of ink.
Now, it was a man's breathing I was trying to interpret.
A soft, strained inhale.
A shift in the blankets.
Then his eyes opened.
Not abruptly — not in alarm — but in slow, calculated awareness.
The kind of awakening that belonged to someone who never stopped listening, even in sleep.
His gaze found me almost instantly.
No panic. No confusion. Just... focus.
Those eyes were the color of tempered steel — pale, storm-gray, clear enough to unsettle. The kind of eyes that looked through you instead of at you.
For a moment, neither of us spoke. I let him see that I wasn't afraid. He let me see that he was deciding if I should be.
"You're awake," I said quietly, keeping my tone neutral.
He didn't answer. His expression didn't shift, though I saw his hand flex beneath the sheets, as if testing whether he was still chained. He wasn't. I'd made sure of that — though part of me wondered if I should've left the shackles.
"You're in the Evandelle Palace," I continued. "You were found injured near the northern forest. You're safe — for now."
Still nothing.
He blinked once, slow, deliberate. His breathing steadied, but his silence was a wall.
Fine. Two could play that game.
"You can glare all you like," I murmured, leaning back in the chair. "But it won't make me go away. My father wants answers. I want answers. You'll have to give one of us something eventually."
He turned his head slightly toward the window, gaze flicking to the pale streaks of morning filtering through the curtains. His jaw tightened — not in defiance, but restraint. I could feel it, the Aether humming faintly between us.
He was thinking. Calculating. Measuring what to reveal.
I sighed softly. "All right. You don't have to tell me everything. Just one thing."
No response.
I tilted my head, meeting his gaze again. "If you don't want to talk, at least give me a name to call you. It's rather impolite to refer to you as 'the unconscious man I dragged out of the forest.'"
For a long moment, I thought he'd ignore me entirely. Then — his lips parted, rough with disuse.
"...Ray."
The word rasped from him like something dragged from stone — brief, deliberate, unadorned.
"Ray," I repeated, testing it. "That's not a common name here."
He said nothing, but his eyes flickered — faint amusement, or warning, I couldn't tell.
"Fine, Ray it is," I said, pushing myself up from the chair. "You can keep your secrets. For now. But understand this — I don't bring people into my home without reason."
That made him look at me again. Just slightly — but I caught the faint narrowing of his eyes, the subtle shift of his shoulders, as if the name Aether struck something buried.
Before I could press further, a quiet knock sounded on the door.
A servant's voice. "Lady Zelene, the Duke requests your presence."
Of course he does. Father never waited long when it came to potential disasters.
I gave Ray one last look. He watched me go — silent, unreadable, but entirely aware.
Something in me whispered that his silence wasn't defiance.
It was discipline.
As I stepped out into the corridor, I let out a slow breath. The Aether still thrummed faintly, pulsing in quiet warning.
Whoever he was, Rowan wasn't just a fugitive.
He was a piece of something larger — something the Aether wanted me to see, even if I wasn't ready to understand it yet.
And that terrified me more than his silence ever could.
---
The corridor was hushed, bathed in the gray hush of early morning. Servants lingered at the edges of the marble hall, heads bowed, their steps softened by routine. The air smelled faintly of cypress oil and candle wax — the scent of the palace when it woke before its people did.
By the time I reached the council chamber, the heavy doors were already open.
My father stood at the far end, posture straight, shoulders squared beneath his navy coat. He didn't need a crown to command presence; Alaric Evandelle was authority embodied — every gesture measured, every silence deliberate.
Mother sat near the window, her hands folded neatly in her lap. Seraphine was all elegance and steel — the kind of beauty that didn't fade, only sharpened with time. She looked up when I entered, and though she smiled, there was a flicker in her eyes — relief, perhaps, that I hadn't vanished again before dawn.
Caelan leaned against the mantel, idly spinning a silver coin between his fingers. His eyes found mine first, amusement ghosting his lips.
"Morning, little storm," he said softly. "You look like you've been up all night again."
Elara snorted from the couch. "Because she has. I heard her pacing near the west wing. What were you doing out there, Zel?"
"Couldn't sleep," I lied easily, sliding into a seat beside Mother. "The Aether was restless."
Father's gaze flicked to me — sharp, perceptive. He didn't comment, but I saw the muscle in his jaw tighten ever so slightly. He knew me too well.
He cleared his throat, turning his attention to the table before him, where a sealed parchment lay open beside the family crest.
"A messenger arrived at dawn," he began. His tone was calm, but there was weight in it. "The head of Dravenhart has passed away."
The room went still.
Seraphine drew in a slow breath. "Lord Ardent?"
Alaric nodded once. "Yes. Late last night. His son, Kael, now inherits the title. The council expects our presence at the funeral rites. We'll leave by midday tomorrow."
Caelan's coin stilled mid-spin. "Dravenhart," he murmured. "That's... unexpected."
Elara frowned. "He wasn't that old, was he?"
"No," Father said quietly. "And that's what concerns me."
He began to pace slowly, the sound of his boots muted against the rugs. "The Dravenharts have always held control of the northern trade routes. Their alliances... delicate at best. Kael will be under immense pressure to hold his borders and his father's seat. Our attendance will send a message of stability."
"Or curiosity," Caelan muttered.
"Both," Alaric admitted. Then his eyes turned toward me. "Zelene."
The sound of my name drew me straighter in my seat.
"You'll come with us," he said. "I'll need your eyes and instincts. You notice things others don't."
My fingers curled around the edge of my sleeve. I nodded once. "Of course."
But there was something else beneath his words — a flicker of warning, unspoken but unmistakable. He wasn't just thinking of Dravenhart politics. He was thinking of Ray.
Mother rose gracefully, touching his arm. "You've barely slept, Alaric. We can discuss preparations after breakfast."
He hesitated, then exhaled. "Very well. But one thing before we adjourn."
His gaze landed on me again — gentler now, but still edged with command.
"Zelene," he said, lowering his voice. "About the man you brought in last night."
Elara sat up, intrigued. "What man?"
"No one," Father said sharply, before I could speak. The room froze.
He turned back to me, his tone low but firm. "No one outside this family must know. Not yet. Not a word to the staff, not to the guards, not even to the Council aides who'll travel with us."
Seraphine frowned slightly, though she didn't question him aloud. Caelan's eyes met mine, curiosity written all over his face — but even he knew better than to pry when Father used that tone.
Alaric took a slow breath. "You did the right thing bringing him here. But until we know who he is and why he was near our borders, he stays a secret. Do you understand?"
I met his gaze. "I do."
He studied me for a heartbeat longer, as if searching for hesitation. Then, softer:
"Good. Because if anyone learns what you're capable of — what you did — they'll stop at nothing to use it."
The room felt suddenly smaller. The air heavier.
He wasn't wrong. The Aether's pulse inside me still hadn't settled since I'd touched Ray's skin. The Gift reacted to him — not like a threat, but like recognition. And if the wrong people discovered that, no title or bloodline could protect me.
"Understood," I said again, quieter this time.
Father nodded once, satisfied. Then, with the conversation closed as swiftly as it had begun, he turned toward the doors. "We'll leave at first light tomorrow. Prepare yourselves."
As the family dispersed — Elara whispering something to Caelan, Mother casting me a knowing glance — I lingered by the window, staring out toward the mist-veiled forests that bordered Dravenhart's lands.
Ray's name still echoed in my mind like a cipher waiting to be solved.
And beneath the distant hum of the Aether, something colder stirred — the quiet certainty that our paths weren't coincidence.
Not his wound.
Not my Gift's reaction.
Not the timing of a nobleman's sudden death.
Everything was moving toward something.
And Father's fear — that my power would one day make me a pawn —
felt closer than ever.