Morning entered the palace without ceremony.
Light slid through the high windows and spread itself carefully across the floors, stopping short of the deeper corridors where stone darkened with age. The boy woke already alert, as though sleep had been only a brief closing of the eyes. The faint shadow that had appeared the night before still clung to the far wall, thin and cautious, neither growing nor retreating.
He sat up slowly.
It was the first shadow that had not fled from him.
That fact troubled him more than the absence of chains ever had.
The door opened not long after. A different handler stood there this time, younger than the others, his expression disciplined but strained.
"You will walk today," the handler said. "You will observe. You will speak only if spoken to."
The boy nodded. Obedience was not difficult when one had nothing to gain from resistance.
They led him out of the palace and into the city above.
From the height of the central steps, the capital spread outward in careful design. Wide streets near the palace narrowed as they descended into districts built by necessity rather than plan. Stone gave way to clay. Clay to wood. Order softened into survival.
The boy had lived here all his life, but today the city felt altered, as though some veil had thinned.
He saw shadows everywhere.
They lay beneath doorways, pressed against rooftops, curled around fountains and statues. Some were old and settled, barely moving. Others were restless, newly formed, their edges sharp and hungry.
People moved among them with practiced ease.
A woman bartered for grain, her smile rehearsed. A shadow pooled at her feet, small but dark. A man praised the health of his aging father. His shadow stretched too far, trembling.
None of them noticed the boy watching.
None of them wanted to.
They stopped before a public square dominated by a tall stone platform. It was empty now, but the marks of frequent use were obvious. This was where announcements were made. Where truths were shaped before being released.
The Chancellor waited there.
"You see them more clearly now," she said without preamble.
"Yes," the boy replied.
"That is proximity," she said. "Once the truth touches something long buried, it brings others closer to the surface."
She gestured toward the square. "This is where agreement happens."
"Agreement to what."
"To forget," she answered.
She led him up onto the platform. From there the city looked smaller, quieter. The noise of daily life softened, as though held at a distance.
"Every declaration made here is constructed," she continued. "Not fabricated entirely. That would be inefficient. We use fragments of truth. Enough to anchor belief."
"And the rest."
"We soften it."
The boy turned toward her. "You mean you lie."
"Yes," she said simply. "With purpose."
Below them, a group of laborers gathered. One of the palace officials stepped forward and announced a delay in grain distribution. His voice was steady. Reassuring.
The truth was that the stores were nearly empty.
As he spoke, a shadow formed beneath the platform, thin at first, then thickening as murmurs spread through the crowd. The boy felt the familiar pressure in his chest, not pain this time but awareness.
The shadow was small.
Controlled.
"It will dissipate by nightfall," the Chancellor said. "The lie is temporary."
"And if the truth were spoken."
The Chancellor did not look at him. "The shadow would be larger. It would merge. Panic would follow. Starvation soon after."
The official finished speaking. The crowd dispersed slowly, grumbling but calm.
The shadow remained.
The boy watched it carefully. It pulsed once, then settled.
"You see," the Chancellor said. "This is governance."
They walked on.
They passed a school where children recited lessons in unison. Their voices carried phrases about honor and history, about noble founders and chosen land. The boy knew which parts were true. He also knew which were not.
Shadows clustered thickly around the building.
"Do they know," he asked. "The teachers."
"Yes."
"And they teach it anyway."
"They teach what preserves continuity."
The boy stopped walking.
"What happens when the continuity becomes the danger."
The Chancellor turned to face him. Her expression was patient, but her eyes were sharp.
"Then we adapt," she said. "Slowly. Carefully."
"Or you collapse," he said.
"That is the same thing," she replied. "From a certain distance."
They continued toward the lower districts.
Here, the city changed. The streets narrowed. The buildings leaned closer together. The air carried the smells of sweat, smoke, and unspoken fear. Shadows were thicker here, overlapping, merging briefly before separating again.
The boy felt their pull more strongly now. They pressed toward him, then recoiled, uncertain.
In a small courtyard, they stopped.
A crowd had gathered around a man standing on a crate. His voice was raised, his words sharp with anger.
"They tell us everything is fine," he shouted. "They tell us to wait. They tell us the kingdom endures. But look around you. Look at our homes. Look at our children."
Shadows surged beneath him, feeding on the fervor.
The handlers tensed.
The boy watched the man closely. Much of what he said was true. Some of it was not. But the truth within his words was enough to destabilize the rest.
A handler moved forward to intervene.
"Wait," the boy said.
The handler froze.
The Chancellor studied the speaker. "If he continues," she said, "this will become a nightmare."
"Yes," the boy agreed.
"And if we silence him."
"That will create another."
The man on the crate raised his voice higher. The shadow beneath him thickened, stretching upward like smoke.
The Chancellor made her decision.
She stepped forward and spoke calmly, firmly, naming the man as a representative of a newly formed council. She acknowledged his concerns. She promised action. She praised his courage.
The man faltered, confused.
The shadow wavered.
As the crowd murmured approval, it thinned, breaking apart into smaller fragments that slipped back into the cracks of the courtyard.
The danger passed.
The boy exhaled slowly.
"You redirected it," he said.
"Yes," the Chancellor replied. "We gave the truth a container."
"And if the container breaks."
"Then we build another."
They returned to the palace in silence.
That evening, the boy was brought again to the lower vaults. Not to the chained nightmare, but to a smaller chamber nearby.
"This one was born this morning," the Chancellor said.
Within the circle of runes lay a newly formed nightmare, still unstable, its shape flickering between shadow and substance. It reacted immediately to the boy, drawing inward, shuddering.
"It knows you," he said.
"It recognizes the threat you pose," she replied.
"Or the end," he said.
The Chancellor did not answer.
As they watched, the nightmare shifted, forming something like a face. Its mouth opened, and a sound emerged that was not quite speech.
Truth.
The boy staggered back as pain tore through him, sudden and intense. His vision blurred. The world narrowed.
The Chancellor caught his arm, steadying him.
"That is why you cannot remain uncontained," she said quietly. "Your presence destabilizes even what is already bound."
The pain faded slowly, leaving exhaustion behind.
They returned him to the room without shadows.
That night, sleep came fitfully.
He dreamed of a city without darkness. Of voices speaking freely. Of the ground cracking beneath the weight of it all.
When he woke, the faint shadow on the wall had grown thicker.
Not larger.
Stronger.
And far below, beneath layers of stone and story, the great sleeper turned once more in its dreaming, disturbed not by hunger but by recognition.
Something in the kingdom had begun to remember.