The morning light was weak, pale gold spilling through the stained-glass windows of the eastern hall. Kaelen moved through the corridors with careful steps, counting as always, though today the echoes sounded different — sharper, almost accusatory. He paused at each doorway, at each shadow, as if the walls themselves had begun listening.
The court was gathering. Not openly, not yet, but the undercurrents were visible even from the far end of the hall: whispers threading between pillars, glances darting too long, subtle shifts in posture that spoke more than any words could. Kaelen recognized them all. Every tilt of a head, every clasp of hands behind backs, each moment of hesitation — signs of factions forming, forming fast, faster than even the Queen had planned.
"She is not back on the throne," one voice muttered near the servants' gallery. Soft, careful, and yet it carried. "Why is she not reinstated? She is our Queen. Our—"
"Patience," another interrupted, older, sharper, with the voice of someone used to being obeyed. "The King decides, not rumor."
Kaelen's hands curled into fists at his sides. Patience. The word felt like an insult. The Queen's absence had already fractured the room, the court, the city. She had returned, she had been seen, and yet nothing was done. Nothing. Not by those who whispered, not by those who feared, not even by the King.
He stepped forward, deliberately. The murmurs dimmed slightly, as if the palace itself recognized him. Kaelen could feel it: the factions now had faces, names, intentions. The court split silently into those who wanted the Queen restored, those who believed her unfit, and those who simply waited, afraid of choosing wrong.
"You speak of order," he said aloud, though no one dared challenge him directly yet, "but what is order when the crown itself trembles beneath the weight of betrayal?"
A nobleman near the west entrance coughed. "Prince Kaelen—"
"Call me Kaelen," he said, voice sharp, abrupt. "Call me that and do not presume otherwise." His gaze swept the room, lingering on faces that dared to blink too slowly. Some flinched. Some nodded, carefully, masks in place.
Elenya's small voice rang suddenly from the back, though no one had expected her to speak. "Brother?"
He froze. Heart pounding. Her presence always reminded him of the fissure the Queen had left behind. Every word she spoke, even innocently, seemed layered with accusation, with truth he could not bear to confront.
"What do you want?" he asked, sharp and low.
"I…" Her words faltered. She glanced at the older nobles, then back at him, uncertainty flickering in her gaze. "I heard them talking. About her. About the Queen. About the throne."
Kaelen's fists clenched tighter. Rage. Fear. Something else — a nauseating mixture that made his stomach twist. He wanted to shake her, to make her understand that her very existence was a reminder of everything he had lost. But she was small. Fragile. Innocent.
The eldest sibling, who had been standing near the dais, stepped forward then, voice firm, cutting across the hall. "Kaelen! Stop! She is a child. She understands nothing!"
Kaelen's jaw tightened. Her words struck him, and yet they also irritated him. Yes, she was a child. But she was also the living emblem of the Queen's betrayal. Every movement, every glance she gave, reminded him of absence, of loss, of choices he could not undo.
He forced himself to release the tension in his hands, though barely. The Queen's daughter remained small, wary, shifting slightly as though ready to flee, yet not leaving. She wanted to belong somewhere, even if she did not know it yet.
"Who told you my name?" Kaelen asked suddenly, his eyes narrowing.
She flinched, surprise breaking across her features. "I… I just… heard it," she whispered.
"Who?" he pressed, stepping closer. Shadows pooled around him as the early sunlight angled through the windows, falling across the floor in strips of gold and green.
"I don't know!" she said, panic rising in her small voice. "I… I just…"
Kaelen felt the old fear resurface — fear he tried to cloak with anger — that someone, perhaps his mother, had reached into the corners of his life again. He could not trust the answer. He would not.
The court watched in silence. Not one noble dared speak, yet the weight of their scrutiny pressed down like stone. Factions shifted subtly: some leaning toward him, approving his authority and control; others leaning toward her, protective, seeing the child as innocent, as something beyond politics.
Kaelen turned abruptly, leaving her standing there, tiny and trembling. He did not look back. Each step he took echoed like a drumbeat, warning and promise in the same measure.
He did not forgive. Not her. Not the Queen. Not anyone who had left him with these choices to make.
And yet, somewhere beneath the fury and vigilance, he felt the first, faintest seed of dread: that in time, the Queen's absence might not be enough to stop her.
The factions would act. The court would fracture. And he — Kaelen — would be standing alone, watching, waiting, ready for the inevitable confrontation that had already begun in whispers and glances, in shadows and hesitations.
Because someone had told her his name. And that someone could only be the Queen.
The city outside moved on, indifferent, unaware. The palace held its breath. And Kaelen, Prince and witness, felt the first sharp crack of everything to come.