Rain came hard and sudden, a wall of silver that turned the palace gardens into a chorus of pounding drums. Zul was on his way back from the eastern gardens when the storm hit. He ducked under a colonnade and watched water sluice from the marble, listening to the sudden hush that followed thunder. The palace seemed smaller in the rain, compressed into this moment where only what was close mattered.
A servant rushed past him with a stack of linens and a worried look. "The guests from the southern gate are stuck," she called. "They seek shelter in the great hall."
As Zul turned, he saw movement ahead. A small delegation from one of the border towns had arrived unexpectedly and were being shown into a side chamber. With the corridors slick and the wind driving rain into corners, the household steward was arranging places for them. To Zul's surprise, Atlea, Mare, and Lya were summoned to receive the guests together. It was not common for all three to be present at such a mundane task. The storm had folded schedules into a single urgent hour.
They met him at the antechamber, three different energies converging under one strange necessity. Atlea stood composed with a wet book pressed against her chest, water dappling the hem of her sleeve in small dark spots. Mare wore her travel cloak and bore the scent of rain and metal, her hands still dusted with the grit of the training yard. Lya leaned against a pillar, hair loosely pinned, eyes bright as if the weather amused her.
"Zul," Atlea said without ceremony, her tone practical. "We will need someone to attend the guests and bring comfort where needed. You will accompany us. Keep records of what they ask and note anyone who seems unwell."
"Yes, Princess Atlea," he said, and felt a brisk satisfaction at being entrusted with something that mattered.
"Good," Mare said, her voice softer than it had been in the yard, as if rain softened edges in people too. "Stay close. Do not fidget. People fear strange faces in times of trouble."
Lya grinned at him and tapped his shoulder. "And do not look like a frightened servant. Smile if you can. It is useful."
They walked as a single, imperfect unit through corridors slick with rain. The delegation was small, weary, and grateful. The room they were shown into was warmed by a brazier and heavy curtains, a refuge from the storm. Zul moved among them, offering tea and blankets, his practiced quietness working like a balm. Atlea recorded names and grievances with precise, efficient questions. Mare listened to fears and soothed anger with practical offers of help. Lya drew stories from the delegation with a mischievous ease, turning sorrow into small laughter.
Watching them operate, Zul felt something sharpen inside him. Each princess met need in a different way. Atlea was a quiet architect of order, Mare a shield that took the immediate blows, Lya a light that made people forget fear for a few moments. He saw how their strengths complemented one another and how his presence threaded between them as both helper and witness.
A child from the delegation coughed and coughed again, small shoulders racking with fever. The mother was frantic. Atlea rose from her place and took the child into her lap with a steadiness that surprised Zul. She peeled aside a damp blanket and felt the small forehead. "We will bring him some broth and keep him warm," she said, voice soft in a way Zul had not heard often.
Mare moved at once, her hands deft and sure as she adjusted the blanket and fetched heated water. Lya produced a small charm from her sleeve and offered it with a grin that made the mother cry with relief. The room, for a moment, became a small circle of shared tasks and softened fear. Zul found himself handing bowls, pouring broth, and watching the way the three women leaned into competence and care.
At one point the rain beat harder, lightning flaring the windows. The steward apologized and excused himself to shush servants and secure the outer doors. There, with the sudden hush, something quieter passed between the four of them. No courtly roles for a heartbeat, just human proximity and the tension of the storm.
"You handled the child well," Mare said to Atlea, almost as if she needed to name what she had seen. Her voice held a rare tenderness.
Atlea met her gaze and only for a second let a soft exhale show. "We do what must be done," she replied.
Lya leaned forward, eyes bright and unguarded. "You three make a formidable kind of mercy," she said to Zul, then to them all. "We should remember that when we are not pressed by weather."
Zul smiled and felt something in him unclench. "I will remember," he said. "I will write everything down tonight."
After the guests were settled and the storm began its slow retreat, one of the older men from the delegation pulled Zul aside. His hands trembled as he offered a small woven token, the pattern faded by travel. "For the one who moved quietly and kept steady hands," he said, voice rough with gratitude. "May it keep you safe."
Zul took the token with both hands, the weight of it light but warm. He glanced at the three princesses. Atlea watched him with that cool scrutiny that weighed meaning. Mare nodded once with an almost invisible smile that felt like permission. Lya winked, her expression the most dangerous in its warmth.
Later that night when Zul returned to his small quarters, wet cloak hung to dry, he arranged his notes and placed the woven gift on his table. He read the pages he had traced with the names of the delegation, the small needs and the small mercies. His hand lingered on the token and then on the place where ink bled into the paper from writing fast.
The storm had given them a rare hour of closeness, not governed by courtly spectacle but by immediate human need. It had let him see Atlea's hidden softness, Mare's protective instinct, and Lya's way of lighting pain into something bearable. It had given him a woven token, a small proof that in the palace of power there were still rooms where simple kindness mattered.
He lay awake that night listening to the last of the rain, the token heavy enough to be a promise. Winning hearts, he realized, might mean tending to the small urgent things as much as it meant grand gestures. The way the three of them moved together in crisis held lessons he could not unlearn. He closed his eyes and let the memory of the warmed child and the soft exhale of Atlea carry him into the fragile, careful kind of sleep that follows a day when one has done something that mattered.