The palace watched me.
Not with eyes, but with awareness—walls humming softly beneath my palms, floors warm as living skin. Every step I took felt recorded, remembered. By the time I reached my chamber again, the silence had grown heavy enough to press against my ears.
I sat on the edge of the bed and forced my breathing to slow.
You are not his concern, I told myself.
You are a mistake. An anomaly. A problem waiting to be solved.
And yet he had said my name.
Not as a title. Not as a charge. As if it mattered.
A soft chime sounded outside the door. It opened without warning.
This time, it was not a demon.
It was him.
He did not enter immediately. He stood at the threshold, one hand braced against the stone, as though testing something invisible. The firelight traced the sharp lines of his face, the controlled power beneath his stillness.
"You were told to rest," he said.
"I wasn't told why," I replied.
His gaze lifted fully to mine. The air shifted.
"You cannot remain idle," he said slowly. "The realm reacts to the living. It will press against you until you fracture—or adapt."
"And which do you prefer?" I asked.
A pause.
"That depends," he said, "on what you become."
He stepped inside. The door sealed itself again, leaving us alone in a way that felt deliberate, not accidental. My pulse quickened despite myself.
"You will work," he continued. "Within the palace. Under my authority."
"Why?" I asked. "Why not destroy me and be done with it?"
His eyes flickered—just once.
"Because," he said quietly, "this realm has tried to consume you."
"And failed."
He stopped in front of me. Too close.
"You resist it," he said. "That should not be possible."
The heat returned, stronger now. It curled around my ribs, settled into my spine. I could feel him—not touching me, not invading—simply existing too near.
"I don't understand this place," I said.
"No," he agreed. "But you are not afraid of it either."
I lifted my chin. "Should I be?"
His gaze dropped to my mouth, then rose again just as quickly. Something unreadable crossed his face—frustration, restraint, something dangerously close to conflict.
"There is a rule," he said. "One law older than this throne."
I waited.
"The living do not form attachments here."
The words landed heavily between us.
"And what happens if they do?" I asked.
He exhaled slowly. "The realm punishes both parties."
Silence stretched.
"You speak as if it has happened before," I said.
"It has," he replied. "And it ended in ruin."
Something in his voice—final, scarred—sent a shiver through me.
"I don't intend to break your laws," I said.
His eyes held mine. "Intent does not matter."
He turned away abruptly, as if staying any longer would cost him something. At the door, he paused.
"You will begin tomorrow," he said without looking back. "You will be watched. By everyone."
"And by you?" I asked.
His voice was lower when he answered.
"Especially by me."
The door sealed behind him.
I stood frozen, my heart racing, his words echoing through my thoughts. I pressed my hand to my chest, trying to steady the unfamiliar warmth there.
A rule older than the throne.
The living do not form attachments here.
I didn't know when it had begun.
But somehow—without touching, without naming, without meaning to—
That rule was already cracking.