The summons comes exactly at the Stroke of Transition.
The great bells of Valcaryn chime…not a melody, but a heavy, metallic toll that signals the end of the Work Day and the beginning of the Lock. The sound presses down on the slave quarters, a physical weight. Every head bows in sync with the rhythm.
Liora is pulled from the line before the final echo dies. No name is spoken. No reason given. Two guards step forward…silent, armored, impersonal. One grips her arm; the other fastens a cold iron chain to the ring on her collar. The metal whirs faintly against her skin. Attend.
She does not resist. Resistance is spectacle. Silence is survival.
They walk her through corridors she has only heard whispered into fear. The palace changes as they ascend: less stone, more shadow. Fewer windows. True to the Law, there are no mirrors here; even the marble is matte, unpolished, so as not to reflect a single unauthorized image. The air thickens with the scent of burning cedar and the sharp, metallic tang of ink. It smells like a library and a tomb.
At the door to the Prince's chambers, the guards stop. One knocks once. Not twice. Never twice.
"Enter," comes the voice from inside. Low. Controlled. Unhurried.
The guards guide her in, release her, and step back. The door seals with a heavy thud, the sound of a vault locking.
Liora stands alone.
The chamber is vast, a cathedral of shadows. It lacks the gold and velvet of the lower courts; here, everything is dark wood and cold iron. The scent of cedar is stronger here, mixed with something else; masculine, dangerous, like rain on hot stone. And him.
The Prince stands near the window, back to her, hands clasped behind him. His royal robe is undone at the throat, a rare glimpse of the man beneath the Law. The Signet Ring gleams on his finger - black metal, etched with centuries of authority - before he slowly removes it and places it carefully on the table. Without the ring, he is not the Law. He is just the Prince.
Liora freezes. The Law of Gaze burns in her mind. She lowers her eyes immediately. She is not summoned to kneel, but instinct forces her down anyway.
"Stand," he says. The word lands like a command carved into bone. She rises.
"Closer."
She takes three careful steps forward and stops before the invisible boundary the Law of Proximity has taught her never to cross.
He turns. Up close, the Prince is worse. Colder. Sharper. His presence presses against her like water in a deep current. His eyes are not cruel but exacting, measuring her as if her weight in the world matters to him alone.
"You were punished today," he says.
"Yes, Your Sovereignty," she replies.
"Did you whisper?"
Half a breath passes. "Yes, Your Sovereignty."
"For what purpose?"
"I was warning another," she says quietly. "Told a young slave to keep her eyes down so she wouldn't be noticed by the High Lords."
The Prince studies her, gaze drifting over the tension in her shoulders. "And you thought that knowledge worth pain?"
"Yes, Your Sovereignty."
He moves closer, crossing the boundary. She does not step back. That is important - a silent declaration that while he may own her body, he has not yet broken her will.
"You are either foolish," he murmurs, "or dangerously principled."
He stops directly in front of her. The Law bends around him and shatters. He lifts a finger but does not touch her.
"Look at me."
Her breath stutters. Slowly, deliberately…she raises her eyes. Eye contact. The most intimate crime in Valcaryn.
Something flickers across his face…not anger, not desire. Recognition.
"You do not look away," he says softly. "Even when you should."
"I was commanded, Your Sovereignty," she replies, voice steadier than she feels.
A pause. "No," he says. "You were invited."
An invitation. Choice. Luxury. Forbidden.
He circles her once, hands behind his back, inspecting her like rare porcelain, deciding whether to protect it or shatter it.
"You will attend my chambers every third night," he says calmly. "Not as property. Not as punishment. You will sit, and listen. You will speak only when I allow it. You will learn how this palace truly works—beyond the laws written for obedience."
Her pulse roars. "Why me, Your Sovereignty?"
He stops in front of her. Close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body, the scent of cedar and rain-washed stone enveloping her.
"Because," he says quietly, "you already disobey in ways that do not scream."
His hand finally touches her, two fingers beneath her chin, lifting her face just enough to maintain the gaze. It is not possession; it is selection.
"You are still Crown property, and this isn't kindness," he adds, voice dropping an octave. "Do not insult me by mistaking it for such."
"I wouldn't dare, Your Sovereignty," she whispers.
A ghost of something like a smile touches his mouth. "Good. Then you may survive me."
He steps back, picks up the Signet Ring, and slides it onto his finger. The air shifts instantly. The man vanishes. The Crown returns.
"Return to your quarters," he orders. "And Liora—"
Her name. Spoken once. Softly. Illegally.
She freezes. The sound of her own identity is a physical weight.
"This does not happen again unless I allow it."
She leaves without looking back. Legs nearly give out once she hits the hallway. The whip hurt. The laws suffocated. But the Prince?
The Prince noticed. And in Valcaryn, being noticed is the most dangerous thing of all.