The walk to the throne room felt like a parade where Evan was both the main attraction and the only one who hadn't gotten the script.
Servants bowed as he passed—some genuinely, some carefully, some from as far away as possible while still technically being in the same corridor. Guards snapped to attention, their armor clanking in unison. Courtiers in elaborate dress paused their conversations to watch him go by, their expressions ranging from curiosity to calculation to outright hostility.
The palace itself was a study in overwhelming opulence. Marble floors inlaid with gold in patterns that probably told stories if you knew how to read them. Tapestries that seemed to move when you weren't looking directly at them, scenes shifting and changing. Statues of past rulers that followed you with their stone eyes, their carved faces somehow managing to look judgmental. Crystal chandeliers that floated without chains, their candles burning with steady, magical flames that never flickered.
"Try not to look impressed," Emma murmured, walking beside him. "It makes you look provincial."
"I am provincial," Evan muttered back. "My province is called 'Not Having a Clue What's Happening.' It's a small province but very well-populated."
"You're a noble now. Fake it till you make it."
The throne room doors were twenty feet tall, carved from some dark wood that gleamed with polish and probably cost more than Evan's old house. They were covered in intricate carvings—scenes of battles, of coronations, of historical moments that probably meant something to someone. They swung open without a sound, revealing a chamber that could have housed a small village.
Actually, Evan thought, it could have housed several small villages. Comfortably. With room left over for a market square.
The throne room was vast—so vast that the far end was slightly hazy with distance. Columns lined the sides, each one carved from a single piece of marble and covered in gold leaf. Tapestries hung between them, each one the size of a building, depicting scenes from the kingdom's history. The floor was polished stone, so reflective that Evan could see the ceiling in it—and the ceiling was painted with a fresco that must have taken decades to complete, full of gods and heroes and events that probably had entire libraries written about them.
At the far end, on a dais of white marble, sat the throne. It was gold—actual gold, not just gold leaf—studded with gems that caught the light and threw it back in rainbow fragments. And in that throne sat Queen Elara the Second.
She was younger than Evan expected—perhaps in her forties, with sharp features and eyes the color of winter sky, pale and cold and seeing everything. Her hair was dark, streaked with silver, braided and coiled in a style that looked both practical and regal. She wore a gown of deep crimson, embroidered with gold thread in patterns that seemed to shift when Evan tried to focus on them—dragons, maybe, or phoenixes, or something else entirely.
To her right stood a man in military dress, medals covering his chest like a second skin. He was built like a weapon—all sharp angles and contained violence. To her left, an older woman in mage's robes, holding a staff that pulsed with soft light, her face lined with centuries of wisdom.
The room was full of people—nobles in their finest, arranged in loose ranks according to some hierarchy Evan couldn't begin to decipher. All of them were watching him. All of them had opinions they were not yet expressing.
Steward Armand announced in a voice that carried through the vast space without apparent effort: "Lord Evan Carter of House Carter, Your Majesty."
Evan approached the throne. He remembered Madame Genevieve's lessons: twenty-three steps from the door to the dais, then the bow. Exactly twenty-three degrees. Hold for three seconds. Straighten.
He counted as he walked. One. Two. Three. The reflective floor showed him walking on clouds. Four. Five. Six. The columns seemed to lean in, curious. Seven. Eight. Nine. He could feel the weight of a hundred eyes. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. His heart was beating too fast. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. Almost there. Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. The throne loomed ahead. Nineteen. Twenty. Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Twenty-three.
He stopped. Bowed. Exactly twenty-three degrees, he hoped. Held it for three seconds. Straightened.
The queen's expression was unreadable. "Lord Carter," she said. Her voice was calm, carrying without effort, filling the vast space. "Welcome to our court."
"Your Majesty," Evan said. "Thank you for the invitation. The palace is... impressive."
"We have heard... much about your recent awakening." The queen's eyes studied him. They missed nothing—his posture, his expression, the faint glow of his signet ring, the way his boots were no longer glowing but still humming slightly. "The reports are... intriguing."
"That's one word for it," Evan said before he could stop himself.
A faint ripple went through the court. Someone coughed. Someone else stifled a laugh. A third person—an older noble with a face like a disapproving prune—muttered something that sounded like "impertinent."
The queen's lips twitched. Almost imperceptibly. "Direct. We appreciate directness." She gestured to the man on her right. "This is General Marcus, head of our armed forces. He has... questions about potential military applications of your abilities." To the woman on her left: "And Archmage Valerius, whom you've met. He has... academic questions. Many of them."
Evan bowed again, smaller this time. The general nodded stiffly, his eyes assessing. The archmage inclined his head with the weary acceptance of someone who'd seen too much to be surprised anymore.
"We understand your powers are... unusual," the queen continued. "Even for a Carter. The Carters have always been... interesting, magically speaking. But you seem to be something new."
"That seems to be the consensus, Your Majesty."
"Show us."
The words hung in the air. Not a request. A command. The kind of command that had been obeyed for centuries, that had built kingdoms and destroyed armies.
Evan blinked. "I'm sorry?"
"A demonstration," the queen clarified. "Nothing dramatic. Just... something to confirm the reports. We like to verify things personally."
Evan glanced at Emma, who gave him a minute shrug that said you're on your own here, good luck, try not to die.
"Your Majesty," Evan said carefully, "my magic tends to be... unpredictable. And destructive. And sometimes it makes things better when I don't want them to be better. And sometimes it just... happens. Without me meaning it to. I'm not sure a demonstration is the best idea."
"We have taken precautions." The queen gestured, and servants rolled forward a series of objects on small tables: a crystal orb on a stand, a vase of perfect roses, a practice sword, a block of ordinary stone.
They'd set up a magical obstacle course. In the throne room. In front of the entire court.
Evan stared at the array. "You want me to...?"
"Choose one. Demonstrate." The queen leaned forward slightly. "We wish to understand what we're dealing with."
The court was utterly silent. Every eye was on Evan. He could feel the weight of their attention, their curiosity, their judgment, their fear. A hundred people waiting to see what he would do.
He looked at the objects. The crystal orb glowed softly, pulsing with its own light. The roses were perfect—blood-red against dark green leaves, probably grown in some enchanted garden. The sword was plain but well-made, the kind of practice blade used by generations of trainees. The stone was just... stone. Grey, ordinary, unremarkable.
"Very well," Evan said.
He approached the objects. They seemed to lean toward him as he got closer—the crystal glowing brighter, the roses turning to face him, the sword humming softly, the stone developing a faint shimmer.
He stopped in front of the stone block. It was about the size of a loaf of bread, grey and speckled with minerals, utterly ordinary.
"This one," he said.
He reached out, not touching, just letting his hand hover an inch above the stone. He focused, trying to remember what Ross had said about intent. About will. About conversation.
He didn't want to break the stone. He didn't want to change it dramatically. He just wanted... something small. Something manageable. Something that wouldn't cause international incidents.
What do you want to be? he thought at the stone. What's your better version?
The stone shivered. Then it began to change.
The grey surface smoothed, becoming polished, reflective. Colors bloomed across it—veins of gold, silver, copper, weaving together in intricate patterns that seemed almost alive. The shape shifted, the sharp edges rounding, flowing, until it was no longer a block but an oval, then a sphere, perfectly smooth and perfectly round.
Evan pulled his hand back. The stone—now a polished sphere of multicolored metal that looked like it had been created by someone with infinite patience and unlimited resources—gleamed in the light. It had grown slightly, maybe doubled in size. And it floated. Not high, just an inch above its stand, turning slowly like a planet in miniature.
The throne room was so quiet Evan could hear his own heartbeat.
Then the sphere began to hum. A soft, musical note that filled the space, harmonic and pure. As it turned, different patterns caught the light, shifting and changing like a kaleidoscope made of precious metals and captured dreams.
Evan stared at it. He hadn't meant for it to float. Or hum. Or be quite so... pretty.
The queen stood. She descended from the dais, her crimson gown sweeping the marble floor. The court parted for her like water before a ship, a wave of bowed heads and rustling fabric.
She stopped before the sphere, studying it. Up close, the patterns were even more intricate—swirls and whorls that seemed to tell a story in a language of metal and light, of color and form. The sphere hummed softly, as if acknowledging her attention.
"Fascinating," she murmured. She reached out, as if to touch it, then stopped. "What did you do to it?"
"I... improved it," Evan said, because it was the only word that fit.
"You turned common stone into... this." She circled the sphere. "Without spellwork. Without incantation. Without even touching it."
"That's... apparently what I do."
The queen looked from the sphere to Evan. Her expression was unreadable—the face of someone who'd spent decades learning to hide her thoughts. "And can you do it again?"
"I can try. The results may vary. Sometimes things just... break. Or grow flowers. Or become chandeliers."
"Show us."
Evan turned to the crystal orb. He focused, trying for the same gentle improvement, the same conversation with the object's desires.
The orb glowed brighter. Then it began to grow, not much, just enough to be noticeable. Its surface, already smooth, became perfectly reflective, like a mirror made of captured light. It floated up from its stand, joining the metal sphere. The two objects began to orbit each other, their movements synchronized, the crystal's light reflecting off the metal in dazzling patterns.
Someone in the court gasped. Someone else whispered, "Impossible..." A third person—the prune-faced noble—looked like he was reconsidering several life choices.
The flowers were next. Evan approached the vase. The roses turned toward him, their petals opening wider. As he watched, their color deepened from red to crimson to a shade so dark it was almost black, velvety and rich. Thorns vanished from the stems, leaving them smooth. The leaves became glossier, healthier, more vibrant. A scent filled the air—not just rose, but something richer, more complex, like a whole garden distilled into a single breath, with hints of honey and spice and summer rain.
The flowers didn't float. They just... perfected themselves.
Last was the sword. Evan hesitated. Weapons felt different. More intentional. More dangerous. More likely to have opinions about what they wanted to be.
He focused not on improving the sword, but on making it... safe. Harmless. Something that couldn't hurt anyone.
The sword shimmered. The blade softened, losing its edge, becoming rounded. The metal lightened in color, shifting from steel grey to silver to something almost white, like moonlight made solid. The hilt reshaped itself, the grip becoming more ergonomic, the guard flowing into organic shapes like vines wrapping around a branch.
When it was done, the sword looked less like a weapon and more like a piece of art. Beautiful, yes. Elegant, certainly. But not dangerous. Not anymore.
Evan stepped back. The four objects—the floating metal sphere, the mirror-crystal orb, the perfect roses, the harmless sword—occupied the center of the throne room, bathed in sunlight from the high windows.
The court was silent. Then, slowly, applause started. A few claps at first, then more, building until the room echoed with it.
Evan looked at the queen. She wasn't applauding. She was watching him, her expression still unreadable, but there was something in her eyes now—calculation, maybe. Or curiosity. Or the beginning of a plan.
The applause died down. The queen raised a hand, and the silence returned.
"Remarkable," she said. Her voice was calm, but something flickered in her eyes. "You don't destroy. You... enhance."
"That seems to be the effect, Your Majesty."
"An effect with considerable potential." She returned to her throne, sitting gracefully. "Lord Carter, you will remain at court for the time being. We have matters to discuss. Opportunities to explore. Uses to consider."
It wasn't a request. Evan bowed. "As Your Majesty wishes."
The audience was over. The court began to disperse, nobles whispering to each other, casting glances at Evan and his transformed objects. The prune-faced noble looked like he'd bitten into a lemon made of pure confusion.
As Evan turned to leave, the queen's voice stopped him. "One more thing, Lord Carter."
He turned back. "Your Majesty?"
"The objects." She gestured to the floating sphere and orb, the perfect roses, the beautiful sword. "They're yours. A reminder of what you can do. And," she added, her eyes sharp, "of what we expect of you."
Evan looked at the objects. They gleamed in the sunlight, perfect, improved, waiting.
He had a feeling they were less a gift and more a message.
And he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to understand it.
***