The palace was quiet. Too quiet. Like a held breath.
Evan stood on his balcony, watching dawn paint the gardens in soft watercolors. The Memory Tree shimmered in the distance, its crystal fruits catching the first light, chiming softly in the morning breeze. The hedge-dragon had grown overnight—now it had wings of ivy and eyes of polished stone that seemed to watch him, following his movements with an intelligence that shouldn't exist in topiary.
Everything was changing. Everything was... improving.
His rooms showed the evidence. The furniture had developed subtle carvings overnight—patterns that hadn't been there yesterday, flowing vines and geometric designs that seemed almost alive. The curtains moved without breeze, swaying gently even when the windows were closed. A book he'd left open on a table had rewritten itself into a more coherent version of the same text, the prose smoother, the arguments clearer.
His magic wasn't just active when he focused. It was ambient. Constant. Leaking.
A knock at the door. Not Ross's enthusiastic pounding. Not Finch's polite tap. Something in between—measured, hesitant, purposeful.
It was Julian, looking healthier than he had any right to after a single accidental touch, but with shadows under his eyes that spoke of sleeplessness.
"You're going," Julian said without preamble.
"Word travels fast."
"My mother has sources. The queen has fewer secrets than she thinks." Julian entered, closing the door behind him. "The Silent Wood. That's... ambitious."
"Necessary, apparently."
"Necessary for who? You? Or the queen?" Julian moved to the window, watching the gardens. "The Weaver hasn't taken a student in thirty years. Not since Althea."
Evan stilled. "Althea studied with the Weaver?"
"For a time. Before... whatever happened to her." Julian turned. "You saw her last night, didn't you? Younger. At the ball."
"How did you—"
"The Memory Tree shows me things too. When I sit beneath it." Julian's expression was serious. "Althea was the palace's last great mage. Before whatever... diminished her. Before she became just a gardener."
"What happened?"
"No one knows. Or no one who's telling." Julian stepped closer. "Evan, the Weaver doesn't just teach magic. She teaches truth. And some truths break people."
"I'm already broken."
"That's what worries me." Julian touched Evan's arm—a brief, hesitant contact. "Broken people are easier to reshape. To... improve into something else."
The words hung between them, heavy with implication.
"I have to go," Evan said quietly. "You saw what happened last night. It's getting worse. Stronger. If I stay here..."
"You'll become a tool. I know." Julian sighed. "I wish I could go with you."
"Why can't you?"
"My health. The journey is... arduous. And my mother would have an apoplexy." He smiled faintly. "Also, I suspect the queen wants you alone. Easier to control that way."
"Emma's coming," Evan said before he could think better of it.
Julian's eyebrows rose. "Is she? After her... confession?"
"She said she wants to be my friend. Not my keeper."
"And you believe her?"
"I want to." Evan met his eyes. "Do you think I'm a fool?"
"I think you're trusting. Which is either very brave or very stupid. Usually both." Julian moved to the door. "Be careful, Evan. Of the journey. Of the Weaver. Of Emma. And most of all, of yourself. You're changing. Make sure you're changing into someone you recognize."
He left, the door clicking softly shut.
Evan stood alone in his improving rooms, surrounded by the evidence of his own growing power, and wondered who he would be when he returned.
If he returned at all.
***