The carriage wheels struck cobblestone with a rhythm that had accompanied Rulen Zarionel through half the kingdom.

He pulled the curtain aside. Coraeis lay two weeks behind him; Moriador, the capital spread ahead—towers catching the afternoon sun, banners of crimson and gold snapping from every second wall. The palace rose at the city's heart, white stone gleaming like something carved from winter itself.

Rulen let the curtain fall.

He'd forgotten how bright everything here was.

A knock tapped the window beside him.

Kael rode alongside, reins in one hand. His voice carried through the glass. "Your Highness, we will reach the eastern gate soon."

Rulen shifted slightly. "Thank you."

Kael nodded toward the man inside. "Try not to bore His Highness too much, Master Narin."

Narin waved him off with a flick of his fingers. "Go handle your horse, young man. Leave conversation to those born with patience."

Kael let out a quiet breath that might have been amusement and guided his mount forward.

Narin settled back on the bench, robes bunching around his legs as though they had given up fighting him. "Hopeless. All of them. Dawnseers who cannot hold a posture for more than a breath. In my day they could stand through an entire prayer without wobbling. Now they blink twice and faint."

Rulen watched the sunlight shift across the window.

"They rush through rites like they have a feast to catch." Narin waved a hand. "And this engagement announcement? Wrong week. Wrong mood. Day of Ancestors is around the corner. Anyone with a spine should know better. The air thins. The Lord's ear drifts closer. You do not play with timing when the Lord is listening."

Eldraak carried festivals the way old cities carried stones. The next one approached quickly. Day of Ancestors filled the streets with incense and quiet prayers. After it came the Everlight Festival, the closing of the year.

Rulen gave a quiet breath.

Narin leaned forward, voice dropping as if sharing a secret the whole world already knew. "But these little ones scurry about with their new robes and polished talismans and think that makes them ready. Ready for what? I have seen storms swallow better men. I have seen the Lord move through a hall so fast the candles shrank."

Rulen let him speak. He had learned that stopping Narin only made the monologue restart stronger.

"I trained dawnseers who could chant till dawn. Proper breath. Proper tone. None of this weak whispering." Narin sniffed. "Tradition used to mean something. Now it is decoration for festivals, like ribbons stuck to an Oxen cart."

Rulen turned his gaze back to him. "I like hearing you talk."

Narin paused, blinking as though someone tossed a pebble at his thoughts. "Talk? I am warning people. If they listened, half the disasters I have seen would never have happened."

"Warnings, then."

Narin gave a grudging nod. "Better. At least you understand that much."

The carriage slowed.

Rulen straightened his robe—white with gold threading at the collar, the prism emblem of the Church embroidered over his heart. He was nineteen years old and wore the rank of Ecclesiarch, third only to the Cardinalae and the pontiff himself. The youngest to hold the position in three hundred years.

His older brothers would find it amusing.

The door opened. Sunlight cut across his vision, forcing him to squint as he stepped down. The palace courtyard spread before him—servants moving between pillars, guards stationed at intervals, carriages clustered near the main entrance.

"Rulen!"

He turned.

Elias Zarionel strode across the courtyard, grinning like he'd just won a bet. He wore a doublet of deep blue with silver clasps, practical enough for movement but formal enough to avoid scandal.

Rulen found himself smiling. "You're taller."

"You're paler." Elias reached him, clasped his shoulder hard. "Two years in Coraeis and you look like you've been living in a crypt."

"The Holy City values contemplation over sunlight."

"That explains the robe." Elias stepped back, eyeing the white fabric with mock solemnity. "Very holy. Very... priestly."

"I am a priest."

"You're my brother." Elias turned, gesturing toward the palace. "Come on. Valanand wants to see you before dinner, and if we're late, he'll spend the first ten minutes lecturing us about punctuality."

Rulen fell into step beside him. Kael and Narin followed three paces behind.

The palace interior swallowed them—marble floors, vaulted ceilings, tapestries depicting battles and coronations stretching back six generations. Servants bowed as they passed. Guards straightened.

"How was the journey?" Elias asked.

"Long. I kept count of the milestones to stay awake."

"That's it? Two weeks on the road and all you've got is 'long'?"

Rulen glanced at him. "What would you like me to say? The inns were adequate. The weather held. Bandits kept their distance."

"Because they saw your escort and ran screaming."

"Possibly. We weren't exactly subtle on the road."

Elias laughed, sharp and brief. "I missed this. You still treat conversation like a scarce resource."

They climbed a staircase, boots echoing. Light fell through stained glass windows—reds and blues fragmenting across stone.

"How many brothers are here?" Rulen asked.

"All of us." Elias's grin faded slightly. "Valanand insisted. Something about 'showing unity' during the engagement."

"That sounds like him. Dress the whole thing in a single noble word."

"His word, obviously." Elias's tone turned dry. "Caelum's been locked in the library for three days. Theron's drilling the guard. Maelon's... somewhere. Doing whatever Maelon does."

"And Davren?"

"Avoiding Valanand."

"Practical choice. Saves arguments."

They reached the second floor. The corridor stretched ahead, lined with portraits—kings and queens staring down with expressions ranging from stern to utterly bored.

Elias slowed. "Valanand's nervous."

Rulen raised an eyebrow.

"About the engagement," Elias clarified. "He won't admit it, but he is. Adarynn is living in the palace for quite some time, and yet he's been... tense."

"He's marrying the daughter of the kingdom's second most powerful duke. Tension seems appropriate."

"It's more than that." Elias's voice dropped. "He's worried she'll hate him."

Rulen considered this. Valanand was twenty-four, the crown prince, heir to the throne. Tall, broad-shouldered, competent in every way that mattered. He'd negotiated trade agreements at sixteen, led military campaigns at twenty, and handled the kingdom's bureaucracy with the kind of efficiency that made ministers weep with gratitude.

He was also, in Rulen's experience, terrible at talking to women.

"She's been here for the Consort's Induction," Rulen said. "Surely they've had time to speak."

"They have." Elías's tone turned dry. "He's spent most of it discussing agricultural reforms and trade policy."

"With his future wife?"

"With anyone who'll listen. Including his future wife."

Rulen almost smiled. "That sounds like him."

They turned a corner. The corridor opened into a wider hall, sunlight streaming through tall windows. Gardens spread beyond the glass—hedges trimmed into geometric patterns, fountains catching light.

Elias stopped walking.

Rulen stopped beside him.

"There's someone else coming," Elias said quietly. "To the engagement."

"Half the nobility will be here."

"Vencian."

The name hung between them.

Rulen felt something twist in his chest. "He's attending?"

"His mother received an invitation. Duke Hadethon specifically requested his presence." Elias's expression shifted—something complicated passing across his face. "You haven't seen him since... well. You know."

Rulen knew.

The trial. The arrests. House Vicorra brought to the edge of ruin while half the kingdom watched.

"He's changed," Elias said. "Since his father and brother died. He's... different."

"Different how?"

"Quieter. Sharper, maybe." Elias's jaw tightened. "He doesn't smile the same way."

Rulen looked out the window. The gardens blurred slightly. "Do you remember when we used to play in the eastern courtyard?"

"All of us?"

"You, me, Vencian, Seris, Aline." Rulen's voice went distant. "We must have been... what, ten? Eleven?"

"Younger." Elias leaned against the window frame. "You and Vencian used to duel with practice swords. Seris would referee. Aline would bet on the outcome."

"And you'd try to climb the fountain."

"I made it to the top once."

"You fell and cracked your head open."

"Minor detail."

Rulen's mouth twitched. The memory felt like something from another life—sunlight and laughter and the kind of certainty that only children possessed. They'd been inseparable then. Five of them against the world, or at least against their tutors.

Then the event happened.

He didn't let himself think about it. The memory sat in his mind like a scar—something that had healed over but never fully disappeared.

He'd gotten sick afterward. So sick the Summus Luminar himself had traveled from Coraeis to heal him. Rulen remembered waking in his chambers, the pontiff's hand on his forehead, light pouring from the old man's palm like liquid gold.

"You have a gift," the pontiff had said. "Come with me. Let me show you what it means."

Rulen had gone.

He'd changed after that. They all had.

"I want to see him," Rulen said.

Elias straightened. "Vencian?"

"Yes. There's unfinished conversation between us."

"You do. And you still owe him an apology. You never told me why you stopped me from helping him during the trial."

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