Gala had offered a polite smile to every faye she encountered the moment she crossed the palace threshold. Some returned the gesture with nods or brief glances of curiosity, while others passed her by as though she were no more remarkable than the stone beneath their boots. A handful paid her no mind at all, likely assuming she was a newly appointed servant—another quiet figure meant to blend into the palace walls now that the ropes binding her wrists had been removed.
She did not correct them.
It was easier, she decided, to be mistaken for something harmless.
The moment Gala finished her modest meal—warm broth, coarse bread, and something faintly sweet that tasted like honey preserved in frost—Alvaro's group wasted no time. Chairs scraped softly against marble as she was ushered away from the table and down a corridor so vast that Gala nearly forgot to breathe.
Her steps slowed, then stopped entirely.
The domed hallway before her was nothing short of magnificent.
Pure white marble stretched endlessly beneath her feet, polished to such a flawless sheen that her reflection shimmered faintly with every step. The color reminded her of her own platinum hair, pale and luminous, though here it felt colder—unyielding. Towering gold-veined stone walls rose on either side, their warm hues clashing boldly against the pristine floor, as if the palace itself could not decide whether it wished to comfort or intimidate.
Gala craned her neck upward.
At each corner of the hallway stood colossal marble statues, carved with painstaking precision. They were winged figures—elegant, commanding, and familiar. Her breath caught when she realized they bore the same likeness as the emblem she had seen flying from the banners in the courtyard.
The statues were neither fully white nor fully gold, but something in between—a softened hue that calmed the vibrancy of their surroundings. Each statue rose from floor to ceiling, wings unfurled so wide that their tips curved inward, drawing invisible lines toward the center of the hall.
Gala followed those lines with her eyes.
They converged directly beneath a massive chandelier, its countless candles suspended like a constellation trapped indoors. The warm glow cascaded downward, illuminating the intersection point as though it were sacred.
A quiet, awed "Wow," slipped past her lips before she could stop herself.
For all its splendor, however, Gala could not banish the image of the land she had walked through to reach this place—the frozen lake, the silent market, the weary faces hidden beneath layers of cloth. To see such grandeur standing untouched at the heart of so much desolation felt… wrong.
Almost arrogant.
"Keep moving, young miss."
Alvaro's sharp voice cut through her thoughts.
"The King and Queen are waiting."
Gala startled slightly before composing herself. She turned to him and offered a soft, apologetic smile, as though his harshness were nothing more than a misunderstanding. "Of course," she replied calmly.
They continued down the corridor until they reached a towering double door carved from ancient oak, its surface etched with symbols Gala did not recognize but somehow felt she should. The air grew heavier the closer they drew, pressing against her chest until she had to swallow just to breathe comfortably.
Alvaro stopped abruptly.
"As soon as you stand before Their Majesties," he said in a low voice, leaning close enough that only she could hear, "you will bow. You will answer truthfully and without insolence. Should I sense even the faintest hint of deception, I will end your life without hesitation."
Gala turned her head toward him slowly.
His face was already turned away.
After several hours in his presence, his cruelty no longer surprised her. Still, she smiled—because that was what she did. "Of course, sir," she murmured lightly. "I've always been rather good at honesty."
The doors creaked open.
Gala stepped into a hall so grand it stole the breath from her lungs.
Grey marble floors stretched wide, embedded with intricate diamond patterns of gold and silver. Light poured in through four towering stained-glass windows—each pane splashed with yellows, blues, and reds that painted the room in living color.
Gilded trim adorned the lower walls, curling into elaborate designs, while massive oil paintings in ornate frames loomed above them—scenes of fertile lands, flowing rivers, and skies untouched by frost. Velvet mauve curtains were drawn to the sides, and flaming torches mounted on every pillar bathed the hall in flickering warmth.
At the center lay a long red carpet, bordered with gold, leading up to a raised platform.
Upon it sat two thrones.
They were forged entirely of gold—massive, gleaming, and severe. Behind them stood four towering imperial pillars of white stone, their surfaces softened by deep red velvet cushions. Above it all, the ceiling curved high, painted with an image of a flourishing Aelfrey that seemed to belong to another lifetime.
Two figures sat upon the thrones.
Gala bowed deeply as she reached the foot of the staircase.
The King wore a surcote of white and maroon, the emblem of the land encrusted across his chest. Beneath it lay a crimson velvet tunic, its sleeves trimmed in gold. A heavy golden crown rested upon his head, and from his back extended two immense translucent green wings.
If Gala were being honest—truly honest—she thought him rather ugly.
His face was broad and deeply lined, his beard unkempt and nearly swallowing his chin. His expression was perpetually sour, as though the world itself had personally offended him.
The Queen, however, was his opposite.
Her hair, braided thick and long, burned red like living flame as it spilled down to her ankles. Her skin was pale and luminous, her eyes wide and gentle, though age had left faint lines around them. She wore an emerald gown that flowed like water, sleeves cascading softly at her sides.
Grace clung to her like a second skin.
"State your name," the King commanded, his voice thick and rasping.
Gala straightened and met his gaze without flinching. "My name is Gala, Your Majesty."
"You are human," the King sneered.
She inclined her head proudly. "I am."
His eyes narrowed. "Then explain how you breached our barrier. I suspect dark magic."
"I used none," Gala replied evenly. "I was gathering mushrooms near my home when I encountered two fayes—Puffhill and Duffhill."
The King stiffened.
Gala hurried on. "Please do not punish them. I approached them first. They fled immediately—it was my curiosity that followed."
"And then?" the King pressed.
"And then," Gala said softly, lifting her eyes, "a force pulled me through the sky. I fell here."
Silence followed.
"Please," Gala continued, her voice trembling just slightly, "let me return home. I swear I will never speak of Aelfrey."
The Queen leaned forward. "She is no threat, my king."
Deviro nodded. "I agree."
Alvaro bristled.
After a long pause, the King sighed. "Very well. At dawn, you will be returned."
Relief flooded Gala.
"Thank you," she breathed, nearly crying.
Then she smiled brightly at the Queen.
"Your pet is beautiful, Your Highness."
Silence fell.
"It resembles your emblem," Gala added helpfully.
Alvaro's face drained of color.
"You can see Dylareia?" he whispered.
The King rose, fury blazing.
"Lock her in the dungeon. Now."
Gala gasped, tears spilling.
Oh dear Lord, she thought, what have I done?