Caelan awoke to silence.
Not the dead, hollow kind that filled empty halls—but something deeper. A stillness that felt held. Contained.
The violet fire in the hearth had died down to coals, though they emitted no heat. Pale light filtered in from the high window. Not sunlight, but something colder—reddish and thin, like dawn seen through bloodied glass.
He had dreamt again.
This time, not of thrones or battlefields, but of stone roots curling beneath the palace. Of veins of crimson weaving through bedrock. Of a heart—huge, unseen, pulsing beneath the city.
He rubbed his chest where the pendant lay. It had cooled overnight, but his skin still tingled faintly beneath it. A mark that didn't fade.
He rose and washed with the basin water, which remained mirrorless, and changed into the set of garments laid out the night before. They were dark but not ornate—tunic, high-collared cloak, soft-soled boots. Practical. Travel-weight. Not noblewear.
No knock came. No one fetched him.
But when he opened the door, someone was already waiting.
The woman from the Ward Circle—the one with the armor etched in sigils—stood with arms crossed, a scar visible along her temple beneath her short-cropped hair.
"You rise late," she said, not unkindly. "But not unforgivably so."
Caelan blinked. "Is it morning?"
"By our measure. Come. You are expected."
He followed.
---
They walked briskly through the eastern wing, past doors marked with ancient script and guarded by red-robed sentinels. The palace no longer felt like a monument of awe—it felt alive. Breathing. He could sense it now: wards woven into the walls, quiet tensions threading through corridors, old magic humming beneath the stone.
They descended a narrow spiral stair hidden behind a door that opened only at the armored woman's touch.
"Where are we going?"
"The Garden of Still Hours."
"That's… poetic."
She gave a faint, grim smile. "It is not meant to be. Here, time is not what it seems."
The stair opened into a corridor of pale rootstone, lit by rows of flickering lanterns that cast no shadows. Ahead, a threshold of carved bonewood stood ajar, and beyond it—mist.
Caelan stepped through and stopped.
They stood at the edge of an underground expanse. A dome of obsidian glass arched overhead, veined with glowing red lines like veins in a dragon's eye. The garden stretched far and wide, wild and silent. Pale trees rose from black soil, their leaves shaped like crescents. Flowers bloomed in impossible colors—blue so deep it bordered on void, gold that flickered like flame. The air was thick with scent: crushed earth, old rain, and something sweet and strange.
"This is… alive," Caelan whispered.
"As is all that grows from blood and moonlight," the woman said. "This is the only place in the palace that predates the King."
He turned sharply. "Predates?"
She nodded. "Before the Court. Before the Clans. Before even the binding pacts that brought peace between our kinds. The Garden was already here."
Caelan stepped further in, and the mist swirled around him. The flowers shifted toward him as he moved, their blossoms unfurling slowly—watching.
He paused beside one with petals like curved glass and stamens that shimmered like silver threads.
"They react to intent," the woman said behind him. "Not thought. Not will. What you mean is more important than what you say."
"That sounds dangerous."
"It is."
A distant chime echoed through the dome.
"That sound means your second guest has arrived," she said.
"My what?"
Footsteps approached from the mist.
And then, emerging from the haze like a shadow drawn in moonlight—Velrath.
Clad in crimson and gold, blindfold in place, staff in hand. Their presence brought a hush deeper than the mist, as though the air itself deferred.
Caelan instinctively straightened.
"Lord Caelan Duskwither," Velrath intoned, voice as smooth as pouring silk. "The King sends his word."
"I'm listening," Caelan said carefully.
Velrath's blindfolded gaze turned toward the flowers.
"The King is pleased that you have survived your arrival," they said. "He offers you a question."
"A question?"
"Yes." Velrath paused. "What do you seek in this place, Duskwither-born? Shelter, truth, or power?"
Caelan felt the weight of the words settle over him. The pendant warmed. The flowers near him trembled.
"I didn't come here seeking any of those," he said slowly. "I came because I was called. Because this place… remembered me."
Velrath tilted their head.
"An answer outside the triad," they murmured. "Not common. Not refused."
The armored woman stepped back, giving space.
Velrath lifted their staff and tapped it once to the stone.
Immediately, the mist parted to reveal a black altar nestled among silver-leaved vines. Upon it lay a folded cloth and a pale crystal that pulsed faintly.
"Approach," Velrath said.
Caelan did.
"The cloth is your Veil-scroll," they explained. "A record of your first steps beyond the mortal realm. Only yours. Only readable by blood."
"And the crystal?"
Velrath's tone lowered.
"An heir's shard. Given only once, accepted never by force. Take it, and you are known to the Court not only as guest—but as question."
Caelan looked from the cloth to the crystal.
"What happens if I refuse?"
"You remain a guest. Silent. Unclaimed. A mystery."
"And if I accept?"
"You become the first named heir of a line thought dead. The Duskwither bloodline enters the living record once more."
The pendant was burning now. Not painfully—but urgently. The mark on his chest pulsed in time with it.
Caelan reached forward and touched the crystal.
It was ice at first. Then warmth. Then… memory.
---
He stood in a field of silver ash.
The sky above was torn—half sun, half moon. A line of kings and queens stretched before him, their faces hidden, their hands outstretched.
And at the end, a woman in armor white as snow. Her helm was off. Her hair was dark and her eyes were his.
She knelt.
"Caelan Duskwither," she said. "The bloodline endures. But not without cost."
Then she vanished into ash.
---
He gasped and staggered back.
Velrath's hand steadied him—gentle, firm.
"It is done," they said.
The crystal was gone. The cloth had unfolded itself, now etched with pale ink—shifting, unreadable.
The armored woman approached, unslinging a new item from her side: a blade.
Its sheath was bone-white. Its hilt wrapped in black leather.
"From the Ward," she said. "You are not trained. You are not ready. But you will not walk unarmed."
She handed him the sword.
It was lighter than he expected. Balanced.
"Is this… ceremonial?"
She met his eyes.
"No."
---
As they left the garden, Velrath spoke once more.
"You have taken a step toward becoming more than a guest. But not yet one of us."
Caelan nodded. "Then what am I?"
Velrath's voice was like wind in deep catacombs.
"You are the crack in the prophecy. And through it, we shall bleed or rise."
Then they vanished into the mist.
---
That night, Caelan sat at his desk, the Veil-scroll sealed in silver thread beside him, the sword leaned against the wall.
He stared into the violet fire.
Outside, the garden still pulsed.
And below, in the deep places of Noctisfall, something ancient had shifted. Not just watching now.
Awake.