**Chapter Nine: Shadows and Secrets**
The following morning brought no relief—only a deeper sense of unease.
I sat by the window, watching clouds roll over the palace rooftops. Grey. Low. Like the sky was brooding with me.
The letter from last night replayed in my mind like a haunting melody:
> "The game has begun.
> Move wisely, Princess.
> Or bleed beautifully."
There had been no signature—just a symbol: an hourglass wrapped in thorns.
That single image kept turning over in my head. I hadn't shown Elira. I hadn't told anyone. I burned the parchment in my chamber's hearth the moment I finished reading it.
But the message had already buried itself in me. And the hourglass? It felt ancient, sinister... deliberate.
I had no appetite that morning. The servants brought a plate of honeyed fruits and warm bread. I sent it back untouched. Even tea felt like a threat now.
"I want to leave my room," I told Elira after pacing for nearly half an hour.
She looked up from brushing out my cloak. "Where to?"
"The palace gallery. The old wing."
Her brow furrowed. "That part of the palace is rarely visited."
"All the more reason to go."
She hesitated, then nodded. "Very well. But take your cloak. That wing is always cold."
* * *
The gallery lay in the west wing, past the ballroom, through two locked gates, and beneath a stained-glass ceiling that filtered sunlight into thin ribbons of blue and crimson. It was quiet—eerily so. Even the guards who stood at the gates seemed nervous as they let us through.
"This part of the palace was once the heart of the kingdom's culture," Elira explained as we walked. "Art, history, war records. Now, it's just… memory."
"Why abandoned?"
"Too many shadows," she said quietly.
The air changed as we entered. Dust coated the floors like forgotten snow. Portraits lined the walls, tall and grim. Some were veiled in velvet cloth. Others were cracked with age, their subjects faded.
But their eyes still followed.
I paused at a long canvas near the far wall. It was massive—taller than me and twice as wide. The colors were dull, but the scene was vivid: a boy, maybe twelve, stood at the edge of a tall tower window. His hands were outstretched. His eyes wide with fear.
Behind him was a silhouette—barely visible—a shadowed figure with one hand raised. Reaching for him.
The title engraved on the frame read simply: *The Fall*.
"Elira," I whispered. "Is this…"
She stepped beside me and nodded. "Prince Alric. Lorenzo's younger brother."
I swallowed hard.
"And the figure behind him?"
"They say it was a servant. A nursemaid. That he lost his footing while playing."
"They *say*," I repeated.
Elira didn't meet my eyes.
"She was executed for treason. But many say it was a cover-up."
"You think the Queen Mother—"
"I think the palace doesn't like loose ends," she said. "And Alric… was a very bright flame. Too bright. Too soft."
My hands felt cold.
"Was Lorenzo close to him?"
"They were inseparable," Elira whispered. "Until the day he died. Lorenzo never speaks of it. Not to anyone. Not even to himself, I think."
I stared at the painting again. The boy's expression was too real. It wasn't play. It was fear.
Pure, silent fear.
My heart ached in a way I didn't understand.
What else had been buried in this palace?
* * *
As we moved deeper into the gallery, I noticed another strange pattern. Symbols—scratched into the bottom corners of some of the portraits. Small, almost invisible.
A circle with a line through it. An hourglass. A snake biting its own tail.
"Elira, what are these?" I asked, pointing.
Her expression grew wary.
"Sigils," she said. "Old court marks. From before Lorenzo's father reformed the council. They were used to categorize allies and enemies. Secrets and sinners."
"So why are they still here?"
"Because the walls remember what men forget."
I felt goosebumps rise along my arms.
Then I saw it—near the end of the hallway.
A framed tapestry, protected behind thick glass. Worn, but clearly preserved.
In the center: the same symbol from the letter.
An hourglass, wrapped in thorns.
"Elira," I breathed.
She was already at my side.
"That symbol—"
She nodded. "The Thorn Circle."
"What is it?"
"A secret society. One of the oldest. Whispers say it still exists. That its members are planted in every court, every council, every royal house."
"What do they want?"
"No one knows. But their motto is always the same: Time reveals all blood."
I backed away from the tapestry.
"They sent me that symbol last night."
Elira's eyes widened.
"You're sure?"
"I burned the letter. But I know what I saw."
She touched my wrist gently. "Then you've been marked."
* * *
Back in my chamber, I sat in silence for a long time. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, but I felt cold. The Thorn Circle. Why me? Why now?
A knock interrupted my thoughts.
It wasn't Elira.
It wasn't the servants.
It was a guard.
"Message from Lord Maldrin," he said, holding out a sealed scroll.
I broke the wax. Inside, the words were few:
> "A game is only dangerous when one forgets they're playing.
>
> Join me for dinner. Midnight. Tower study.
>
> Come alone."
I stared at the message.
And for the first time since I entered this palace, I realized I was surrounded by puppeteers—and I might just be the string they were all pulling.
* * *
Elira tried to stop me.
"It's a trap," she said. "Maldrin doesn't dine. He schemes. Midnight is his hour."
"I have to go."
"You don't. Lorenzo would never—"
"Lorenzo isn't here."
We argued for twenty minutes. In the end, I left through the servant passages.
I wore a dark cloak. No jewels. No guards.
Just a dagger hidden at my waist.
The tower study was near the oldest section of the palace—past the observatory, up a winding staircase, behind a sealed wooden door.
When I knocked, it opened without a sound.
Maldrin stood by the window, sipping dark wine from a crystal goblet.
"Princess," he said. "You're bolder than I thought."
I stepped inside.
"What do you want?"
He smiled slowly. "To talk. To… align."
"Align?"
"You're smart. You see what this palace truly is. You've tasted its poison. I can help you survive it."
I crossed my arms. "Why would you help me?"
"Because you can be useful."
He turned toward me fully, and for the first time, I noticed a tattoo on the inside of his wrist. It was faint—but unmistakable.
The Thorn Circle.
"You're one of them."
He didn't deny it.
"And if I refuse?" I asked.
He stepped closer, his smile fading.
"Then the court will chew you up. The Queen Mother will smile as she bleeds you dry. Vinora will watch you drown and write poems about your downfall. And Lorenzo—"
He paused.
"Lorenzo is strong. But he's distracted. You… are alone."
"I'd rather be alone than a puppet."
He chuckled. "We're all puppets, Princess. Some of us just choose our strings."
I turned to leave.
"You'll need us soon," he called after me.
I didn't respond.
But his words followed me all the way down the tower steps.
* * *
That night, I lay awake staring at the ceiling.
The Thorn Circle. Maldrin. The painting. The secrets.
Everything was unraveling.
Everything had changed.
And Lorenzo wasn't here to see it.
But I would not break.
Not now.
Not ever.