The morning silence in the eastern wing of the royal palace was nothing but a well-rehearsed illusion. Behind each drape, every column of marble, something lurked—ears, whispers, and sometimes, blades. Kaelian knew this too well.
He hadn't even fully grasped the weight of his new existence when the game began—a deadly one played in gold-laced corridors, where masks hid daggers and alliances were forged with poison.
He was an intruder, yes. But more than that, he was a threat.
And the Queen had sensed it the moment she laid eyes on him.
Queen Virella, King Aldren's consort, embodied elegance wrapped in frost. Her silver-gray gaze was sharp enough to cut, and her posture carried the stillness of a coiled predator. She had summoned him without warning. A trembling page delivered the message at dawn.
Kaelian, still adjusting to his adolescent frame—slender, weak-looking, yet harboring a mind of steel—was led through long galleries to the Chamber of the Small Council. A place where only the highest of the court dared speak freely.
He wasn't supposed to be here. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.
She sat alone at the end of a long obsidian table, flanked by shadow and silence.
"Come forward, Kaelian," she said softly, without warmth.
He bowed his head. In this world, he was a royal bastard—an acknowledged one, but still an inconvenient echo of the king's indiscretions. And the Queen guarded legitimacy like a lioness defends her cubs.
"Your Majesty."
Her gaze rested on him for an uncomfortably long time, as though peeling back the layers of his soul.
"You resemble your father far too much," she murmured at last. "That chin, those eyes. Concubines should choose their lovers more wisely."
Kaelian did not respond. It was not a question but a provocation. She wanted a reaction—pride, fear, arrogance. He gave her none.
He simply bowed his head lower. "I am what I was born to be, Your Majesty."
A dangerous glint lit her eyes.
"Too measured. Too composed. For a child," she said. "I dislike that."
She rose and walked toward him with slow, deliberate steps. Her heels echoed in the chamber, each beat a reminder of her control.
"You are not welcome here, Kaelian. The king, in a rare lapse of judgment, recognized you. But let me be clear—" She paused in front of him, her gloved hand brushing his cheek like a lover's touch. "—you will never be more than a shadow in this palace. And shadows... tend to disappear when the sun rises."
The words carried no venom. They didn't need to. They were a verdict.
Kaelian stood still, heart steady, mind racing. She sensed something wrong in him—not magic, perhaps, but power. Presence. A dangerous intellect behind too-young eyes. She was right to fear him.
But it would not save her.
Later, back in his modest quarters reserved for "secondary heirs," Kaelian sat on the edge of his narrow bed. The Queen's every word replayed in his mind like a silent threat written in ice.
He was not safe. Not even close.
He needed information. Allies. And most of all—a strategy.
The next attempt came swiftly.
Three days after the audience, as Kaelian was walking the Northern Gallery, a massive chandelier broke loose and crashed to the ground where he would have stood—had he not been delayed by a servant who insisted on handing him a meaningless message.
Shards of crystal sparkled across the marble like the remains of a shattered dream.
There was no message. Only a warning.
Kaelian understood. This was not an accident. It was a message. The Queen didn't want to kill him in secret. She wanted him to know he could die at any time.
That changed things.
He needed to move faster.
That night, Kaelian slipped into the kitchens under the pretense of searching for a late meal. In reality, he needed to listen. Kitchens were the true heart of any palace—where servants gossiped, eyes rolled, and secrets boiled over just as surely as soup.
He struck up casual conversation with an old cook named Berna, whose wrinkled hands kneaded bread as she whispered warnings.
"Don't wander too long in the halls after dark, little lord," she mumbled, pushing a warm loaf into his arms. "Walls have ears. Rugs have traps. Accidents… happen."
He nodded, quietly absorbing the information. She had mentioned someone—Valek, a name spoken with unease. An adviser of the Queen. A man rumored to handle her dirtiest commands.
Kaelian made a mental note: Investigate Dorn Valek.
A few days later, an invitation arrived for a formal supper attended by several royal children. The Queen would preside.
Kaelian's gut twisted.
This wasn't an act of reconciliation. It was a public trial.
The banquet hall was luminous and suffocating. Candles flickered above crystal, and the scent of spice floated in the air like a spell. Kaelian, seated at the far end of the long table, felt every eye on him.
Beside the Queen sat her sons—Théor and Caldrin. The eldest, Prince Théor, was already a confirmed heir. Golden-haired, sharp-featured, with arrogance practically stitched into his embroidered sleeves.
He looked at Kaelian like one might study a cockroach on a royal plate.
Halfway through the meal, the Queen remarked lightly, "Such a tragedy about the chandelier in the Northern Gallery. I've instructed the steward to punish the maintenance staff severely."
Kaelian, cutting his meat carefully, said, "Negligence can be dangerous. But sometimes, it's more deliberate than it appears."
The table stilled. Théor slammed his goblet.
"Are you accusing someone, bastard?"
Kaelian's eyes slowly lifted, unflinching. "Only pointing out that not all accidents are coincidences."
Théor stood. "You dare—?"
The Queen raised a hand. Théor froze.
She smiled.
"Let the boy speak. It's rare that a shadow learns to talk."
Kaelian felt a chill wash over him. But he had to hold the line.
"My apologies, Your Majesty. I merely thought to honor the occasion. I've prepared a short poem, as court custom sometimes requires."
The Queen arched a brow. Théor scoffed.
Kaelian stood and recited clearly:
"In gilded halls where shadows creep,
Beneath the gold, ambitions sleep.
The noble blood may fear the light,
For poison dances out of sight."
Silence. Then a few nervous chuckles from lesser nobles.
Théor understood the insult. So did the Queen.
But Kaelian had spoken in verse. Not enough to accuse him of disrespect. Just enough to sting.
That night, Kaelian didn't sleep.
He sat by candlelight, scribbling in a stolen notebook. Every glance at dinner, every whispered name, every tension-filled pause—he recorded it all. He needed a map. Not of rooms or corridors, but of influence.
He wasn't strong. Not yet.
But knowledge was a blade he'd long since learned to sharpen.
At dawn, a folded note was slipped under his chamber door.
It had no seal.
"You are more than they think.
But are you enough to survive them?"
No name. No trace.
Kaelian stared at it for a long time.
Then, slowly, he smiled.
The game had begun.
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