Aelia woke before the sun.
Not that she could see it.
There was no dawn in the Hollow Realm. The sky remained in a permanent twilight — like the world was caught holding its breath. Only the light in her room told her the hour had changed. Someone had lit a lantern on her windowsill. It flickered weakly, casting long shadows against the silver-threaded walls.
The rose petals were still there.
Soft. Fresh. Scattered like a goodbye or a warning.
She gathered them in silence, pressing one between her fingers. No thorns. No stem. Just the bloom — as if it had been plucked from memory, not soil.
She didn't call for a servant. She dressed herself. Her fingers trembled slightly as she laced the back of her gown — a strange, stormy gray-blue fabric that shimmered like mist when she walked.
Today, she would find answers.
Not from the walls. Not from the shadows. From him.
---
The palace halls were quieter than usual. Even the air had dulled.
She passed no guards, no servants, only the soft echo of her bare feet across the cold stone. Occasionally, the whisper of a curtain brushing the wind, or the distant groan of ancient wood.
And then — she heard it.
A sound like metal against stone. Slow. Repetitive.
She followed it.
Down two corridors. Past the library door, past the sealed chamber with the broken mirror. She kept walking, until the walls began to change — the carvings grew older, rougher. Dust coated the floor. This part of the palace hadn't been touched in years.
At the end of the passage, a door stood slightly ajar.
Inside, the light of a single candelabra flickered.
Aelia pushed gently.
---
It was not a throne room. Not a council chamber. Just a bare, high-ceilinged hall — and in the center of it stood Kael.
He was alone.
Shirtless, barefoot, wielding a long obsidian blade. His body moved like wind over glass, fluid and fierce, each swing of the sword followed by a turn, a step, a precise movement of breath. He wasn't practicing to fight.
He was dancing.
But there was violence in it. Controlled. Repetitive. As if he were fighting something only he could see.
She watched from the doorway, hidden by the shadows. And for the first time, she saw him not as a king, or a curse, or a ghost from stories…
She saw a man.
Broad-shouldered, body honed not by immortality but by exhaustion. Scars stitched across his back — not fresh, not old, just there, as if pain had become part of his skin. His dark hair clung to his forehead. His chest rose and fell heavily. And his eyes — closed.
When he stopped, silence rushed in like a wave.
Aelia took one step forward, and the wood beneath her heel groaned.
He turned instantly.
Their eyes locked.
No words. No crown. No command.
Just him.
Breathing. Bleeding a little from a cut on his arm. Looking at her like he hadn't expected to be seen.
---
"You shouldn't be here," he said again, softer this time.
She stepped into the light. "You keep saying that."
He lowered the sword. "Because it's true."
"I'm not afraid of you," she said, surprising herself with the strength in her voice.
He tilted his head slightly. "You should be."
There was no threat in his tone. Just truth. Heavy. Sad.
She walked closer. "Why do you train like that?"
Kael hesitated, then turned from her. "To remember what I am. And what I am not."
She glanced at the blade. "You're a king."
He wiped the blade with a cloth and placed it on a nearby stand. "A king without a kingdom. A god without prayers. A man without time."
Aelia stood very still. "And yet… you bleed."
He paused.
Then turned to her, face unreadable. "Yes. That, I still do."
---
✧
They sat in silence for a long time.
He didn't ask her to leave, and she didn't move.
Eventually, he said, "You remind the walls to breathe."
She looked at him. "What?"
"You walk like someone who belongs. That's dangerous here. The palace… remembers."
"The room I found," she said slowly. "The one with her portrait. Queen Lysara."
He flinched. Barely. But she saw it.
"You said I'm not her."
"You're not."
"But the palace thinks I am."
Silence.
Then Kael stood and said, "The palace is not wrong. And not right."
She didn't understand. Not yet. But she knew he wouldn't say more.
Not tonight.
---
As she stood to leave, he said something else. Quiet. Almost to himself.
"I have not slept in two centuries."
She stopped at the door.
"Why?" she asked softly.
His eyes met hers, and for the first time… they were tired. So very tired.
"Because dreams remember what I wish I could forget."
---