The palace did not sleep.
News, like poison, spreads best in the dark and tonight, it moved fast.
In silk draped hallways and candlelit corridors, noble voices trembled behind fans and veils. Servants pretended not to hear, but everyone was listening.
"The boy from Valerion…"
"No, it's a lie he's dead."
"They say he walked out of the vault itself. As if… he never left."
But deep down, the court knew:
A story that shouldn't exist had been spoken again.
And that was dangerous.
Miren Caelus stood alone in the Garden of Stones.
It was once Alden's favorite place.
Statues of long dead kings stared silently from their marble thrones, their names carved in silver at the base. All except one.
One pedestal stood empty. No name. No face. Just a blank space sealed with royal wax.
Miren's fingers hovered over it.
"We swore never to say his name again," she whispered.
"We buried him."
A second voice — soft, bitter echoed behind her.
"Then why do you still come here?"
She turned.
A man emerged from the shadows tall, dark robes, gold chain heavy on his shoulder.
Lord Verran, the Crown's Whispermaster.
"He was a child," Miren said quietly.
"He was a danger," Verran replied. "Still is."
"So now what? Pretend we didn't hear?"
Verran studied the pedestal. The air around it felt… thinner.
"No. We remind the Kingdom why he was erased."
Elsewhere, in the city beneath the palace…
Alden walked through the Vein Market where nothing legal was ever sold, and truth had a price.
He wore no mask. In the lower layers, none were needed.
The market shimmered around him. Candles flickered between layers of reality. Some shopkeepers saw him. Others forgot him the moment he passed.
A hooded girl stopped him. Her eyes shimmered one silver, one red.
"You're him," she said. "The ghost prince."
Alden tilted his head.
"You remember me?"
"No," she said. "But the layers do."
She handed him a mirror cracked, old, humming with forgotten magic.
"For the masquerade," she said.
"If they still wear masks… so should you."
Back in the palace, the Crown Prince sharpened a blade.
Steel whispered against stone.
Prince Caelum first son, perfect heir, the one who took Alden's place.
His mirror reflected a face carved to rule. Beautiful. Controlled. Hollow.
"He won't make it past the gates," he said flatly.
A voice behind him older, colder replied:
"He's already inside."
The King stepped into the chamber. Eyes like stormclouds. Wrinkled, powerful.
"Tomorrow night, at the masquerade," the King said,
"we end this ghost story for good."
That night, Alden stood on the edge of the noble district.
In his hand: the cracked mirror. In it: his reflection flickered between layers forgotten, remembered, broken, whole.
He put on the mask.
Not to hide.
But to enter.
"Tomorrow," he whispered,
"they will remember."