Ch03: Snitches And Fine Princes
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Bells peeled from somewhere above the mist, deep and slow, as though the very stones of the city had found a voice. Seren Veylan tilted her head back, blinking up at the high walls that loomed over her, so close she could almost taste the cool dust rising from their age-old carvings. Trumpets followed the bells—brassy, clean, each note struck by men in crimson sashes whose cheeks puffed like ripe apples. If they were nervous to be part of the day's pageantry, they didn't show it.
The Castle was older than the Ordinary Zone itself—at least that's what Aunt Fenna always said between muttering about the uselessness of kings. Its outer towers were carved from pale stone streaked with grey veins, each surface etched with curling vines, twin-headed hawks, and stories Seren didn't know but felt tug at her as she passed. The gates were wide enough for ten horses to ride abreast, flanked by two statues of warriors, their spears lifted to the clouds.
She tugged her shawl closer, half for warmth, half because she didn't know what she looked like after the climb from the Zone. Her hair probably smelled faintly of coal smoke, and the hem of her dress was already dusty. "Aunt Fenna's going to throw a fit when she hears where I've gone," she muttered under her breath, biting her lip. If she hears. No, when. She always hears.
"Fenna," she thought again, the name warm in her mind despite the guilt curling in her gut. Everyone else called her aunt 'OldMearra' or 'that lag from Eastside,' but to Seren it was Fen, Fenna, sometimes Fenny if she wanted to see the old woman roll her eyes.
She should have been proud to be here. The Zone had sent its share of girls, though most had never seen the inside of the Castle gates before today. And yet Seren's thoughts snagged on every reason she shouldn't be here—on the shine of the cobblestones under her worn boots, on the thick braids and silken gowns of the others.
The big courtyard was already alive when she slipped through the gate. On the left, a scatter of girls who looked like they'd been dragged from their kitchens that morning—wrinkled skirts, chipped sandals, and eyes darting everywhere at once. A few pointed at the gargoyle-lined balconies, mouths open in awe.
On the right, the picture was very different. Rows—actual rows—of women whose gowns looked as if they'd been spun from morning light. Gold thread, pale silks, pearl clasps. Most of them were blondes, their hair catching the sun like coins. The Southerners, Seren guessed—royal daughters and nieces from the warm courts down south. Here and there, white-haired women stood like statues among them, their skin almost luminous. Aethorians, she thought, remembering whispers that the King himself handpicked them from across his lands.
In this sea of beauty, even the Royals had their pecking order—silks more lavish here, necklaces heavier there, quiet glances measuring worth without a word spoken.
A woman mounted a small platform at the front. She wore a gown that, while not as ornate as the Royals, carried an authority all its own—deep green with a silver sash, her dark hair coiled in a crown-like braid. When she spoke, her voice was honey over steel.
"Welcome," she began, though her eyes swept over the Ordinary girls with a curl of distaste. "Some of you… have never seen walls that were not cracked. Some of you will never see them again." The Southerners tittered behind pale hands, eyes bright with amusement.
Seren caught half the speech as she slipped into the courtyard—late, breathless, and far too sweaty. Without thinking, she drifted toward the better-dressed group. A mistake. The sour glances came instantly, the muttered "smoke rat" and "coal stink" sharp enough to sting. Even the girls from her own Zone side turned away, ashamed to be near her.
The lady on the platform paused mid-sentence, then descended the steps with slow precision. Her shadow fell over Seren.
"Join your kind," she said, not loudly, but with enough weight to make the giggles swell again.
Heat burned up Seren's neck, but she obeyed, shuffling across to the left. Gossip and whispers bloomed like weeds at her back.
High above, in a shadowed corridor that overlooked the courtyard, a man leaned on the low wall. Broad shoulders, a clean-cut jaw, and hair the color of dark honey—he had the sort of face that made the Royals giggle and the Ordinaries glance away in caution. He watched the gathering like it was a play meant for him alone.
Another man joined him, and they spoke quietly—too far to hear—but the first's smirk was plain. This was the Overseer of the Southern lands, and if the curl of his mouth was any clue, he had little faith in today's crop.
"They'll fail," he told his companion. "All of them. And I'll keep my place."
A knight hurried up the corridor, armor whispering with each step. He leaned in to murmur something, and the Overseer's smile thinned before he strode away. Seren happened to glance up just as he turned—a glimpse of fine cloth, the easy arrogance of his gait. Ridiculous, but in the moment she imagined him in her dreams, four children tumbling around his feet. She rolled her eyes at herself.
The Overseer's destination was a meeting room tucked behind a massive carved door. Waiting there was a man who made even the sunlit courtyard seem dull—taller, his armor marked with a simple yet striking crest: a crescent moon over crossed spears. His dark hair was cropped short, his features cut sharp enough to wound, and his presence filled the space between them without effort.
"Aric Duskbane," the Overseer greeted him, voice flat.
"From Aethoria," Aric confirmed, his tone carrying the formality of a man who served something greater than himself. "With a message from the King."
They vanished into the Overseer's office, the door sealing their words from the rest of the Castle.
Down in the courtyard, the lady resumed her tour, leading the groups into the Castle proper. Seren trailed behind, pulling out her battered notebook to jot down details—dates, names, carvings—while the others barely listened. The lady noticed, eyebrows lifting, and offered a small nod. The approval made Seren stand a little taller.
It didn't last. A blonde girl—hair like spun gold, lips painted the red of crushed berries—drifted close. Her name, Seren learned, was Lysandra Vale, and she had the smile of someone who'd been the mistress of more than one rich man. Lysandra chatted easily, weaving shared complaints and sly compliments until Seren found herself laughing instead of writing.
"You've made a royal friend," the lady remarked later, her tone slicing the air. "No more need for my nonsense, hmm? Ordinary people never change."
Seren's cheeks burned. Lysandra's didn't. She leaned in and whispered, "Come with me. I need… you know. The privy."
They asked permission and slipped away. Only, Lysandra didn't need the privy—she needed to be rid of Seren. By the time Seren realized she was lost in the Castle's winding halls, Lysandra was gone.
Trying to retrace her steps, Seren caught a sound—raised voices—from behind a massive, ornate door.
"…the chosen one has entered the Castle," one voice said.
"And you can tell your king he's a liar," snapped another.
Seren's pulse jumped. She crouched behind a tapestry just as the door swung open. Aric emerged first, his expression unreadable. Behind him, the Overseer's gaze swept the hall—and landed on her.
"Intruder," he barked. "Seize her."
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