The summons arrived as Magister Halwen made his hasty departure, the man's robes still swishing around the corner when a palace attendant appeared at Riven's door.
The timing struck him as statistically improbable, almost as though someone had been waiting for his lesson to conclude.
"Prince Riven," the attendant said, bowing precisely to the depth appropriate for a secondary heir, "your presence is requested in the Eastern Gardens."
Riven turned the invitation over in his mind, searching for context. The Eastern Gardens were rarely used for formal court functions, too intimate, too removed from the grand spectacle preferred by the imperial court. Who would summon him there?
"At whose request?" he asked, his voice carefully neutral.
The attendant's expression remained properly blank. "Princess Serayne awaits you, Your Highness."
Serayne. The name produced an immediate cascade of historical data in Riven's mind.
Princess Serayne Valoria, firstborn child of Emperor Titus and Empress Liriane.
Heir-apparent until Alaric's birth supplanted her claim.
Renowned Aether prodigy.
Diplomatic envoy to the Free League of Almaris at sixteen.
Dead by nineteen, assassination or suicide, the historical records disagreed, but either way, her death had been the first domino in the sequence that led to the empire's collapse.
And now she wanted to meet him.
"I will attend her," Riven said, straightening the formal collar that still felt too stiff against his neck.
As he followed the attendant through the palace corridors, his mind continued processing Magister Halwen's lesson, calculating the mathematical patterns that governed Aether flow.
The conduits overhead pulsed in precise geometric sequences, not divine will but quantifiable energy responding to structural parameters. If he could map those parameters, understand the underlying equations...
The corridor opened onto a small antechamber with glass doors leading to the gardens.
Through the crystalline panes, Riven glimpsed a carefully arranged landscape of tiered flowerbeds and precisely trimmed hedges, all following the imperial aesthetic of geometric perfection.
Water features created perfect concentric circles, their ripples timed to intersect at mathematically satisfying intervals.
"The princess awaits you by the reflection pool," the attendant said, opening the door before retreating with another precisely measured bow.
Riven stepped into the garden alone. The air carried the complex scent profile of cultivated blossoms, each variety placed to complement rather than compete with its neighbors.
The gravel path crunched beneath his feet, the sound dampened by the gentle splash of fountains arranged at acoustically calculated distances.
Near the central reflection pool, a figure stood with her back to him. She wore a simple gown of deep amber silk that caught the afternoon sunlight like liquid gold.
Her auburn hair, neither the Emperor's dark brown nor the Empress's silver-blonde, fell in a single intricate braid down her back.
Riven approached at a measured pace, cataloging details with each step. Her posture displayed perfect court training, spine straight, shoulders aligned, head held at precisely the angle that conveyed authority without arrogance.
Yet there was something different in her stance, a subtle relaxation that contrasted with the rigid formality he observed in most courtiers.
She turned before he announced himself, as though she'd calculated his arrival to the second.
Her face resolved into view, and Riven found himself conducting an automatic analysis, high cheekbones that mirrored the Empress's, a strong jawline reminiscent of the Emperor's, but eyes that were uniquely her own, deep amber that caught the light with unusual warmth.
"Little brother," she said, her voice pitched lower than court convention dictated for a princess. No formal greeting, no acknowledgment of titles or hierarchy, a deliberate choice that immediately set this interaction apart from every other he'd experienced in the palace.
Then she did something even more unexpected. She knelt on the gravel path, bringing herself to his eye level rather than looking down at him from her considerable height.
The action disregarded both her fine clothing and court protocol, which dictated that royalty never lowered themselves physically before anyone except the Emperor himself.
"Serayne Valoria," Riven said, testing her reaction to his directness. "First Princess of the Imperial Blood."
Her lips curved into a smile that reached her eyes, another deviation from court norm, where expressions were carefully calibrated to reveal nothing genuine. "Is that how they've taught you to speak already? All titles and formality? You're, what, three years old?"
"Three years, two months, and fourteen days," Riven corrected automatically.
Her eyebrows rose slightly. "Precise, aren't you?" She studied his face with unexpected intensity, as though solving a complex equation. "They said you were unusual. I wanted to see for myself."
Riven maintained his neutral expression, though internally he calculated the implications of her statement. Who were "they," and what specifically had been reported about him? Magister Halwen, perhaps, or the nursemaids, or any of the countless servants who observed the imperial family with silent attention.
"Why did you summon me?" he asked, keeping his tone carefully calibrated between curiosity and politeness.
Serayne laughed, a sound so genuine it seemed out of place in the imperial gardens. "Direct, too. I like that." She rose in a fluid motion, brushing gravel from her gown without concern for the marks it left. "Walk with me, little brother. These gardens have fewer eyes and ears than most places in the palace."
She offered her hand, another break from protocol, which dictated that physical contact between members of the imperial family occur only during formal ceremonies.
Riven hesitated, then placed his small hand in hers.
Her skin felt warm, her grip neither too firm nor too gentle. Calibrated, he realized, to be comforting without being condescending.
They walked in silence for thirty-seven steps, following a path that wound between flowering bushes cut into perfect geometric shapes.
Riven noted that she matched her pace to his shorter stride without obvious adjustment, another small consideration that stood apart from his experiences with adults in the palace.
"I heard about your lesson today," Serayne said finally, her voice pitched low enough that it wouldn't carry beyond the immediate vicinity. "You frightened poor Magister Halwen half to death with your questions about Aether."
Riven processed this confirmation that his lesson had indeed been reported. "I was curious about the mathematical properties of Aether flow," he said, watching her reaction carefully.
"Mathematics," she repeated, amusement coloring her voice. "Not divinity or sacred geometries, but mathematics. No wonder the old man looked like he'd seen a ghost when he left your chambers."
They reached a small alcove surrounded by high hedges, containing a single bench positioned to catch the afternoon light.
Serayne sat, patting the space beside her in clear invitation. When Riven joined her, she turned to face him directly.
"You see things differently," she stated rather than asked. "You look at the world and see patterns, calculations, systems."
Riven felt a momentary disorientation, the strange sensation of being observed with the same analytical precision he applied to others. He nodded once, neither confirming nor denying, waiting to see where she would take this conversation.
Serayne's amber eyes studied him with uncomfortable perception. "I was like that too, when I was younger. Always questioning, always looking beneath the surface of things. It made the Emperor proud at first, then uneasy." Her mouth twisted briefly. "Men don't like it when their daughters think too much, especially about sacred matters."
The statement contained layers of implication that Riven filed away for future analysis. The gender dynamics of the imperial court were complex, with power flowing through channels both formal and informal.
Serayne's position as firstborn had been supplanted by Alaric's birth, a demotion in status that historical records suggested had occurred without protest or conflict.
"You still question," he observed, not a question but an assessment.
Something flickered in her eyes, a momentary calculation, quickly concealed. "I've learned when to question aloud and when to keep my observations to myself." She leaned closer, her voice dropping further. "That's a lesson you should learn early, little brother. The palace has a thousand eyes, and most belong to people who prefer comfortable certainty to uncomfortable truth."
The warning carried genuine concern, another anomaly in Riven's experience of the imperial family, where interactions typically served political rather than personal purposes. He recalibrated his assessment of Serayne, adding new variables to his understanding of her character.
"You disagree with Magister Halwen's interpretation of Aether," he said, testing the boundaries of her candor.
Serayne glanced around the garden, confirming their isolation before responding. "The magister is a product of the Academy. He knows what he's been taught, which is what the Empire wants people to believe." Her fingers traced invisible patterns on the bench between them. "But those who actually use Aether, who feel it responding to their thoughts... we know there's more to it than divine breath and sacred geometries."
Riven felt a flutter of genuine interest, not just analytical but personal. Here, potentially, was someone who understood what he had observed about Aether's true nature.
"Show me," he said, the request simple but weighted with implication.
Serayne's eyebrows rose in surprise, then settled into a expression of amused approval. "Direct indeed." She glanced around once more, then held her right hand palm-up between them. "Watch carefully, little brother. This was my first Weave, created when I was nine."
She closed her eyes briefly, her expression shifting to one of intense concentration.
Then her amber eyes opened again, and Riven noticed an immediate change, a subtle illumination from within, as though her irises had captured sunlight and held it.
Above her palm, the air shimmered with gathering potential. Dust motes swirled in suddenly visible currents, arranging themselves along invisible force lines.
Then, with a delicate twist of her fingers, light bloomed, not the blue-white glow of the conduits but a warmer, golden radiance that coalesced into a precise shape.
A lotus flower, formed entirely of light, hovered above her palm. Its petals unfurled in perfect sequence, each movement following a precise timing that Riven immediately recognized as mathematical. The flower rotated slowly, casting amber reflections across both their faces.
"Beautiful," Riven said, but his mind was already dissecting the phenomenon with clinical precision. The energy conversion efficiency was approximately seventy-three percent, high by most standards, but with clear room for optimization.
The gesture sequence contained redundancies, motion patterns that could be streamlined to achieve the same effect with reduced input. The frequency of the light itself followed a harmonic progression, but with minor deviations that created unnecessary energy loss.
"It's inefficient," he added, the observation escaping before he could apply his usual filters.
The lotus flower froze mid-rotation. Serayne's eyes widened, the amber light within them intensifying momentarily before she regained control.
For 2.3 seconds, she remained perfectly still, not even breathing, as she processed his comment.
Then, rather than the offense or dismissal he had calculated as most probable, her face transformed with genuine intrigue. The lotus dissolved into golden motes that drifted away like embers from a dying fire.
"Inefficient," she repeated, studying him with new intensity. "Not 'impossible' or 'magical' or 'divine', the responses I typically receive. But 'inefficient.'"