Night came to the palace like ink spilled over glass.
The corridors, once bright with banners and bustle, had gone still. Only the occasional torch sputtered along the walls, their flames whispering secrets to the stone.
Elyon stood by her window, her forehead resting against the cold pane. Below, the courtyards shimmered with torchlight, guards pacing in their ceaseless rhythm. She could hear the faint clang of metal on metal from the barracks — her father's world of discipline never truly slept.
Behind her, Amara's soft voice broke the silence.
"You haven't touched your supper, Princess."
"I'm not hungry," Elyon murmured, eyes fixed on the horizon where the moon floated low, pale and swollen. "Does it ever trouble you, Amara," she asked after a moment, "how quiet this palace is at night? As if the walls are listening."
Amara paused mid-step, her hands clasped before her. "I suppose silence is safer, Your Highness. The walls have ears, after all."
Elyon turned slightly, the faintest smile ghosting across her lips. "Yes. My father's ears."
Amara looked uneasy but said nothing.
The princess sighed, moving to the center of the room. Her gown — the same ivory one from court — had grown heavy with wear. She unfastened the clasp at her neck and let it fall in soft waves around her. The air prickled faintly against her bare skin, carrying the scent of candle wax and iron.
"Do you think," Elyon asked softly, "that people are born into cages… or do they build them around themselves?"
Amara blinked, uncertain how to answer. "I— I don't know, my lady."
"I think," Elyon continued, "mine was built for me before I even drew breath."
Her hand brushed the edge of her vanity table, where a crystal hairpin rested. It shivered beneath her touch — just barely, like a startled bird. Amara didn't notice. But Elyon felt it. The faint hum of warmth beneath her fingertips.
She drew in a slow breath, then quickly withdrew her hand.
"Are you well, Princess?" Amara asked, approaching. "You look pale."
Elyon hesitated. "Sometimes," she said quietly, "I feel… strange. As though the air itself is alive. When I'm frightened, or angry, or—" she stopped. "Never mind."
Amara's brow furrowed. "Do you wish for me to call the royal physician?"
"No." Elyon's tone was sharper than intended. She softened it quickly. "No, I just need rest. You may go, Amara."
Amara hesitated again, searching her mistress's face as if sensing a storm behind the calm. "Very well, my lady." She curtsied and backed away. "Good night."
When the door closed, the silence deepened — heavy, electric. Elyon stood in the middle of the room, her heart beating too loudly. The walls seemed to pulse faintly with the rhythm of her thoughts.
She crossed to the mirror. Her reflection stared back: tired eyes, drawn lips, a girl wearing the shape of a princess. "A bride," she whispered to the glass, and the word sounded foreign, absurd.
Her throat tightened. Anger welled — small, trembling, then growing sharper with every heartbeat. He decides everything. Even who I am allowed to love.
The candles flickered violently.
Elyon froze. The curtains rustled though no wind blew. The flames stretched high, bending toward her like they were listening.
"No," she breathed. "Stop."
The air thickened. Her reflection shimmered again — a ripple spreading through the glass. For an instant, she saw herself not as she was but as something brighter, raw energy glowing beneath her skin.
Then everything stilled.
She stumbled back, clutching her chest. The mirror was just a mirror again.
Her pulse thundered in her ears. "You have to stop this," she whispered to herself. "If Father ever—"
A soft knock startled her. "Princess?" Amara's voice, muffled by the door. "Is everything all right? I thought I heard…"
Elyon's eyes darted to the candles, still trembling on their wicks. She exhaled shakily and forced calm into her tone. "It's fine, Amara. Just— just the wind."
A pause. Then footsteps retreating.
Elyon pressed both palms against the mirror, staring into her own frightened gaze. "What are you?" she whispered to the reflection. "What have you always been?"
And somewhere deep in the glass, almost imperceptibly, something shimmered again — as if answering.