The panic room didn't have windows. It didn't have a clock. It was a void of absolute silence that pressed against Elian's ears like water deep underwater. When he woke, he didn't know if he had slept for an hour or a day.
He sat up on the narrow cot, his heart racing instantly. For a split second, he thought he was back in the holding cells of the Ward Constabulary, waiting for a beating. Then the smell hit him—sandalwood and old paper.
Vane.
He was in the Wolf's den.
A sharp click echoed from the wall, and the heavy door swung open.
Light flooded the small alcove, blinding him. Elian shielded his eyes, squinting against the glare.
Vane stood in the opening. He was already fully armored, the black obsidian plates polished to a mirror shine, his cape perfectly draped. He looked rested, dangerous, and irritatingly perfect. There was no sign of the wound Elian had healed the night before, other than a slight stiffness in the way he held his left shoulder.
"Get up," Vane commanded, tossing a bundle of fabric at Elian's head. "Dawn broke an hour ago. The Palace is awake, and so are the vultures."
Elian caught the bundle. It was a fresh uniform—black this time, with the silver crest of the Wolf on the breast pocket.
"I liked the grey one better," Elian muttered, swinging his legs off the cot. "Black makes me look like one of your henchmen."
"You are one of my henchmen," Vane corrected, turning back to his desk. "At least, that is what the court believes. The grey was a generic palace uniform. The black marks you as my personal property. It affords you... certain protections."
"Protections?" Elian pulled the tunic on. It fit perfectly. Too perfectly. "Or does it just mean no one else is allowed to hit me but you?"
Vane turned, leaning against the desk, holding a steaming porcelain cup. He took a slow sip, his grey eyes tracking Elian as he dressed.
"Precisely," Vane said. He held out the cup. "Drink. It's coffee. Real coffee, not that chicory sludge you drink in the Wards."
Elian took the cup cautiously. The aroma was intoxicating—rich, dark, and nutty. He took a sip and nearly groaned. It was liquid energy. It was the best thing he had ever tasted.
"Don't get used to it," Vane warned, taking the empty cup back when Elian had drained it. "We have a meeting."
"With the Prince?" Elian asked, stiffening.
"No. Lysander is currently sedated, claiming he was attacked by an assassin in the night," Vane said, his lip curling slightly. "The official story is that a rogue mage infiltrated the bedroom, overloaded a crystal, and fled. You, Elian, do not exist in that narrative."
Vane reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, silver choker. It was simple, unadorned, but hummed with a faint containment field.
"Put this on."
Elian recoiled. "I am not wearing a collar."
"It is a Silencer," Vane explained, his patience thinning. "It dampens your vocal cords. As far as the court is concerned, you are a mute servant I purchased from the Southern Isles to manage my archives. If you speak, the lie breaks. If the lie breaks, the Queen kills you. Put. It. On."
Elian stared at the silver band. It was degrading. It was a symbol of ownership. But he remembered the feeling of the Queen's Guard—the stories of the Iron Maidens in the dungeon.
He snatched the collar from Vane's hand and snapped it around his own neck. It clicked shut. He tried to speak, to curse Vane, but no sound came out. His mouth moved, his throat vibrated, but the air remained silent.
Vane nodded, satisfied. "Good. Stay close. Eyes down. And if you feel your magic flaring... count to ten."
The Palace by day was even more overwhelming than by night. Sunlight streamed through the endless walls of glass, refracting off the crystal chandeliers and turning the corridors into kaleidoscopes of rainbows.
Elian walked two paces behind Vane, his hands clasped behind his back, his head bowed. He felt the weight of the Silencer against his throat.
The corridors were bustling. Lords in silk robes whispered in corners, ladies in floating gowns glided by with entourages of giggling handmaidens. Everyone stopped when Vane passed. The conversations died. The laughter stopped. They bowed, not out of respect, but out of fear.
Vane didn't acknowledge them. He cut through the social fabric of the court like a knife.
They exited the main corridor and entered the Sun Gardens—a sprawling, impossible jungle suspended on a gravity-disk off the side of the main spire. Waterfalls flowed upward into mist. trees bore fruit that glowed like embers.
"Commander Vane," a voice called out.
It was a voice like cracking ice—beautiful, sharp, and utterly cold.
Vane stopped instantly. Elian nearly walked into his back.
Vane stiffened, his posture shifting from casual arrogance to rigid military discipline. He turned slowly.
"Your Majesty," Vane said, bowing low.
Elian's blood ran cold. He mimicked Vane, dropping to one knee, keeping his eyes glued to the white marble path.
Queen Valeriana stood beneath an archway of silver roses. She was tall, painfully thin, and terrifyingly beautiful. Her hair was a cascade of white-gold, piled high and woven with diamonds. Her dress was made of something that looked like spun glass, shimmering with every breath.
But it was her presence that suffocated Elian. She radiated power—not the warm, chaotic heat of the sun, but the cold, crushing pressure of a dying star.
"I heard there was an incident last night," the Queen said, stepping closer. Her movement was soundless. She glided. "In my son's chambers."
"A security breach, Majesty," Vane reported, his voice even. "A rogue kineticist attempted to assassinate the Prince. I intercepted the attack."
"Indeed," the Queen murmured. She stopped in front of Vane. "And yet, the logs show no intruders entering or leaving the Royal Wing. The only entry was you... and a guest."
Elian felt sweat trickle down his spine. She knew.
"I brought a healer to inspect the Prince's condition before the Rite," Vane lied smoothly. "The assassin was hiding in the ventilation shafts. He has been... dealt with."
The Queen hummed, a skeptical, vibrating sound. "My son is burned, Vane. His arm looks as if he reached into a furnace. That does not look like kinetic magic. It looks like Solar overload."
"The Prince fought back," Vane said. "His power is growing. It was a volatile discharge."
"Is it?" The Queen turned her head. Her gaze fell on Elian.
Elian felt the weight of her attention like a physical blow. He stared at a crack in the marble, willing himself to be invisible.
"And who is this?" the Queen asked. "I do not recognize him. He is too tall to be a house-elf, and too... pretty... to be a guard."
"My new archivist," Vane said, stepping slightly to the side, subtly shielding Elian. "A mute. I acquired him to sort the war logs."
"Look at me, boy," the Queen commanded.
Elian didn't move.
"I said, look at me."
Elian took a breath. He slowly lifted his chin. He kept his eyelids lowered, masking the violet irises, looking at the Queen's chin rather than her eyes.
She stepped closer. The smell of her perfume—frozen lilies and ozone—made him nauseous. She reached out with a long, manicured finger and tilted his chin up further.
"Handsome," she whispered. "In a rough way. Where did you find him, Vane? The breeding pits?"
"The Southern Isles," Vane replied.
The Queen ran her nail down Elian's cheek, tracing the line of his jaw. Her touch was freezing. It felt like a block of ice pressed against his skin.
"He feels warm," the Queen noted, her eyes narrowing. "Unusually warm."
Elian's magic flared. It hated her. It recognized her as the antithesis of everything he was. The heat in his chest spiked, threatening to boil over. Control, he told himself. Count to ten.
One. Two. Three...
"He has a fever," Vane interjected quickly, stepping forward and effectively breaking the Queen's contact with Elian. "Travel sickness. I was taking him to the infirmary."
The Queen withdrew her hand, wiping it on her dress as if she had touched something slimy.
"See that you do," she said coldly. "We cannot have sickness in the Palace so close to the Eclipse. If he is contagious... burn him."
She turned her back on them, dismissing them as if they were furniture.
"And Vane?" she called out as she walked away.
"Majesty?"
"Find the 'assassin's' remains," she said, her voice floating back over the shoulder. "I want to reanimate the head. I have questions."
Vane bowed again. "Of course."
They waited until she was gone, disappearing into the glass conservatory.
Vane grabbed Elian's arm and practically dragged him down the path, moving fast. They didn't stop until they were back in the main corridor, surrounded by the noise of the court.
Vane shoved Elian into a shadowed alcove behind a statue of a weeping angel.
"That," Vane hissed, his face pale, "was too close."
Elian clawed at the collar. He pointed to it, his eyes wide.
Vane tapped the collar with a finger, muttering a release word. "Speak."
"She's cold," Elian gasped, rubbing his throat. "She feels like death. How do you stand being near her?"
"She is a Lunar Mage," Vane whispered, checking the hallway for spies. "She draws power from the void. She is the opposite of you."
Vane looked at Elian, his expression intense.
"She suspected," Vane said. "She felt your heat. If you hadn't kept your eyes down... if she had seen the purple..."
"She would have killed me," Elian said.
"No," Vane corrected, his voice dark. "She would have eaten you. She drains Source Mages to keep her youth. Why do you think Lysander is so weak?"
Elian froze. "She feeds on her own son?"
"She feeds on anything that shines," Vane said. "And you, Elian? You shine brighter than anything in this kingdom."
Vane reached out, his hand cupping the back of Elian's neck, his thumb resting on the pulse point beneath the silver collar.
"I cannot let you out of my sight," Vane murmured. "Not for a second. From now on, you sleep in my room. You eat off my plate. You walk in my shadow."
"Is that an order, Commander?" Elian asked, his voice shaky.
Vane leaned in, his forehead resting against Elian's for a brief, electric moment.
"It's a promise."