Chapter Three: Beneath the Crown of Shadows
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They lay still for hours after he left.
Even as the paralysis wore off, even as the blood left their eyes and movement returned to their limbs, they did not rise.
They couldn't.
Because they knew—truly knew—what they had served.
What they had broken.
And what they had now unleashed.
Mirelle vomited first, the moment she could move her jaw again. Violently. Repeatedly. Choking and heaving like her soul was trying to escape her body. Silla whimpered as she curled into the corner, knees pulled up to her chest, trembling with silent sobs.
The potboy didn't speak. Just stared at the blood-streaked floor where Bren had died, his mouth open, eyes glazed.
His body was gone.
His ashes, too.
But the blood memory—the way Killian smiled when he did it—that stayed with them.
He had looked so calm. So clean. So pleased.
Like he was stretching his legs after a long nap.
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"H-he killed Bren," someone whispered hoarsely, hugging their arms tightly. "He just killed him. Like it was nothing. Like... like he was brushing dirt off his sleeve."
"And then he healed us..." someone else said. "He tore us apart—and healed us. We felt it all. And he put us back together."
"So we'd remember it," Mirelle rasped. "He wants us to remember."
A heavy silence settled over the ruined kitchen.
Their faces were pale, eyes hollow. Their uniforms were stiff with blood and sweat. But none of them moved toward the infirmary. None of them called for the palace guard. They all knew.
Who would believe them?
The bastard prince, mistreated or not, had imperial blood.
And they were just thieves.
Filth.
Liars.
If they tried to report him... they'd vanish before the sun touched the tower.
Just like Bren.
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By dawn, they had begun to move—not out of strength.
But desperation.
They cleaned like possessed things, scrubbing blood out of stone until their hands blistered and cracked. They swept, polished, and straightened. They hauled rotten tapestries from the walls, cut the ivy that clung like mold to the windows. Dust that had clung for a decade vanished in hours.
The hallways echoed with frantic, whispered prayers and shuddering breaths.
Some muttered oaths in their mother tongues, clutching religious charms. One servant tried to flee—tried to slip past the broken gate into the city—but returned less than an hour later, empty-eyed and trembling.
None asked where he had gone.
None asked what he had seen.
By sunrise, the tower gleamed.
The floors shone. The walls were clean. The windows opened to let in fresh air for the first time in years. The bath chamber was filled with warm water, petals floating delicately on the surface. Steam curled around the room like incense.
The cook prepared breakfast by hand—perfectly roasted fowl, buttered bread, wild honey, and eggs scented with herbs.
Everything was ready.
Only one thing remained.
Who would open the prince's door?
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They stood in front of it like prisoners at a gallows, staring at the carved wood as if it would breathe fire and tear them apart.
"No way I'm doing it," someone muttered.
"He said to return to proper duties," Mirelle croaked, her voice raw. "Someone's got to—"
Silla took a step forward.
Her legs shook.
She hadn't spoken much since last night. Not after what he whispered into her ear. Not after he touched her cheek with fingers still warm from Bren's blood.
Now, she knocked—once, twice—then opened the door.
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"Y-your Highness," she stammered, voice thin, "your morning bath is ready."
She kept her eyes low, trained to the floor, her heart a war drum beneath her ribs.
She entered the room slowly, expecting fury—punishment for not knocking properly, or for being too slow. But instead, she saw him standing by the open window, already awake, already dressed in loose, dark trousers and nothing else.
He was stretching—arms above his head, lean torso twisting smoothly in the early light. His skin was unmarred now. No bruises. No cuts.
He was a child again—but only in flesh.
Not in soul.
And not in eyes.
When he turned, his golden gaze slid to her like a blade drawn slowly across skin.
She dropped into a deep bow, knees touching the ground, eyes locked on the marble tiles.
She dared not speak again.
She did not see it—
—but he smirked.
He enjoyed this.
The obedience.
The silence.
The fear.
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"Lead the way," he said smoothly, voice gentle like silk drawn over broken glass.
She rose shakily and led him through the corridor, the steam of the bath already thick in the air. He followed her like a shadow, not saying a word, letting her drown in the sound of her own heartbeat.
When they entered the bath chamber, he stripped without shame, tossing his shirt aside, stepping into the warm water with a slow, satisfied sigh.
"Wash my hair," he said after a few moments.
Silla obeyed.
Her hands trembled as she ran the perfumed oils through his raven-dark locks, gently massaging his scalp as he leaned back against the marble rim.
Minutes passed in silence.
Then he spoke.
Calm. Measured.
"I hope you've learned your lesson, Silla."
She froze.
Then whispered, voice cracking, "Y-yes, Your Highness. I... I have."
There was no sound of approval.
Only a long exhale.
And his quiet smile.
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She rinsed the soap from his hair with shaking hands.
And behind her, Killian closed his eyes and leaned further into the warmth, letting it soak into muscle and memory.
The tower was silent now.
But it was a different kind of silence.
Not neglect.
Not abandonment.
It was reverence.
It was fear.
It was his.
And they would never—ever—dare forget it again.
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