The transition from the open sky to the interior of the Palace was jarring. It wasn't just the visual shift from the infinite blue to the enclosed, suffocating cream and gold of the corridors; it was the sound. Or rather, the lack of it.
In the Soot-Wards, silence was a myth. There was always the grinding of machinery, the coughing of neighbors, the shouting of hawkers, the distant rumble of the waste chutes. Here, the silence was aggressive. It pressed against Elian's eardrums, heavy and thick. His muddy boots, which had made sucking sounds in the slum muck, now squeaked offensively on floors made of polished sun-bleached marble.
Every step he took left a faint, brown outline of a footprint.
He flinched every time he saw a servant. They glided past in robes of pale linen, their heads bowed, their movements synchronized and silent. They didn't look at Vane—they feared him too much—but their eyes darted toward Elian. He saw the flashes of disgust. To them, he wasn't a person; he was a contagion. A walking smear of filth invading their sterile sanctuary.
Vane didn't seem to notice, or perhaps he simply didn't care. He walked with long, purposeful strides, his cape snapping silently behind him. He didn't look back to see if Elian was following. He knew he was. The silk cuffs on Elian's wrists hummed with a low, warning vibration every time he lagged more than three paces behind the Commander. A magical tether. A leash.
"Stop," Vane commanded suddenly.
They had reached a set of double doors carved from a wood so pale it looked like bone. He didn't open them. He turned to face Elian, his expression unreadable.
"You cannot stand before the Prince looking like... that," Vane said, gesturing vaguely at Elian's entire existence. "You smell of sulfur and desperation. It lingers."
"It's called reality," Elian shot back, though he crossed his arms defensively over his chest to hide the trembling of his hands. "I didn't pack a tuxedo for my abduction."
"Clearly." Vane's eyes narrowed. He snapped his fingers.
The bone-white doors swung open inward, revealing not a torture chamber, but something Elian found almost as intimidating: a bathhouse.
It was a cavernous room of steaming turquoise pools, vaulted ceilings painted with frescoes of solar myths, and piles of fluffy white towels that looked softer than any bed Elian had ever slept in. Steam curled in the air, smelling of rosewater and lemon.
Three women materialized from the steam. They were older, their faces severe, dressed in the starched uniforms of the Royal Matrons.
"Scrub him," Vane ordered, his voice bored. "Burn the clothes. Check for lice. If he has any hidden weapons—blades, shivs, poison capsules—bring them to me."
"Yes, Lord Vane," the women chorused in unison.
"Wait," Elian protested, stepping back, his boots sliding on the wet tile. "I can wash myself. I don't need—"
"You don't have a choice," Vane cut him off. He leaned against the doorframe, folding his arms. He made no move to leave.
Elian's eyes widened. "You're leaving, right?"
Vane offered him a slow, dry smile. It didn't reach his eyes. "I am the High Commander of the Guard. My duty is to ensure the security of the Palace. Leaving an unregistered Source Mage alone with three defenseless matrons would be a dereliction of duty."
"You just want to watch," Elian accused, his face heating up beneath the grime.
"I have seen naked men before, Elian," Vane drawled, checking an imaginary speck of dust on his gauntlet. "Do not flatter yourself. I am here to ensure you don't vaporize the plumbing. Get in the water."
The matrons descended on him before he could argue further.
The next hour was a blur of humiliation and sensation. Elian was stripped of his grey rags—his armor against the world—which were immediately tossed into an incinerator chute in the wall. He felt a pang of loss as he watched them burn; he had stitched that cloak himself from scraps found in the Tailor's District.
Then, he was ushered into the water.
It was hot. Shockingly hot. In the Wards, water was rationed and lukewarm at best. This water scalded his frozen skin, turning it red. The matrons were efficient and merciless. They scrubbed him with rough sponges and soaps that smelled of expensive flowers, scraping away layers of soot that Elian had thought were permanent.
They washed his hair three times, untangling the knots with ruthless precision. The water in the basin turned a murky grey, then brown, then finally, after the fourth rinse, it ran clear.
Throughout it all, Vane stood by the door. He had turned his back, granting Elian a shred of modesty, but his presence was a heavy weight in the room. He was listening. Every splash of water, every gasp when the scrub brush hit a bruise—he heard it all.
"Stand," one of the matrons commanded.
Elian stood, dripping wet, shivering despite the heat of the room. They wrapped him in a towel as large as a blanket.
"Sit," the matron ordered, pointing to a low bench.
They dried his hair, brushing it back until it fell in thick, dark waves against his neck. They applied oils to his skin—scents of jasmine and amber that made his head spin.
When they were finished, the lead matron stepped back and let out a huff of surprise.
"Well," the woman muttered, looking Elian up and down. "That is... unexpected."
Elian looked at himself in the tall, silver-glass mirror on the wall. For a moment, he didn't recognize the man staring back.
Without the grime, his skin was pale, almost luminous, a stark contrast to the dark hair. His cheekbones were high and sharp, his jawline defined and strong. He didn't look like a rat. He looked... noble. There was a strength in his shoulders, a clarity in his face that the filth had hidden.
But it was the eyes that held his attention. The violet irises, usually hidden in the shadows of a hood, were now striking, framed by thick, dark lashes.
A strange chill went down his spine. He looked too much like the portraits he had seen on the gold coins.
Vane turned around.
The silence in the room shifted. It wasn't the aggressive silence of the hallway. It was a stunned, heavy silence.
Vane's gaze started at Elian's bare feet and traveled slowly, agonizingly, up to his face. He didn't speak immediately. His expression didn't change—he was too disciplined for that—but his pupils dilated. The air temperature in the room seemed to drop a few degrees, or perhaps Elian was just suddenly very aware of how little the towel covered.
"Acceptable," Vane said finally. His voice was rougher than before. A little jagged around the edges.
He walked over to a pile of clothes the matrons had prepared. It wasn't a ballgown. It was a servant's uniform, but of the highest tier—a fitted tunic of dove-grey silk and trousers of a darker charcoal. Functional, but elegant.
"Put these on," Vane said, tossing them onto the bench. "And cover the eyes."
"Cover them?" Elian asked, clutching the towel.
"Violet eyes are rare," Vane said, turning his back again. "In the Wards, they make you a curiosity. Here, they make people ask questions about your lineage. Questions I do not want to answer. Keep your head down."
Elian dressed quickly, the silk feeling alien and slippery against his skin. It was too light. He felt naked without the weight of his wool and leather. The trousers were tight, molding to his legs, and the tunic clung to his chest.
"I'm ready," he said softly.
Vane turned back. He looked Elian over once more, a critical eye checking for flaws. He reached out, adjusting the collar of Elian's tunic, his knuckles grazing the pulse point at Elian's throat. Elian's heart hammered against the touch—a traitorous reaction he couldn't control.
"Remember," Vane whispered, his face close to Elian's. "You are a mute servant assigned to the Royal Wing. You speak only to me. You look only at the floor. If the Prince asks you a question, you bow and tremble. Can you manage that, or do I need to silence you magically?"
Elian slapped Vane's hand away from his collar. "I know how to survive, Wolf. Just show me the patient."
Vane's eyes flashed with amusement at the nickname. "This way."
He led Elian out of the bathhouse, deeper into the palace. The corridors grew wider, the gold leaf more abundant. They passed guards who snapped to attention as Vane passed, their armor clanking in unison.
Finally, they reached a set of double doors that were not wood, but solid gold, embossed with the crest of the Sun. Two Praetorian Guards—hulking figures in full plate armor—stood on either side.
"Commander," one of them grunted, banging his spear against the floor.
"Open it," Vane commanded. "The Prince is expecting his... treatment."
The doors groaned open.
The smell hit Elian first. It wasn't the smell of luxury. It was the cloying, sickly-sweet scent of sickness masked by too much perfume. It smelled like rotting lilies.
The room beyond was vast, a chamber fit for a god. One entire wall was made of glass, overlooking the clouds and the setting sun. In the center of the room was a massive four-poster bed draped in sheer curtains.
And there, sitting on the edge of the bed, was the Prince.
Prince Lysander was small. Painfully small. He wore a nightshirt of white silk that hung off his bony shoulders. His hair was a pale, washed-out blonde, brittle and thin. But it was his posture that struck Elian—he was hunched over, his hands gripping the sheets as if he were trying to keep himself from floating away.
He looked up as they entered. His eyes were pale blue, watery and dim.
"Vane," the Prince croaked. His voice was thin, like dry leaves skittering on stone. "You're late."
"My apologies, Highness," Vane said, bowing low, though the gesture felt mocking to Elian's ears. "I had to retrieve the... supplement."
Vane stepped aside, revealing Elian.
Prince Lysander's gaze snapped to Elian. For a moment, the two young men stared at one another. The boy who had grown up in the mud but stood tall and strong, and the boy who had grown up in the clouds but looked as if a stiff breeze would shatter him.
The contrast was violent.
"That?" Lysander sneered, his lip curling in disgust. She stood up, his legs shaking. "You brought me a rat from the Wards? Look at him. He's... common."
"He is scrubbed clean, Highness," Vane said smoothly. "And he is powerful. A Source Mage."
Lysander laughed, a brittle, hysterical sound. "A Source Mage? In the slums? Impossible. He probably stole a trinket."
Lysander marched—or rather, stumbled—toward Elian. He stopped inches away, looking up at Elian, who was a full head taller.
"Kneel," Lysander commanded.
Elian didn't move. His pride, forged in the fires of the Drop Zone, locked his knees in place. He looked at the Prince with a mixture of pity and disdain. This was the man holding the world together?
"I said kneel!" Lysander shrieked, raising a hand. A pathetic spark of yellow magic fizzled at his fingertips—weak, sputtering, barely enough to light a candle.
Elian felt a sudden, overwhelming surge of second-hand embarrassment. This was the solar anchor? This was the power keeping the city afloat? It was pathetic.
"Kneel, Elian," Vane warned from behind him, his voice low and dangerous.
Elian gritted his teeth. He slowly, defiantly, lowered himself to one knee.
Lysander smiled, a cruel, satisfied expression on his pale face. He reached out and grabbed Elian's chin with cold, clammy fingers, forcing his head up.
"What pretty eyes," Lysander whispered, his nails digging into Elian's skin. "It's a shame. Pretty things don't last long up here."
He released Elian and turned to Vane.
"Hook him up," Lysander ordered, walking back to the bed. "I feel a migraine coming on. I need to feed."