The palace of Lydia had learned to pretend.
Every morning the bells rang with mechanical precision, scattering sound through marble corridors already swept clean before dawn. Servants repeated their movements like actors hitting marks, guards traded the same greetings in the same tone, and light pooled through stained glass in identical patterns that never seemed to shift. Even the air smelled rehearsed— incense, oil, polished stone.
To anyone else, it looked like peace.
To Nhilly, it felt like a pause between breaths.
He wandered those corridors in silence most days, gloved hands clasped behind his back, nodding to guards who never met his eyes. Sometimes he stopped beside the balcony that overlooked the square; sometimes he'd murmur a pleasantry to the maids cleaning the windows. Always polite. Always smiling. Always distant.
The others were learning to play along too.
Celeste spent her mornings at the cathedral.
She'd taken to helping the attendants polish the silver icons and change the candles, humming softly as she worked. The rhythm soothed her; it made the world feel normal, even if normal was a fragile illusion.
When she lifted her gaze toward the altar, the painted constellations on the ceiling shimmered in the filtered light. For a moment she could almost believe the gods really watched over them—kindly, silently. Then she'd remember the laughter, and her hands would tremble.
Still, she smiled. She always smiled.
"Your devotion brings light, Lady Hero," one of the sisters told her, pressing a hand to her chest.
Celeste blushed and murmured thanks, though the word hero lodged in her throat like a shard of glass.
Later, as she walked the courtyard, she spotted Nhilly standing by the fountain. His reflection wavered in the water, distorted by ripples from the falling stream. He was staring at it with the calm patience of a man waiting for it to blink.
"Morning," she said softly.
He turned, smile already in place. "Morning, Celeste."
"You've been out here a while."
"Making sure the world still turns."
She frowned. "You say things like that and expect me not to worry."
"I'd prefer you didn't," he replied, tone light but eyes unreadable.
She wanted to say something—anything—to bridge the distance. Instead, she asked if he'd join them for dinner. He agreed with the same practiced ease he used for every promise.
When she walked away, she realised she was holding her breath.
Eli trained alone now.
The courtyard that once echoed with his laughter was filled only with the dull thud of practice strikes. He no longer shouted challenges or bragged about killing monsters; he moved in silence, each swing measured, controlled. The flames that used to burst from his mouth flickered faintly, restrained.
He paused to drink, wiping sweat from his brow. The heat of his own fire no longer comforted him—it reminded him of the day Seris burned, of screams swallowed by smoke.
Kael approached quietly, arms folded. "You've been at it since dawn."
"Can't sleep," Eli muttered.
Kael studied him. "You're losing focus. You keep striking from the same angle."
Eli gave a humourless grin. "Maybe I'm tired of pretending this helps."
Kael didn't answer. He simply handed him a cloth. "Then rest. We need you whole."
Eli hesitated. "Do you ever think she's still out there?"
Kael's voice softened. "No."
That honesty hurt more than any lie. Eli nodded once, jaw tight, and went back to swinging.
Kael had become the quiet centre that held them together.
He attended every briefing, memorised every supply list, reviewed the city's defences with military precision. Yet at night he sat alone in the strategy room long after everyone left, staring at maps that never changed.
On the table lay a single note from the council: The march begins in five days.
He traced the ink absently with a finger. It didn't say battle or war. Just march. As if the outcome was already written.
Sometimes, when the candlelight dimmed, he caught himself whispering lines he didn't remember learning—phrases that felt fed to him, rehearsed. Then he'd blink, shake his head, and force himself to breathe.
Leadership was an act, and he was learning to play it well.
That evening, they dined in the upper hall—a long table, too grand for four people. The silence between them was thick, but Celeste filled it with small stories about the garden, about how the lilies had bloomed early.
Eli nodded, eating mechanically. Kael listened, occasionally asking about logistics. Nhilly, seated across from them, smiled at the right moments, laughed once or twice, never forced but never real.
When Celeste poured him wine, he met her eyes. "You've been spending too much time in the cathedral," he said lightly.
"You make it sound like a crime," she teased.
"Faith's only dangerous when it's sincere."
Eli looked up at that, frowning. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Nhilly shrugged. "Nothing. Just thinking out loud."
The conversation faltered, then drifted to safer topics—training schedules, the upcoming parade. For a few minutes they almost sounded like friends again.
When the meal ended, Celeste lingered, watching Nhilly leave. Something in his walk—calm, graceful, almost rehearsed—made her chest tighten. She didn't know if it was worry or admiration.
That night, the city outside glowed under a false moon.
The bells rang. The same hour as always.
Inside, Nhilly lay awake staring at the ceiling, listening to the rhythm of his heartbeat.
It was the only thing that still felt unpredictable.