The next morning came softly—too softly. The light didn't brighten so much as resume.
Nhilly dressed slowly, each motion deliberate. The air felt thick, unmoving, as though time itself had stalled. He flexed his fingers and felt the faint weight of muscle that hadn't faded despite months of idleness. The world here didn't erode; it preserved.
Reaching for Draco's Shroud. The sword leaned against the table, silent. Its black edge caught no reflection, only drank in the morning light.
He set an ancient text beside it a leather-bound volume of dance patterns used centuries ago to train balance and control.
He'd found it by accident in the palace library.
Now he used it as rehearsal.
The room was quiet except for the creak of floorboards as he moved slow, fluid steps that blended martial precision with grace. He pivoted, turned, swept the sword through the air in arcs that shimmered faintly in the lamplight.
"Am I doing it right?" he asked the weapon, voice low, almost tender.
No answer came, only the soft hum of air around the blade.
He smiled faintly. "Figures."
Outside, faint laughter drifted from the courtyard Celeste's voice. He paused, listening longer than he meant to, then shook his head and continued. His movements grew smoother, almost beautiful, until sweat gathered at his brow.
When he stopped, he bowed to the empty room. "Good enough for an audience," he whispered.
Elsewhere, life went on.
Celeste stood before a mirror, braiding her hair, humming the same hymn Nhilly had been mocking days earlier. Her reflection looked composed, radiant even, but inside she felt a quiet ache she couldn't name. She thought of Nhilly his smile that didn't reach his eyes, the way he spoke as if reading lines.
"Maybe he's trying to protect us," she murmured. Then, lower: "Or himself."
Kael was in the council room again, poring over maps. When Eli entered, he didn't look up.
Before either could say a word, Nhilly's voice floated through the doorway, soft, tuneful, humming the hymn he heard earlier. He stepped in, hair slightly damp, dressed neatly, a book tucked under one arm.
"Morning," he greeted, too cheerfully. "Planning my grand entrance without me?"
Eli blinked. "You're in a good mood."
Nhilly grinned. "We should all enjoy the peace before it ends."
Kael watched him carefully. The grin, the posture, the polished tone it was perfect, too perfect. "You're slipping," he said quietly once Eli turned away.
Nhilly tilted his head. "What?"
"You're starting to sound like them."
Nhilly smiled wider. "Good. That means I'm getting into character."
Days passed like that. Quiet routines. Mechanical comfort.
Eli trained with measured ferocity; Celeste attended the cathedral, her prayers more for Nhilly than for gods; Kael carried the weight of command, speaking to officers who didn't breathe unless told to.
Nhilly moved through it all like a phantom actor rehearsing a script no one else had seen. He praised the gods when others listened, mocked them when alone. He smiled when watched, vanished when unobserved.
Each evening he'd return to his room, relight the candles, and dance again—slower, softer, like a ritual meant to keep the world from collapsing.
Sometimes he whispered lines from plays he half remembered.
Sometimes he just laughed quietly to himself.
On the final night before departure, the four of them found themselves on the balcony overlooking the sleeping city.
Celeste leaned on the railing, arms folded, eyes tracing the stars. Eli sat against the wall, silent. Kael stood, ever the sentinel, watching the horizon. Nhilly arrived last, steps unhurried.
"They say the sky will be dark tomorrow," Celeste said.
Nhilly nodded. "Perfect for a march."
No one replied. The quiet stretched until Kael finally spoke. "Tomorrow, we march."
Nhilly's grin returned—wide, bright, hollow. He glanced up at the frozen stars, then down at his friends.
"Tomorrow," he said softly, "we perform."
The wind stirred, the candles in the hall flickered, and for a heartbeat the city seemed to breathe again.