Winter had settled for good over Mirandel. Roofs disappeared beneath a thin white layer, chimneys poured gray smoke almost constantly, and the palace gardens slept under the snow — silent, motionless.
The palace felt emptier than ever. Most nobles had returned to their fiefs for the cold season. Tradition held that winter was meant for certain pleasures: hunts, balls, tracking snow creatures — everything the season had to offer.
Leaning on the wide windowsill of her room, Eleanor watched the snow fall in a silence that felt almost hypnotic.
She still held her father's letter in her hands.
As always, he tried to reassure her. He described the northern mountains, their icy cliffs, the sun setting behind them in a golden blaze. He spoke of warriors and mages pushing back the Kaldorian invaders with courage.
He regretted not being there to see his daughter grow, to become a true future queen. He even showed curiosity about the new friend she had mentioned.
He promised he would soon return to her side.
She wasn't sure if that comforted her — or made his absence feel even more real.
She wished this stupid war would stop. That everything would become simple again.
A sigh escaped her, and she left the room.
She walked through the silent corridors of the palace, where her footsteps echoed louder than they should have. She naturally headed toward another room — one that, over the past few weeks, had begun to resemble less and less a bedroom, and more and more…
… the workshop of an eccentric inventor.
The air smelled of heated metal and burnt wax. The floor was scattered with copper plates, tubes, twisted springs, half-assembled mechanisms whose purpose was... well, questionable.
On the walls: diagrams. Carefully drawn, precise. Some came from books borrowed from the library. But others… were his own. And she didn't understand them.
That detail stung her pride, slightly.
Here and there, burn marks stained the walls and furniture — reminders of every time Calen had walked in and gotten very annoyed.
If Mr. Maric entered this place, he would probably faint before even saying the word "disorder," she thought, amused.
"The servants won't even approach your room anymore," she declared.
"Hmph," Naye responded, hunched over his desk, not turning his head.
"What are you trying to make?"
Naye finally lifted his eyes. He hesitated, then slowly pushed a small metallic object toward her.
It wasn't just an assembly of gears and springs.
It had — clumsily, but clearly — the shape of a bird.
Eleanor narrowed her eyes.
Two thin wings, made of cut copper plates, were fixed to a cylindrical body — too rigid, but nicely balanced. The neck, a bit too long, ended in an articulated beak, carved from darker metal. And even if the proportions weren't exact… there was something in the curve of its body, the tilt of its head, that made it resemble a real bird.
Eleanor knelt next to the desk, fascinated despite herself.
"It's… a bird?"
"Yes," Naye answered simply.
She examined it, doubtful at first. It only vaguely had the shape of a bird. But something— in the proportions, in the slight angle of the head— almost gave the impression that it was waiting.
"It will never fly," she said.
"No. But it might walk. Or sing, maybe."
He picked up the tiny key built into the creature's side and turned it gently. A soft clicking began ticking, like a hesitant heartbeat.
The bird trembled, then its wings lifted — slowly, stiffly — and beat once.
Then a second time.Then a third. Small. Almost timid.
The neck turned. The beak opened, with a soft click. No sound came out.
And the bird fell still.
Not entirely lifeless.
It almost looked like it was… breathing.
Just a tiny, regular quiver in its metal body.
Eleanor smiled, amazed.
Then her smile faded — just a little.
She didn't know why.
"You really made this all by yourself?"
"Yes," Naye said.
He paused, then added simply:
"I wanted to see if something man-made could want to move. Not just work."
Leaving Naye to his machines, Eleanor suddenly felt strangely out of place in that workshop-room.
She walked toward the administrative wing of the palace, where the Council meeting was held. She knew Calen was inside — otherwise, he would have been with her. "Reinforced protection," her mother called it.
When the heavy oak door opened, she was already there, sitting on the windowsill, feet swinging in the air. Calen spotted her immediately.
As he left the room, he saw Eleanor's face framed by a curtain of blonde hair. His expression softened, just a little.
"Your Highness… were you waiting for me?"
"Naye is locked up with his machines," she replied with dramatic despair. "So, I thought you could rescue me from boredom."
A corner of Calen's mouth lifted.
"As long as the palace is still standing, I suppose I can spare a few minutes."
They walked in the silent corridor. The windows looked out onto the winter gardens, where snow had covered the hedges in frost. Eleanor looked straight ahead, hands clasped behind her back.
Then, as if struck by a sudden thought:
"Calen… teach me fencing."
He turned to her, surprised.
"You already have a weapons master, princess."
She frowned.
"He never wants to challenge me. And besides… you're the best swordsman in the kingdom. Even Father never defeated you."
Calen raised an eyebrow.
"Let's say… His Majesty and I never really knew who was meant to win."
She insisted now, more seriously, almost without smiling:
"I want to learn to defend myself. To never be helpless again."Her voice trembled slightly, remembering Rethan's attack.
Then she added, with a half-smile:
"And I shouldn't make a bad impression when I join the Academy."
Calen did not reply immediately.
"Very well," he said at last. "But I warn you — I won't be as gentle as your weapons master."