The walk to the palace felt too short for Krystian. The familiar sights and sounds of the market embraced him as he waded through the throng of people crowding the streets. He greeted familiar faces with a smile. But with each step his heart longed more than ever to run back and never return.
Krystian didn't even realise he reached the palace until the golden glow of the palace gates hit his eyes. Even in his daze, he couldn't help but admire the palace and It's surroundings. The gats stood like mountains made of solid gold decorated with jewels. He could see the palace beyond the gates, standing high and mighty. A beautiful garden surrounded the palace, adorned with every tree and plant one could think of. Many smaller buildings were scattered across the castle grounds like groups of ants. Guards were placed in every corner of the palace, ensuring the safety of the residents of the palace.
He was brought to Prince Miles's private wing.
The suite was vast, dominated by a magnificent mahogany desk covered in charts and thick, leather-bound journals. The entire space was built for work: perfectly organized, dimly lit, and aggressively silent. Krystian felt the noise of the market, the life of his family, draining out of him, replaced by the crushing pressure of the atmosphere.
Miles Caspian Rivenhart was waiting. He wore a heavy, dark blue tunic cinched tight at the waist, emphasizing his rigid posture. He wasn't hostile, but very much inaccessible, like a cliff you couldn't scale. He looked up from a document with a look of extreme focus.
"Your living quarters are right next to mine." Miles said, his voice low and precise, carrying a chilling cold with it. He gestured toward a small, narrow door. "You will find the necessities there. Understand this, Krystian. You are here as my operational scout, not a servant. But before you are trusted with Aethria's future, I must trust your discipline. Your failure is a direct threat to the mission's integrity."
Krystian was thrown off by the sudden use of his name but quickly gained composure. He dropped his single, worn sack—which felt absurdly small in this immense room—and focused on keeping his breathing even. Though he didn't know why it was uneven in the first place.
"The most important rule in this room concerns my work," Miles continued, his fingers tracing the border on a map. "My research requires absolute, uninterrupted clarity. Every night, before I retire, this desk must be prepared for the following day."
Miles presented a bronze tray holding a selection of premium quills and several empty crystal inkwells.
"Every evening, precisely at midnight, you will report to this desk. You should sharpen every quill to a perfectly, and ensure the inkwells are filled. You must not touch the charts, the journals and most important of all—do not touch any of my personal possessions. You will be silent and efficient in you work."
Krystian felt a little offended by the prince's words. He just said that he wasn't a servant but gave him work like this! Anyways, what did sharpening quills and filling ink have to do with being worthy to train in the palace. Krystian kept all the bitter thoughts to himself and talked politely; A tone he hasn't used much before.
"I understand, Prince Miles. I will approach the task with precision," Krystian replied, still maintaining his polite tone, carrying the warm, simple confidence of a man who knows his trade.
Miles paused, tilting his head slightly as if sensing the unexpected solidity in Krystian's voice. It was a brief flicker of curiosity, quickly suppressed. "Good. You are dismissed until the appointed hour."
The time crawled by in his small, cold room. Krystian tried to read, but the silence was deafening, the oppressive quiet a constant reminder of his secret and the suffocating atmosphere of the palace. He spent an hour cleaning his worn leather boots until they shone, channeling his restlessness into action.
When the Palace bell struck for midnight, Krystian slipped back into Krystian's study.
Miles was exactly where he had been hours earlier, hunched over his desk, his face bathed in the concentrated, golden light of the oil lamp. He was lost in the work, his silver hair catching the light like frozen metal.
Miles didn't look up, only giving a brief, low command: "Begin you work."
Krystian approached the desk. From his sack, he pulled the small, razor-sharp knife his sister Elara had given him. He felt an odd sense of peace as he grasped the first dull quill. The rhythmic shhhk-shhhk of the blade shaping the quill was the first truly human sound the room had heard all day.
Krystian worked quickly and methodically. He was in his element doing something he was all too familiar with. He unconsciously hummed a low, tuneless melody—a habit from his market days—the sound barely audible above the scraping knife.
He was deep into transferring the thick, dark ink into the final crystal well when Miles finally spoke.
"The humming is distracting."
Krystian looked up, and a tiny tremor shook his hand, almost spilling the ink. He immediately stopped, his face flushing crimson. "My deepest apologies, Prince Miles. It won't happen again."
Miles sighed, a faint sound of exhaustion, and pushed his charts aside. He turned fully toward Krystian for the first time since the task began, his cold gaze fixed on the perfectly pointed quills.
"The finesse of the points is... exceptional. You achieve an edge sharper than the Palace's standard issue." Miles's tone was analytical, devoid of praise or insult, purely stating a fact.
"The tips need to be sharp for precise work, Prince," Krystian explained, returning to his practical tone. He had to resist the urge to smile slightly at the compliment. "You can't write clearly if the tool's blunt."
Miles watched him seal the inkwell. He was close enough now that Krystian could smell the distinct, clean scent of him.
"You understand the value of a perfect tool, then," Miles murmured. He paused, his blue eyes searching Krystian's golden-brown ones, holding them captive in the lamplight. The tension was thick, heavy with something they didn't understand yet. "Ensure your own conduct is as perfect as your quills, Krystian. We depart for the mission in two days. The fate of many depends on your discipline."
Krystian swallowed hard, feeling the heat rise in his cheeks under the Prince's intense, searching scrutiny. "I will be ready, Prince Miles. On time, and focused."
He bowed deeply and left the room, the scent of fresh ink and cold, controlled power clinging to his clothes. The mission was beginning and he wasn't ready for it.