Avelyncè Ryler learned three things before sunrise.
First: palace beds were far too soft and clearly designed by someone who never intended to sleep peacefully.
Second: the throne did not sleep.
Third: it had opinions.
---
She sat upright in bed as a warmth spread through her chest—gentle, insistent, unmistakably not her own. It wasn't fear. Or pain.
It was… irritation.
"…You can't be serious," she whispered into the dim room.
The warmth pulsed in response.
She stared at the far wall.
"You're annoyed."
Another pulse.
Avelyncè pressed her hand to her forehead. "I am arguing with furniture."
The warmth eased. Almost smug.
---
By morning, the palace was buzzing.
Servants bowed too deeply. Guards watched her like she might explode. Whispers followed her down every corridor.
She ignored all of it—until she reached the throne room.
The moment she stepped inside, the pressure lifted. The warmth settled comfortably in her chest, like a cat claiming ownership.
Caelan was already there, speaking quietly with the High Chancellor.
He turned when he sensed her.
"You feel it too," he said.
"Feel what?"
"The room changes when you enter."
She hesitated. "Does it usually… sulk?"
The Chancellor choked.
"Sulk?" Caelan repeated.
"Yes. Last night it was irritated. This morning it seems pleased. Are you feeding it something?"
The throne pulsed faintly.
Caelan stared. Then slowly smiled.
"…It is reacting to you."
"I don't like that."
"I do," he said honestly.
---
They moved aside as ministers began arguing—again.
"This is unprecedented—" "The throne has never communicated this way—" "She cannot be allowed to influence it—"
A sharp flare of light cut them off.
Avelyncè flinched.
"No," she said quietly. "Stop."
The light dimmed instantly.
The room froze.
Caelan turned to her, eyes sharp.
"You didn't raise your voice."
"I didn't need to."
The throne pulsed warmly.
---
Caelan stepped closer, lowering his voice.
"You shouldn't speak to it like that."
"Why?"
"Because if the court realizes you can direct it—"
She met his gaze. "You think I want this?"
His jaw tightened.
"That's exactly what makes you dangerous," he said softly.
The warmth in her chest flickered—uneasy now.
---
They argued in low voices.
About control.
About responsibility.
About what the empire would do if it learned the truth.
"You were raised for this," she said sharply. "I wasn't."
"And yet," he replied, "it chose you."
The words landed heavier than either of them expected.
Silence stretched between them.
---
Far beneath the palace, something stirred.
The shard of gold darkened, reacting to the throne's satisfaction above.
Avelyncè's breath caught.
"…Someone is angry," she whispered.
Caelan stiffened. "What do you mean?"
She pressed a hand to her chest.
"It's not the throne."
For the first time, Caelan looked genuinely unsettled.