Several days passed, and with them came the first lesson Alaric learned about palace life:
Time did not soften danger.
It merely dressed it in routine.
The nursery wing settled into patterns the way a river settled into its bed. Each morning began with quiet footsteps and the scent of warm water infused with herbs. Each afternoon brought measured feedings, the murmur of prayers from Imperial Faith attendants, and the distant, muffled sounds of court life bleeding in through stone—laughter, arguments, the clink of goblets, the crisp cadence of armored boots. Each night arrived with moonlight pooling across the floor, the hearth coaxed lower, and Gina Othel's watchful presence turned into a constant as dependable as the stars painted above Alaric's cradle.
And beneath those gentle patterns, like rot beneath polished wood, there was always the sense that eyes were on him.
Not the warm eyes of common women who cooed when they delivered linens. Not even the respectful glances of the guards who bowed to Asimi. But the other eyes—the ones that lingered too long, that turned away too quickly when caught, that belonged to servants who did not smile with their mouths but with calculation.
Asimi had removed some of them.
More had been sent.
The palace always sent more.
Alaric could not yet lift his head for long without wobbling, could not speak, could not walk. His body remained a cage of infancy, fragile and demanding. Yet his mind was sharp, and he watched everything the way a starving man watched a table of food.
He watched Asimi, too.
She was still beautiful in a way that made the world seem unfair, but it was no longer the simple beauty of a mother in a newborn's gaze. Alaric had begun to see the other layers: the controlled exhaustion, the way she measured every interaction, the way she smiled in public and only allowed her shoulders to sag once the doors were closed.
When she sang, the room softened. The servants relaxed. Even the air seemed warmer.
And when she stopped singing, the steel returned.
Bardsong was not merely comfort. It was strategy.
On the fifth day after the announcement rite, Asimi stood by the nursery window, fingers lightly pinching the curtain aside to look out over the inner gardens. Winter had not yet released the capital, but the palace grounds were maintained with obsessive care; trimmed hedges stood like dark green walls, and stone paths cut clean lines through patches of pale grass frosted silver in the morning light.
Gina moved quietly behind her, arranging fresh linens with swift efficiency. Her black maid uniform absorbed light, making her presence easy to forget unless one was actively searching for it—an advantage she used without vanity.
Alaric lay in his cradle, eyes open, absorbing the scene.
The door opened with a soft knock.
A male servant entered, bowing low. "Empress-Consort. Her Highness, Princess Adele, requests permission to visit the prince."
Asimi's fingers stilled on the curtain. "Adele?"
"Yes, Empress-Consort." The servant hesitated, then added carefully, "She asked properly. She waits in the corridor."
Asimi's gaze flicked to Gina.
Gina gave a subtle nod—she had already listened to footsteps beyond the door, already weighed them. "No additional attendants," she murmured quietly. "Just the princess and one handmaid."
Asimi's expression softened by a fraction. "Let her in."
The servant bowed and stepped out.
Moments later, Princess Adele Ecthellion entered the nursery chamber.
She was eleven, yet already carried herself with the poised grace of imperial blood. Her golden hair was braided neatly and pinned with a small sun-shaped clasp, delicate but unmistakable in its symbolism. She wore a gown of white and pale gold, simple compared to the heavier finery of court gatherings, and there was a faint scent of citrus and clean soap about her—freshness that did not belong in a palace soaked in incense and ambition.
Her handmaid followed, eyes lowered, and withdrew to stand near the door.
Adele curtsied to Asimi, deep and proper. "Empress-Consort."
Asimi inclined her head. "Princess Adele."
Adele's gaze shifted to the cradle, and something warm blossomed in her expression. The guarded composure softened into genuine affection, the kind a child might still possess before the palace wrung it from them.
"He's awake," Adele whispered, as though speaking too loudly might shatter him. She stepped closer with careful reverence, hands held neatly before her, fingers laced to keep herself from reaching out without permission.
Alaric stared back at her, his small body quiet, his mind watchful.
Adele's eyes glittered. "He's… smaller than I imagined."
"He is newborn," Asimi replied gently.
"I know." Adele smiled faintly, then glanced at Asimi as if seeking approval. "May I…?"
Asimi's gaze softened further. "You may approach. But do not touch him unless I allow it."
Adele nodded quickly. She moved to the cradle and leaned over, peering down at Alaric as though he were a star fallen into silk.
Her eyes lingered on his hair—silver threaded through gold—and on his mismatched gaze. Instead of amusement, there was only quiet wonder.
"He looks like dawn," she murmured, voice barely audible. "Like the moment the sky can't decide if it belongs to night or day."
Asimi's lips curved faintly. "A poetic observation."
Adele flushed, but did not look away. "It's true," she insisted softly. Then she reached into a small pouch at her waist and withdrew a tiny object wrapped in white cloth.
"I brought him something," she said quickly, as if worried Asimi might refuse.
Asimi's gaze sharpened in an instant—not at Adele, but at the wrapped item. "What is it?"
"A ceremonial token," Adele replied. "It was given to me when I was presented before the court as an infant. The priests said it symbolizes Aurora's protection." She hesitated, then added, quieter, "I thought… he should have one. Especially now."
Asimi's expression did not change outwardly, but Alaric felt the subtle shift in the air—wariness. In a palace, gifts were never only gifts.
"Let me see," Asimi said.
Adele held it out at once, obedient.
Asimi unwrapped the cloth with careful fingers. Inside lay a small token, no larger than a coin, crafted of polished gold with a sunburst etched on one side and a crescent on the other. At its center was set a tiny pale stone—moonstone or something like it—that shimmered when it caught the light.
Asimi turned it, inspecting for hidden compartments, poison residue, spellwork. Alaric watched her eyes, saw the practiced vigilance.
Gina, too, stepped closer, her amber gaze narrowing.
"It's clean," Gina murmured after a moment, as though she could sense deception in metal.
Asimi's fingers tightened around the token, then loosened. She looked at Adele.
"You understand," Asimi said softly, "that you risk much by bringing him this."
Adele's chin lifted. For a heartbeat she looked older than eleven, as though she had borrowed maturity from necessity. "I understand," she replied. "That's why I brought it."
Asimi regarded her for a long moment. Then she approached the cradle and gently placed the token on the silk near Alaric's tiny hand.
The metal was cool even through cloth. Alaric's fingers twitched toward it reflexively. His grip was weak, newborn clumsy, but he managed to curl his fingers around the edge.
Adele's smile widened as if she had been granted a miracle.
"He held it," she whispered, delighted.
Asimi's gaze softened, and for the first time since Alaric's birth, the nursery felt—briefly—like a place where something gentle might survive.
Adele lingered, looking at him as though trying to memorize his face. Then, slowly, her expression shifted. The warmth faded, replaced by a cautious seriousness.
"Empress-Consort," Adele said, voice quiet.
Asimi's posture changed immediately. "Yes?"
Adele hesitated and glanced at her handmaid by the door. The girl's eyes were lowered, expression blank. The kind of blank that servants learned to wear when secrets were being spoken.
Adele swallowed. "May I speak with you… privately?"
Asimi's gaze flicked to Gina.
Gina nodded once, understanding. She crossed the room and opened the nursery's inner sitting-room door—an adjoining chamber separated by a carved archway and heavy curtains.
"As you wish," Asimi said, and she gestured. "Come."
Adele followed, hands clasped tightly, her handmaid remaining near the door of the nursery chamber. Gina stayed with Alaric, positioning herself between cradle and entryway.
Alaric watched Asimi and Adele pass into the sitting-room, the curtain falling partly closed behind them.
But the nursery was quiet. Quiet enough.
And Alaric's ears, though newborn, were not as useless as his body was.
Voices filtered through the curtain, softened but clear enough for him to catch fragments.
"It's getting worse," Adele said, her voice trembling with restrained fear. "Julios—he's… he's not just cruel to me or Kendrik anymore. He's cruel to everyone who isn't useful."
Asimi's reply was low, controlled. "Tell me."
Adele exhaled shakily. "There are two courts, Empress-Consort. Everyone knows it, even if no one dares say it aloud. There's the court of the first Empress—Mother Marie's people—and there's… yours."
Asimi was silent for a moment, then: "Yes."
"Julios believes the first court should rule everything," Adele continued. "He thinks… he thinks you are an interloper. That Tristan and your children are a stain."
Asimi's voice remained calm, yet Alaric sensed the steel beneath it. "And what do you think, Adele?"
A pause.
Adele's voice softened. "I think he is wrong."
Alaric's tiny fingers tightened on the token in his cradle.
Adele went on, words spilling now as though she could no longer hold them. "Julios's attendants whisper that you poisoned Mother Marie's memory. That Father only married you because House Brionac forced it. They say Tristan shouldn't be in the line at all, that he shouldn't even exist."
Asimi's voice was quiet. "He is my son."
"I know," Adele whispered. "And Alaric is, too."
A soft sound—perhaps Adele's breath catching, perhaps a muffled sob.
"He laughed about Alaric's hair," Adele said, her voice hardening. "And now his people laugh, too. They say he looks like a mistake. Like a mixed blessing. They say he will be weak, like a sickly little moon-prince trying to shine in Aurora's court."
Asimi's reply was softer than before, yet sharper. "They said similar things about Tristan."
Adele's voice lowered. "Tristan frightened them when his Galvanize awakened. They whisper he is cursed, even while they praise him to his face. Julios hates him most."
Alaric's mind latched onto that. Julios hates Tristan most. The older brother wasn't simply cruel—he was threatened. Threats made wolves bite.
Adele swallowed audibly. "Empress-Consort… I'm scared. Not of Alaric. Of what Julios will do."
Asimi's voice softened into something almost motherly. "You are brave to come to me."
Adele whispered, "I'm not brave. I just… I don't want him to be alone."
Silence.
Then Asimi spoke, voice low and intense. "Kindness in this palace is not free, Adele. It will cost you."
"I know," Adele replied quietly. "But I would rather pay than become like him."
A breath. Then: "Will you protect him?"
Asimi's answer came without hesitation. "With everything I am."
The curtain shifted slightly as if someone moved closer.
"And will you protect yourself?" Asimi asked.
Adele's voice wavered. "I… I'll try."
Asimi said something softer, too muffled for Alaric to catch fully, but Adele's next words were clear:
"Thank you."
A moment later, the curtain parted, and Adele stepped back into the nursery chamber. Her face was composed again, but her eyes were damp, and the skin around them held that tightness of someone who had spoken something dangerous and could not take it back.
She approached the cradle once more, leaning down.
"Goodbye, little brother," she whispered. "Grow strong. Please."
Alaric stared up at her and, with a small effort, flexed his fingers around the token. It was not much—an infant's clumsy movement—but it was enough to make Adele's lips tremble into a smile.
Then she straightened and curtsied to Asimi again. "Empress-Consort."
Asimi's gaze was steady. "Princess Adele."
Adele turned toward the door, her handmaid moving to follow.
And there, in the corridor beyond, a shadow waited.
Crown Prince Julios stood with his arms loosely folded, clad in white and gold as if he had stepped from a tapestry of Aurora's favored. His expression was pleasant.
Too pleasant.
Behind him hovered Prince Kendrik, half a step back, eyes darting, shoulders tense. Kendrik looked at Adele as if silently begging her to be careful, but did not speak.
Julios's gaze flicked past Adele, toward the nursery door, toward whatever he imagined lay inside. Then his eyes returned to his sister.
"Adele," he said smoothly. "How… touching."
Adele stiffened. "Brother."
Julios stepped closer, lowering his voice so only those near could hear. "You went in to see him," he murmured. "Our newest little anomaly."
Adele's chin lifted. "He is my brother."
Julios smiled wider. "And you're making that… obvious."
Adele tried to move past him, but Julios shifted just enough to block her path without making it look like he was blocking her path.
"In the palace," Julios said softly, "everything is noticed. Everything is tallied. Who visits whom. Who gives gifts. Who shows affection." His eyes glinted. "Do you think Father will always be watching you? Or do you think he has better things to do than monitor a little sister's sentimentality?"
Adele's hands clenched at her sides. "Move."
Julios's smile did not falter. "Kindness is admirable," he said, voice honeyed. "But you should be careful where you place it. When you show favor to someone in Asimi's court…"
He leaned closer, and his words turned colder.
"…you declare yourself against Mother's memory."
Adele's breath caught. Kendrik shifted uncomfortably.
Julios straightened again, the warmth returning to his voice as though the cold had never existed. "Of course," he added lightly, "I'm sure you didn't mean it that way."
Adele's eyes flashed. She did not answer. She slipped past him, her handmaid hurrying to keep up, and moved down the corridor with her spine held rigidly straight, as though refusing to let him see her shake.
Julios watched her go.
Then, slowly, he turned his gaze toward the nursery door.
Gina stood just inside, her posture perfect, her expression politely blank. Her amber eyes met Julios's for half a heartbeat—no fear, no challenge, only a quiet awareness that she had seen everything.
Julios's smile dimmed. He did not like being watched.
He walked away.
Inside the nursery, Asimi returned to Alaric's cradle, her face calm, yet her eyes held a shadow of anger that burned like a coal beneath ash.
"She'll pay for that," Asimi murmured, though it was unclear whether she meant Adele or Julios.
Gina's voice was soft. "A princess's kindness is more dangerous to him than a sword."
Asimi's fingers brushed Alaric's hair gently. "Then he will learn to wield it," she said. "And she will learn to survive it."
That night, long after Adele's footsteps had vanished from the corridor and the nursery had fallen into the hush of sleeping servants, the palace's other currents continued.
Word traveled.
It always did.
Julios's attendants whispered of Adele's visit. The first court murmured that she was being swayed by Asimi's influence. The second court murmured that Adele might be an unexpected bridge—or an unexpected liability.
In the heart of it all, the Emperor watched.
Tuare Wulfric Ecthellion did not summon Julios immediately. He was not a man who reacted in public with temper, nor one who scolded without purpose. He let the day end. Let his son sit with his own choices. Let the palace's rumor-mill turn, so that consequences began to bloom before he even spoke.
Then, as the moon rose and Lune's pale light painted the palace gardens silver, Tuare ordered the Crown Prince to appear in his private solar.
Julios entered with all the confidence of a boy who had never been truly punished.
The solar was less ornate than the throne hall, yet still breathtaking in its restraint: shelves of legal texts, maps of Merasta pinned to polished boards, a large desk carved from dark wood, and a tall window overlooking the city. A single brazier burned near the wall, its flame steady.
Tuare stood by the window, hands clasped behind his back.
Julios bowed. "Father."
Tuare did not turn at once. His voice came calm, measured.
"During the announcement rite," Tuare said, "you spoke of your brother's visage with derision."
Julios's smile flickered. "I spoke lightly. It was not—"
"It was insult," Tuare cut in, and the word fell like a gavel.
Julios stiffened. "Father, I meant no harm."
Tuare turned then, and the sight of him—tall, broad-shouldered, golden hair gleaming faintly as if lit from within—made Julios's confidence hesitate, just slightly.
"In the Hall of Sun and Moon," Tuare said, "you stand not only as my son, but as the Crown Prince. Your words are not merely yours. They are the Empire's."
Julios's jaw tightened. "I understand."
"Do you?" Tuare asked quietly.
Silence.
Tuare stepped forward, slow, controlled. "I have told you what the law is," he said. "I have told you the rights that bind our rule. I have told you that strength must protect weakness. And yet you use your strength to mock a newborn who cannot speak."
Julios's eyes flashed. "He is not weak," he snapped before he could stop himself. "Not if the rumors are true. Not if—"
Tuare's gaze sharpened. "Rumors."
Julios swallowed.
"You will not govern by rumor," Tuare said. "You will not lead by cruelty. You will not turn the palace into a den of wolves where the weakest are eaten for sport."
Julios's hands clenched. "He will grow," Julios muttered, voice low. "He will become… something."
"Perhaps," Tuare agreed, and there was something dangerous in his calm. "And if he does, it will be because he survives what you and others attempt to do to him. That will not be your legacy, Julios."
Julios's eyes narrowed. "What will my legacy be, then?"
Tuare's voice deepened. "It will be law," he said. "Order. Protection. The Empire does not need a tyrant in a prince's clothing. It needs a ruler."
Julios's throat bobbed. "Father—"
Tuare raised a hand, and Julios fell silent.
"You will apologize," Tuare said. "Not privately. Not as a whisper. You will offer proper respect to your brother when next you are before the court."
Julios's eyes widened. "In front of them?"
"Yes," Tuare replied. "So the palace hears it. So the people hear it. So the first court and the second court understand that my house is not divided by childish cruelty."
Julios's expression tightened, humiliation bleeding through the mask. "And if I refuse?"
Tuare's gaze became as cold as iron.
"Then you will learn," the Emperor said softly, "that even a Crown Prince is not above the law."
Julios held his father's gaze, and for the first time, something like uncertainty flickered behind his eyes.
He bowed, stiffly. "As you command, Father."
Tuare watched him for a long moment. Then his voice lowered, quieter, almost weary.
"You are my son," Tuare said. "Do not force me to choose between affection and duty."
Julios's lips pressed together. He bowed again and turned to leave.
As the door closed behind him, Tuare remained by the window, looking out over Almeric's distant lights—over the city that slept beneath the protection of his laws and the threat of his enemies.
Below, in the nursery wing, Alaric lay beneath painted constellations, his small fingers curled around Adele's ceremonial token.
His sister's kindness had cost her already.
His brother's cruelty had earned him a warning.
And somewhere between sun and moon, in the quiet space where a transmogrified soul stared out from infant eyes, Alaric understood the truth of the palace with a clarity that felt like cold water:
In this Empire, even love had to be defended.