The Solarium of the Sky Palace was a marvel of magic. It was a glass dome perched on the highest spire, filled with flowers that only bloomed in zero-gravity. They floated in mid-air, untethered to soil, drinking moisture directly from the clouds.
Princess Elara sat on a floating cushion, staring out at the endless white sea below.
"It's beautiful," she whispered. "And it's a wall."
"It is a shield, my darling," Queen Zephyra corrected gently.
The Queen of Aeris glided into the room. She didn't walk; she drifted; her dress made of woven starlight trailing behind her like a comet's tail. She was beautiful, ethereal, and terrifyingly perfect.
"Mother," Elara turned, her violet eyes pleading. "The supply ships are leaving for the Lower Rings today. Let me go with them. Just for a few hours. I want to see the Cloud-Docks."
"The Lower Rings are industrial zones, Elara," Zephyra said, tending to a floating orchid. "They are loud, dirty, and filled with rough men who process raw ozone. It is no place for a Princess."
"I am eighteen!" Elara argued, standing up (and floating slightly). "I have mastered the Cloud-Weave. I can defend myself. Leo says the Lower Rings have the best street food."
"The Liaison," Zephyra sighed, a note of distaste in her musical voice. "He has filled your head with weird ideas. You are the Heart of the Sky, Elara. You belong here, in the light. Not down there in the mist where things... rust."
Zephyra floated over and cuped Elara's face. Her hands were cold.
"We stay high to stay pure," Zephyra whispered. "Do not look down, little bird. You might fall."
She drifted away, leaving Elara alone in her beautiful, glass prison. Elara looked back at the clouds. She didn't see purity. She saw a cage made of white fluff.
Five floors down, in the War Room, the air was heavy enough to crush bone.
King Boreas Gale stood before a massive holographic map of the kingdom. He was a man carved from marble—tall, broad, with a beard like a storm cloud and eyes that exerted physical pressure on anyone who met them.
"Politics," Boreas rumbled, his voice deep and resonant, "is not to be a forced, Orion. It is a philosophy of rule."
Crown Prince Orion stood at attention. He was perfectly still, his hands clasped behind his back, his silver eyes fixed on the map.
"Yes, Father," Orion said evenly.
"Explain," Boreas commanded.
"We rule over the weak, to protect them," Orion recited, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. "It creates order. Without a strong order, the periphery drifts away. The King is the power of a kingdom. The people are the debris. We keep them safe, or they float into chaos."
"Precisely," Boreas nodded, pleased. "The Surface Kingdoms—they are chaotic because their rulers are weak. They let their people wander. Here, we hold them down. We dictate the orbit."
Boreas gestured to a sector of the map marked in red—a rebellious mining district in the outer rim.
"Sector 7 is protesting the new tithe," Boreas said. "How do you handle it?"
Orion looked at the red dot. In his mind, he heard a melody. A sharp, dissonant chord of a violin screeching. Screech-thump-screech. It was the sound of a bow breaking.
"Increase the local gravity by 20%," Orion said, his voice flat. "Make every step they take a struggle. Crush their bodies until their spirits break."
"Good," Boreas smiled. "Cruel, but efficient. You are learning, my son. One day, you will hold the Shard, and you must not tremble."
"I will not tremble," Orion promised.
Because I am already hollow, he thought. Hollow things don't tremble. They echo.
The lesson ended. Orion bowed and walked out of the War Room.
As the heavy doors closed behind him, the perfect posture slumped for a fraction of a second. He rubbed his temples. The music in his head was getting louder—a desperate symphony trying to drown out his father's voice.
He turned the corner and nearly collided with someone carrying a stack of scrolls that reached the ceiling.
"Whoa!"
The scrolls wobbled. Leo, hidden behind the parchment tower, did a frantic dance to keep them balanced.
"Sorry!" Leo gasped, peeking around the stack. "Oh. Your Highness."
Orion straightened up instantly. The mask of the arrogant prince slammed back into place.
"Liaison," Orion sneered, looking down his nose at Leo. "Do you not have servants for manual labor? Or do you simply enjoy looking like a pack mule?"
"Just... helping out the scribes," Leo grunted, shifting the weight. "They looked busy."
"How quaint," Orion drawled. He stepped closer, invading Leo's personal space. He sniffed the air delicately.
"You smell of ink and... desperation," Orion said. "Tell me, Earth-Walker. Does the mud ever truly wash off? or does it just stain the marble wherever you go?"
Leo blinked. He looked at Orion. He didn't see a threat. He saw a guy who was trying way too hard.
"It washes off," Leo said calmly. "But the smell of ozone? That seems to stick. You might want to check your cologne, Prince. It's a bit... heavy."
Orion's eye twitched. For a second, the mask slipped, revealing a flash of genuine surprise—maybe even amusement—at the pushback.
But then it was gone.
"Step aside," Orion commanded coldly. "You are blocking the hallway."
Leo stepped aside.
Orion swept past him, his cape flowing. As he walked away, his fingers drummed a frantic, silent rhythm against his thigh—playing an invisible piano.
Leo watched him go, shifting the heavy scrolls.
"Weird family," Leo muttered.