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Chapter Text

The Kingdom of Sora: Shadows of the Throne

Long ago, when the skies above the world still shimmered with silver light, there was a kingdom known as Sora.

It was a land of song and splendor — green meadows rolled for miles, and the capital city, Veloria, gleamed like a jewel upon the river’s edge. Bells chimed each morning, merchants called out from stalls overflowing with fruit and spice, and laughter carried through the cobbled streets.

At the heart of it all ruled King Alaric the Just — a monarch of honor, wisdom, and mercy. He was beloved not because he demanded loyalty, but because he earned it.

“Justice is not vengeance,” he once told his council. “It is balance — a blade that must never lean toward cruelty.”

He spared those who sought forgiveness. But when enemies rose to harm his people, his retribution was swift and absolute.

“Show mercy to the weak,” he said, “but never to those who prey upon them.”

The King’s Fall

Then, one fateful winter, the bells tolled differently — slower, mournful, like the heartbeat of a dying land. The king had fallen ill.

The greatest healers in Sora and beyond came — men in robes of gold, women who read fate in starlight, even a silent wanderer said to wield the arts of the ancients.

They surrounded the king’s bed, their voices whispering spells and prayers. But the light in his eyes dimmed with every passing hour.

The queen never left his side. She sang to him softly, songs of their youth. The young prince, John, stood at the door, his face unreadable.

Two weeks later, the kingdom awoke to the toll of iron bells.

King Alaric was dead.

Veloria fell into silence. The people wept openly in the streets, leaving white lilies at the palace gates. Even the sun seemed to hide behind clouds.

But mourning soon turned to dread — for his heir was nothing like his father.

Rise of the Cruel King

When King John took the throne, he wore his crown as if it were a weapon.

At first, he smiled at his coronation, waving to his people from the marble balcony. But behind those eyes lay something sharp — hunger, pride, and fear twisted into one.

His first decree was blood.

He ordered the execution of his father’s advisor, Lord Calen, accusing him of treachery.

“Your counsel died with my father,” John declared coldly as Calen knelt before him.

The old man looked up, tears cutting through the dust on his cheeks.

“My king,” he said, “justice without compassion will destroy you.”

John’s lips curved into a smile.

“Then let compassion die first.”

And with a nod, the axe fell.

The people began to whisper that the throne itself had cursed him.

The Queen’s Despair

John married Lady Helen, the daughter of House Rynor — noble, gentle, and kind.

Her marriage was not one of love, but of duty. The day she arrived at the palace, her eyes held both fear and hope — a hope that she might temper the beast within her husband.>

But the beast grew only darker.

When war came — for John made war — the land bled.

Villages burned for reasons no one understood. Taxes doubled, then tripled. Those who protested were silenced, their families vanishing into the cold stone of the royal dungeons.

In the evenings, the king would sit by the fire, polishing his sword.

“You cannot rule through kindness,” he once told Helen, his voice low and dangerous. “You rule through fear. Fear keeps the wolves away.”

“But fear,” she whispered, trembling, “turns men into wolves.”

He turned, his gaze like frost.

“And you would know, my dear? You’ve never led anything but servants.”

She said nothing more that night.

A Kingdom in Shadows

Years passed. The once-bustling streets of Veloria emptied.

Children cried from hunger; farmers sold their tools for crumbs. The palace stood tall and bright, but its light felt like mockery to those below.

And within that palace, Queen Helen wept in secret. Each of her pregnancies ended in tragedy — life flickering and dying before it ever began.

The king’s rage grew with every loss.

“Do you curse my bloodline, woman?” he snarled once, throwing a goblet that shattered against the wall. “Am I to die with no heir because of you?”

Tears streamed down her cheeks. “It is not my will, my lord. I pray—”

“Then your prayers are as useless as your womb!” he spat, storming away.

That night, Helen collapsed before the statue of the goddess of life. Her fingers dug into the cold stone as she whispered through sobs,
“Please… let there be one child. One… to carry the light of this kingdom again.”

The Heir

And then, one quiet dawn, she felt it — a stirring within her.
Her hand went to her belly, and for the first time in years, she smiled.

When her maid, Mira, entered, she gasped. “Your Majesty… you’re with child?”

Helen nodded, tears of relief in her eyes.
“Yes. But we must tell no one. Not yet. Not until I know it will live.”

For months, she kept the secret close, hiding her growing belly beneath layered gowns, feigning illness to avoid the king. The palace healers suspected nothing. Only Mira and one trusted midwife knew the truth.

Each night, the queen whispered to her unborn child.
“You must survive, my little one,” she murmured. “You are all that’s left of hope in this cursed kingdom.”

And the child did survive.

By the time the secret could no longer be hidden, Helen had entered her second trimester.

When John found out, he was furious at first — how dare she keep something from him? But then a cruel smile crept across his face.

“So… perhaps you are not as useless as I thought,” he said.

But Helen saw it — the greed in his eyes. He didn’t want a child for love, only for legacy.

She swore silently then: He will never own this child’s soul.

The Birth and the Curse

The night Nigel was born, the heavens raged.
Lightning split the sky like a blade, and thunder rolled through the marble halls of the palace as if the gods themselves protested his coming.

The king was away at war, his banners somewhere far beyond the mountains, and so only the queen, her maid Mira, and the midwife faced the storm within and without.

Queen Helen screamed until her voice broke. The air in the chamber was thick with the smell of sweat, blood, and burning candles. Then — after hours that felt like years — a cry rose through the roar of the thunder.

A boy.

A small, pale boy, slick with life and trembling breath.

The midwife, exhausted, lifted him carefully — and froze.

Her eyes widened. “By the gods…” she whispered.

Mira rushed forward. “What is it? Is he hurt?”

The midwife shook her head slowly. “No… but look at his eyes.”

The queen, weak but desperate, reached for her child. The midwife hesitated before passing him over. Helen cradled the baby against her chest and gasped softly.

The child’s eyes — barely open — gleamed pale blue, cold as morning frost. So light they almost seemed white.

“They’re… beautiful,” Helen whispered.

But the midwife stepped back in fear, crossing herself with trembling fingers. “My queen… those eyes—”

“What of them?” Helen asked, her tone sharp despite her exhaustion.

“They’re the mark,” the woman stammered. “The eyes of the Necromancers — those who walk between life and death. It is said that such children are cursed, bound to the realm of shadows. No good comes from their kind.”

Helen looked down at the boy, her son, whose tiny hand gripped her finger with fragile warmth. His eyes fluttered shut, peaceful and innocent.

“This is no curse,” she said firmly. “He is my child. My Nigel.”

Mira nodded through tears. “He lives, my queen. That’s all that matters.”

But the midwife only backed toward the door. “Pray that the king never sees those eyes,” she whispered, before fleeing the chamber.

When the war ended weeks later, King John returned — victorious, bloodied, and hollow-eyed. The queen met him in the great hall, their newborn in her arms.

“A son?” he asked, his tone unreadable.

“Yes,” Helen said softly. “His name is Nigel.”

John approached, his armor still streaked with mud. When he saw the boy’s face, he froze.
“What… is this?” His voice was low, almost a growl.

Helen clutched Nigel tighter. “He is your son.”

“His eyes,” John hissed. “They’re not natural.”

“They’re rare, yes. But harmless—”

“Harmless?” He turned away, running a hand through his hair. “You don’t understand what this means, Helen. The nobles, the priests — they will call him cursed. They’ll call me cursed for fathering him.”

“Then let them,” she said, voice trembling. “He’s still your heir. Still your blood.”

For a long moment, John said nothing. Then he turned, his expression unreadable. “The child stays in the palace. No one outside these walls must see him. Do you understand?”

Helen hesitated, then nodded. She knew better than to argue.

The Hidden Prince

And so, Nigel grew behind locked doors and veiled windows. Servants were forbidden to speak his name.

When nobles visited, the halls where the child lived were sealed off entirely. To the outside world, the royal couple had no heir.

But within those walls, the boy grew quiet, pale, and strange. He spent hours staring at candle flames, at shadows, at the reflection of his own eyes in polished metal.

His mother was the only light in that darkness. She told him stories of the world outside — the forests, the rivers, the festivals.

“Will I ever see them?” he asked once, his small voice echoing through the vast nursery.

“Someday,” she whispered, brushing his black hair from his face. “Someday, when it’s safe.”

“Safe from what?”

Helen hesitated. “From people who fear what they don’t understand.”

The Queen’s Fading Light

Winter crept upon the Kingdom of Sora like a slow, suffocating fog. The frost clung to every windowpane, and the palace halls grew silent — as though even the walls were holding their breath.

Helen had not left her bed in weeks.

Her skin, once warm and alive, had turned pale as marble. Her breaths came shallow, like whispers fading into the air. Still, she refused to let go of her son. Every morning, she asked for Nigel to be brought to her chamber.

He was eight now — tall for his age, his hair black as raven feathers, his eyes still that unearthly pale blue that made servants cross themselves when they thought no one was looking.

Yet when he smiled, he looked just like her.

“Come here, my love,” she whispered, reaching out with trembling fingers. “Let me see those eyes.”

Nigel climbed onto the bed and nestled beside her, holding her hand tightly. “You’re cold, Mama.”

“I know.” Her lips curved into a weak smile. “But your hand is warm enough for us both.”

Later that night, the king entered her chamber for the first time in months.

He stood in the doorway, silent, his expression unreadable. Helen looked up from her bed, her eyes dull with fever but steady.

“Have you come to see your wife,” she asked softly, “or to make sure she’s dying quietly?”

John’s jaw tightened. “You shouldn’t speak to me that way.”

“Why not?” she murmured. “There’s little else left to lose.”

He moved closer, his armor faintly clinking with each step. “You think I enjoy this?” he said. “Watching my kingdom fall apart, watching you fade away?”

Helen gave a small, bitter laugh. “Your kingdom fell long before I did, John. You destroyed it piece by piece. The people starve while you build your walls higher.”

“The people,” he spat, “don’t understand what it means to rule. They never have.”

“And you never tried to understand them,” she whispered. “You rule through fear. You call it strength, but it’s only cowardice.”

John’s hand shot out, grabbing the bedpost as he leaned over her. His eyes blazed, but something behind them trembled — fear, grief, guilt — she couldn’t tell which.

“Do not speak to me as though you know my mind,” he hissed. “You’ve given me nothing but shame.”

Helen’s breath hitched. “Shame? Because of Nigel?”

The king looked away.

“Yes,” she said, her voice breaking. “You’re ashamed of him. A boy who’s done nothing but live.”

“He’s unnatural,” John snapped. “You know what they say about eyes like his. Necromancers. Cursed ones. You’ve seen what happens when people whisper. Do you want him dragged through the streets? Burned? Is that what you want?”

Helen struggled to sit up, her anger suddenly giving her strength.

“I want him to live, John. To breathe. To laugh. To be seen. He’s a child, not a curse!”

For a moment, the king said nothing. Then his gaze softened — only slightly.
“You think I don’t love him,” he murmured. “But I do. That’s why I keep him hidden. If the people saw those eyes, they’d tear him apart.”

She looked at him for a long time. “You’re not hiding him from them,” she said finally. “You’re hiding yourself from him.”

John’s face darkened. He turned sharply and left without another word. The heavy door shut behind him with a sound like a tomb sealing.

That night, Helen’s fever worsened. Mira stayed by her side, whispering prayers. Nigel never left her hand.

When dawn came, the queen’s breathing slowed — then stopped.

Her fingers loosened around Nigel’s, and her body went still.

The boy sat beside her, silent, too young to understand death — yet old enough to feel the hollow ache it left behind.

The only mother he had ever known was gone.

And the only father he had… was a man who feared him.

The Boy in the Tower

After the queen’s death, the king changed. The fire in him that once fueled his cruelty turned to ice. He ordered the palace draped in black for a single day — then declared that mourning was over.

And then came his decree:
“The boy is to be kept apart. No one sees him. No one speaks his name.”

The servants obeyed, for fear of their lives. Nigel was taken to the highest tower — the one where sunlight barely reached and the air was heavy with dust.

He was given books, food, a single window — and silence.

The guards outside his door were ordered never to speak, never to open it unless commanded by the king himself.

Days blurred into months.

Months bled into years.

And the boy — the hidden prince—grew into a ghost within his own home.

Once, he had been a curious, smiling child. But slowly, the warmth faded from his face.
The laughter his mother had loved so dearly vanished.

His eyes — those pale, frostbitten eyes — no longer reflected wonder, only stillness.

He stopped asking questions.

He stopped dreaming of the world beyond the window.

Nigel became quiet.

Cold.

Indifferent.

He spoke little, even to the servants who brought his meals and scurried away as if delivering food to a grave. When he did speak, his voice was calm but empty — the tone of someone who had long accepted that the world had forgotten him.

So, he turned to the only companions he had left: his books.

They were about everything — kingdoms, war, poetry, ancient medicine — but his favorites were always the same.

Books about death.

He devoured them all: scrolls describing funerary rites of forgotten gods, journals of dying philosophers, tales of ghosts and the underworld. He read until his eyes burned, fascinated by every mention of what lay beyond the final breath.

Death, he thought, was not an end — it was a mirror.

A truth.

And slowly, he felt it pulling him closer, like a tide he could not resist.

Among his collection, one book became his constant companion — a cracked leather tome with no title on its spine. The ink within had faded to brown, and the pages smelled faintly of smoke.

It was a book of prophecy.

It spoke of the Necromancers — those who walked between the living and the dead, keepers of souls, thieves of silence.

Of two beings, bound by fate — two halves of eternity.

“Two sides of the same coin,” it said, “cut from different cloths.”

Nigel read those lines over and over, tracing the letters with trembling fingers. He didn’t know why, but they felt familiar.

Of two people united and gaining eternity…

He wondered what it meant.

He wondered if one of them could be him.

Sometimes, at night, Nigel would press his ear to the cold stone floor.

Through the layers of marble and dust, he could hear faint traces of the world below — the clatter of dishes, the echo of soldiers’ boots, laughter that seemed to come from another life entirely.

He would close his eyes and imagine faces to match the sounds — cooks, servants, knights — all of them alive, breathing, unaware that a boy lived above them like a secret buried in stone.

Other nights, when the silence grew unbearable, Nigel spoke to himself.
He recited lines from his books, asked questions into the dark, sometimes even laughed — just to remember what it felt like.

But soon, he began to notice something strange.

Sometimes, when he spoke… the shadows answered.

At first, it was only whispers — soft, shapeless murmurs, like voices carried through deep water.
He thought he was imagining them.
But they grew louder.

And one night, when he whispered, “Who’s there?” — the voice that replied was not his own.

It was faint, trembling, like a sigh.
“Don’t be afraid…”

Nigel froze, staring into the darkness pooling at the edge of his room.

The whisper came again.

A name. Then another. Then dozens more, swirling through the cold air like dust.

Names of servants long dead.

Names of soldiers who had fallen in war.

Names of children who once ran through the palace gardens before the king’s greed turned them to ashes.

Their voices filled the tower, gentle and sorrowful.
And though their presence chilled him, Nigel didn’t turn away.
For the first time in years, he wasn’t alone.

He listened.
He learned.

And in their whispers, he began to understand that death wasn’t something to fear — it was something that knew him.

One night, unable to sleep, Nigel sat by the narrow window, watching the moonlight spill across the stone floor. The air around him felt strange — colder, heavier, as though the tower itself was holding its breath.

Then, for the first time, he saw her.

A woman stood by the doorway — faint, translucent, her outline shimmering like smoke in silver light. Her face was pale but kind. Her smile… heartbreakingly familiar.

“Mother?” he whispered, his voice trembling.

The figure nodded once, her voice soft as a sigh.
“My sweet boy. You mustn’t be afraid.”

Nigel’s chest tightened. “Are you real? Or am I dreaming?”

“Neither,” she said gently. “You’re seeing. You were born with eyes that look beyond the living.”

He hesitated. “Why me?”

Her expression softened. “Because you walk between worlds, as those before you once did. You were never cursed, Nigel…”

She raised a hand of light, brushing his cheek — warm and cold at once.
“…You were chosen.”

Her form flickered, dissolving into a faint shimmer of light. “But the king must never know what you can do. Not yet.”

And then she was gone — leaving only silence, and the faint echo of her voice in the air.

Nigel stayed by the window long after, the tears running freely down his face.

For the first time in years, he cried not from loneliness… but from understanding.

He was not alone.

He had never been.

After that night, something changed.

Strangely, new books began to appear among his shelves — ones he did not remember being brought to him.
Their covers were dark and unmarked. Their pages whispered secrets of necromancy, of the language of death, of spells said to draw the soul back across the veil.

He read them all.
He memorized every word.

And when the lessons turned from theory to practice, Nigel obeyed.

He started small — the sparrows that flew into his tower window and never left, the mice that scurried beneath his floorboards. He dissected them carefully, recording every organ, every vessel, in precise, delicate handwriting.

His diary is filled with drawings and notes, neat and methodical.

At first, his work was guided by curiosity — the hunger to understand.
But slowly, that curiosity became something deeper.

When he whispered the ancient words over still hearts, sometimes — just sometimes — they fluttered again.

The first time it happened, Nigel nearly screamed. The mouse had been dead for hours, its body stiff with cold. But as the final syllable left his lips, its chest rose once, a trembling breath escaping its mouth. Its eyes opened, empty, but awake.

Nigel stared, shaking.

Then he smiled.

A small, broken smile.

He had crossed the line between life and death and found that it welcomed him.

That’s how he spent the years.

When Nigel reached fifteen, the whispers grew louder. The spirits that once spoke faintly through stone and shadow now came to him freely.

Sudden flickers in the corners of his vision, shapes born from darkness.

At first, he was afraid. They appeared at all hours — soldiers in tattered armor, children clutching broken toys, servants with hollow eyes and quiet smiles. They never stayed long, fading with the passing of a candle flame. But every time, they whispered.

“We remember you.”
“You can hear us.”
“You belong with us.”

Nigel stopped trying to tell the living from the dead. He no longer cared to.

He spoke to them as one would to old friends. He asked their names, their stories, their regrets. Some wept. Others laughed softly, the sound hollow and wrong. But the one who always returned — always — was her.

His mother.

She came to him in the evenings, when the tower was quiet and the air was thin with moonlight. Her face was still kind, though her form flickered now, weaker than before.

“You’ve grown so much,” she’d whisper, tracing her fingers through his dark hair, though he could feel nothing.
“You shouldn’t be alone all the time, my love.”

He smiled faintly. “I’m not alone. They keep me company.”

“That isn’t what I meant.”
Her tone carried something he didn’t understand — worry, perhaps. Or fear.

Sometimes she would hum softly, the lullaby she used to sing before he could walk. It made the air shimmer around them, made the shadows retreat. For those moments, the tower almost felt alive again.

But she was fading.

Each visit, she seemed smaller, her edges dimmer. Nigel began to panic, searching the necromantic texts for answers — for anything that could hold her here longer.

“Why do you disappear?” he demanded one night, voice shaking.
“Because that is the way of our kind,” she said. “We fade when the living hold us too tightly.”

“I don’t want you to fade!”
The candles around him flickered violently, his voice echoing through the stone chamber.

She only smiled sadly.
“Then don’t call me every night, Nigel. Let me rest.”

But he couldn’t.

He wouldn’t.

So he kept calling.

And the more he did, the colder the tower became. The air grew heavy with unseen eyes, the walls breathing softly in the dark. The line between the living and the dead — between boy and ghost — grew thinner with every passing day.

Sometimes, when Nigel looked into the mirror, he swore he saw someone else looking back.

Not himself.
Not his mother.

Something older.
Something waiting.

So he buried himself deeper in his books, letting their ink and whispers replace the warmth of the world he had long forgotten.

The boy who once listened to laughter beneath the tower now listened only to pages turning — the quiet rustle of parchment, the crackle of candlelight burning low.

He stopped speaking to the guards. He stopped eating with care.

His words became fewer. His eyes, colder.

It wasn’t sadness anymore. It was absence — a silence that hollowed him from the inside out.

He wore only black. Long robes that swallowed his thin frame, the color of the grave, of midnight, of the calm before death.

The tower became his entire world — and the dead his only company.

But then, one night, among the crumbling tomes and dust-covered scrolls, he found it.

A book older than the rest — bound in dark leather that smelled faintly of ash and rain.

Inside, written in silver ink that shimmered even without light, he found a passage that changed everything.

“When one born between worlds finds their other.

The one cut from the same soul

The gates shall open.

Together, they shall walk beyond death, and eternity shall bow before them.”

Nigel read it again and again, the words burning into his mind like fire.

“Two people,” he murmured, tracing the letters with his fingers. “United… and eternal.”

For the first time in years, something flickered inside him. Not joy — not quite, but something close.

Purpose.

If this prophecy was true, then he wasn’t meant to linger in this half-existence forever.
There was someone out there — another half of his soul, his equal.

Through them, he could finally escape this decaying world.

Through them, he could gain eternity.

Chapter Text

Each passing day, Nigel knew from his books that necromancers reached the height of their power when they came of age — that adulthood unlocked the full strength of their bond with death.

He couldn’t wait.

felt like a step closer to something vast and inevitable — something that would finally make sense of his existence.

But when his mother’s ghost stopped coming — when even her gentle light vanished into silence — something inside him cracked.

At first, he called for her. Whispered her name until his voice broke.
Then he stopped.

She was gone, utterly.

And in her absence, Nigel changed.

The boy who once trembled at the voices of the dead no longer felt fear. No longer felt anything.

He became indifferent to the living — to their laughter, their suffering, their world beyond the tower walls.

What had the living ever given him but isolation and suffering?

What mercy had they shown him, except the mercy of forgetting he existed?

He learned then what the dead had always whispered.
That life was not sacred. It was fragile, foolish, fleeting.
And perhaps, it was never meant for him.

By the time Nigel reached seventeen, he could already perform the simplest of necromantic feats.

He could sense where death had lingered — the faint residue it left on walls, on objects, on air itself.

If he focused hard enough, he could even glimpse fragments of how it had happened: flashes of movement, a shadowed figure, a single breath before the end.

Some spirits had begun to teach him.

They whispered lessons only the dead would know — the subtle art of poisons, the silent patterns of battle, the ways men lived and fell.

He could now see them for longer, hold their gaze without them fading too quickly.
And sometimes — though rarely — he could even touch them.

Or perhaps they touched him.

His skin, already pale from years without sunlight, grew paler still.

Colder, too.

As though the warmth that once belonged to life had begun to drain away, little by little.

Nigel’s eyes snapped open before dawn. The tower was still, but the whispers were already there, curling through the corners like smoke.

Dust swirled in the thin beams of sunlight that managed to reach Nigel’s narrow window.

Shadows pooled in the corners like obedient animals.

He rose from the cold stone floor, stretching his pale arms. His first task, as always, was to greet the dead.

“Simon?” he called softly, his voice barely above the stone floor.

A faint shimmer appeared near the window — the ghost of a servant, long dead. He was slight, hunched, his eyes hollow.

“You’re awake early,” the spirit murmured. “Did you sleep at all?”

“I tried,” Nigel replied, rubbing his eyes. “But you were loud.”

The ghost hesitated, then chuckled, a hollow sound that made the tower walls seem to shiver. “We never sleep, Nigel. You should know that by now.”

Nigel swung his legs over the edge of the bed — a narrow slab of stone with a thin blanket — and stared out at the courtyard below. Using Soul-Sight, he traced faint blue threads lingering where a soldier had fallen decades ago. The shapes swirled like smoke around the palace gardens.

He frowned.

“Was it like this?” he asked the air. “When you died?”

The ghost nodded. “Quiet. Cold. But you… You feel it differently.”

Nigel pressed a finger to the thread. A fragment of memory flared — a soldier lunging forward, a sword clattering to the ground, a scream swallowed by stone. He blinked away the vision. “I see… everything,” he whispered. “Too much sometimes.”

Breakfast arrived on a tray. A young servant, pale and nervous, set it down. Nigel barely looked up.

“You… you’ll spill it if you—” the servant started.

“Careful,” Nigel interrupted softly. “I’ve been eating here for years. You won’t hurt me by dropping it.”

The boy nodded quickly, shuffling away. Nigel didn’t bother calling him back; he had Gravelight flickering above the tray, tiny blue flames illuminating the bread and cheese like sacred offerings.

After eating, he moved to practice. A small mouse scuttled across the floor. Nigel knelt, eyes narrowing.

“Stay still,” he murmured. “I need to… see.”

He whispered the words from the cracked leather tome, syllables twisting through the air like smoke. The mouse twitched, then rose briefly, unsteady, its tiny legs shaking. It collapsed moments later.

“Again,” he whispered, voice quiet but firm. “We’ll get it right.”

Hours passed like this — calling spirits, practicing minor reanimations, tracing Soul-Threads on objects: a broken comb, a cracked quill, a piece of faded fabric. Each item hummed with the memory of its owner. Nigel listened, sometimes speaking aloud.
He learned their memories, their regrets, their joys. He spoke aloud to them, as though coaxing understanding from their silence.

“You were happy once,” he said to a thread of a child’s laughter trapped in a toy. “You didn’t deserve this.”

The toy vibrated slightly in response. Or maybe it was just the tower. Nigel smiled faintly, unused to warmth in his chest.

Sometimes, he experimented with Gravelight, tracing sigils on the floor, calling minor spirits to linger in the shapes. He observed how they moved, how they reacted, how the dead could be coaxed, persuaded, sometimes even taught.

Evening fell, cold and gray. Long ago, his mother’s ghost would appear then, soft and kind, her presence a reminder of warmth. But now she didn’t come. The tower felt emptier than ever, colder, the whispers sharper, more urgent.

He stood by the window, Soul-Sight tracing the faint traces of death outside. “Where are you?”

he whispered to the emptiness. “Why did you leave me?”

Only the whispers of the dead answered. Their murmurs circled him, names and half-memories, advice and warnings.

You are alone.
We are here.
You can do more.

Nigel clenched his fists, the blue flames of Gravelight dancing higher. “I will do more,” he muttered. “I’ll be stronger. I’ll see everything. I’ll know everything. No one will control me.”

The tower seemed to breathe around him, stone walls expanding and contracting with the weight of the living and the dead.

Shadows shifted, forming almost human shapes. They whispered, teaching him battle strategies, poisons, patterns of death, and ways to bind spirits.

By nightfall, Nigel sat cross-legged among the books, scribbling in his diary, tracing threads of memory, practicing the rituals he learned from whispers.

His skin, pale from years in darkness, seemed almost translucent in the glow of Gravelight. His eyes — the pale frost of his ancestry — reflected the flickering flames.

Nigel was exhausted. His pale hands trembled slightly as he closed the books.

No mother, no warmth of the living world — only knowledge, only power, only the dead to guide him.
And tomorrow, he thought, he would do more.

The dead gathered around him — silent watchers now, patient and eternal.
He lay on the stone floor, his robes wrapped around him like a shroud, and drifted into a restless sleep, half in life, half in death, his dreams filled with whispers and flickering shadows.

First Breakthrough

The tower was colder than usual that night. Wind rattled the narrow window, and the candle flames flickered wildly. Nigel crouched over his books, his hands stained with ink, his eyes rimmed red from hours of studying.

“I can do more,” he whispered to himself. “I have to.”

He pressed his palm to the stone floor. Soul-Thread Reading traced faint blue lines beneath him — threads of soldiers, servants, children, even strangers who had never known him. He had been trying to piece them together for hours, but something tonight felt different… heavier.

A whisper floated through the air.

You’re ready.

Nigel froze. The voice was not one he knew. It was older, deeper, commanding yet patient. His pulse raced.

“You… who are you?” he asked, voice low.

We are those who have walked beyond. You called us, now you must see.

The candle flames flared, and shadows twisted unnaturally around him. Gravelight erupted along the floor in faint blue tongues, feeding off the latent energy in the tower. Nigel’s hands trembled — part fear, part exhilaration.

“Show me,” he demanded. “I… I want to know.”

A figure coalesced in the corner of the room: a tall soldier in shattered armor, a dagger clutched to his chest, eyes empty but aware.

“Another,” Nigel muttered. “And another,” he whispered, and more shapes appeared — dozens of them, surrounding him in a ring of cold, pale light.

The whispers became voices, each overlapping the other. He could hear everything: battle strategies, warnings, regrets, cries of the dying. And then — the strangest part — he understood them. Not just words, but intent, emotions, lessons.

“This… this is too much,” he gasped. “I can’t—”

A sudden pulse of energy surged through him. The threads beneath the tower began to shine brighter, connecting the spirits like a web of blue fire. Nigel fell to his knees, clutching the stone, as Gravelight surged higher than ever, licking the walls and ceiling.

And then it happened.

A soldier from a hundred years ago stepped forward. His body was solid now, flesh and bone, trembling. Nigel’s breath caught. The mouse he had practiced on weeks ago had been nothing compared to this — a human.

“Please…” the soldier whispered. “Please… help us.”

Nigel realized, with a shiver, that he could sustain them. The ghosts were no longer fleeting, no longer dependent on scraps of energy.

He could anchor them to this world, even if briefly.

“I… I can do it,” Nigel said, voice shaking. “I can hold you. I can keep you.”

The soldier nodded, kneeling, his ghostly armor dissolving into faint light. For the first time, Nigel felt a connection stronger than curiosity or fear — responsibility. He could touch them, guide them, even command them… but only if he willed it.

Hours passed in a blur. When the first candle burned out, the spirits dissipated, leaving only faint threads behind. Nigel collapsed on the cold stone floor, exhausted, heart hammering.

You’ve grown, the older voice whispered. But the path ahead is dangerous. You are no longer a child bound to whispers. You are something else now.

Nigel wiped sweat from his brow, staring at the ceiling. “Something else,” he repeated. His pale blue eyes glimmered in the candlelight, cold and sharp. “I’ll be ready.”

Nigel had taken the first step, yet he knew the tower could teach him no more. Every book had been read, every spell studied, every secret of death and necromancy absorbed. Soon, he would reach the limits of what the pages could give him.

As the whispers had warned, he would need to leave. To grow, to truly master the arts, he would have to seek the ancient knowledge lost to the world.

Legends spoke of a library, hidden and guarded by necromancers long ago, a repository of immense power containing the secrets of life and death. It was said that those who had entered it could bend the boundaries between the living and the dead.

But the library was gone. Wiped from the earth in a single night when a greedy king, fearing its power, slaughtered all who protected it. The necromancers vanished. The knowledge vanished. All that remained were whispers and tales, fragments of what once was.

Nigel pressed a hand to the stone wall, feeling the cold pulse beneath his fingertips. If the library still existed, even in ruins, he would find it. He hadto.

Sometimes, Nigel would dream of that place — endless corridors of shadow and light, shelves made of bone, whispers instead of wind. He would wake with the taste of ash and ink on his tongue, his heart heavy with a longing he didn’t understand.

Nigel would have to escape. Soon — less than a year from now, when he reached adulthood and his powers matured. Until then, he was trapped, confined to the tower like a secret too dangerous to be revealed.

His father, the king, would never let him go. John feared what the world might see: a boy with pale blue eyes, a necromancer by blood, a living embodiment of a curse in the eyes of the ignorant. Nigel’s very existence was a threat to the throne, a reminder that the king’s legacy could be tarnished.

John had never been a good husband. Certainly not a good king. And as a father? Not even close.

Nigel had stopped thinking of him as “father” long ago. In his mind, John was a figure from a distant story — a villain whose face he only remembered through portraits. The kind of man ghosts refused to speak of.

Nigel’s jaw tightened, his fingers curling around the edge of the cold windowsill. The years of isolation, of whispered lessons from the dead, of endless study and practice, had not hardened him to anger — not yet — but the simmering fire beneath his calm exterior was growing.

One day, he thought, he would walk out of the tower on his own terms. One day, he would take the world by storm.

But for now… he waited. Patient. Calculating. And learning.

Days passed, but this time felt different. There was a weight to them, a quiet urgency Nigel had never felt before. He no longer just waited. He no longer just read. He planned, though in silence, without maps or notes — just in his mind, over and over, like a rhythm he couldn’t shake.

He moved carefully through the tower, listening to the faint creaks of the floor, the distant shuffle of guards. Every shadow seemed to watch him, every whisper from the dead felt like both warning and guidance.

He couldn’t fail. Not now. Not ever. If he did, his father would see him as a threat, and John had no patience left. Death was quick, absolute, final.

Nigel’s hands shook sometimes — not from fear, but from the strain of holding so many thoughts at once. He would pace the cold stone floors, murmuring softly, speaking to the shadows as though they could answer. They did. Sometimes.

He sent ghosts as spies. They whispered of hidden doors, guard rotations, and the times when the palace slept. Some spirits even drifted beyond the tower, returning with secrets wrapped in silence.

They slipped through walls and under doors, returning with the palace’s murmurs folded into their voices. Nigel sat cross‑legged on the cold floor, Gravelight flickering at his feet, and listened as one by one they reported.

“Night,” Simon said at last, his voice thin as paper. “You should go when the world is sleeping. Leave through the servants’ passages — no one looks for princes there.”

“Yes,” another spirit agreed, eager, the sound of it like dry leaves. “With your clothes, so old and worn, they’ll think you’re one of them. They’ll think you’re a boy fetching water or mending a seam. You’ll vanish into the throng.”

A child’s laugh bubbled up — bright and ridiculous in the hush. The little ghost hopped in place, invisible heels clicking. “There’s a path that runs straight to the city,” she chimed. “You can steal a horse near the stables and be gone before anyone notices. Oh! You’ll be free!” She bounced on the spot, as if she could not contain the joy.

Nigel said nothing. He simply nodded, his eyes distant.

He no longer smiled at their excitement. Freedom was not a dream to him — it was a calculation. A risk. A promise written in blood and shadow.

Nigel didn’t smile, but something in his chest loosened. He pictured the narrow passage under the kitchens, the way the moon would slide across the cobbles, the stable smell of hay and horses. He pictured leaving.

“Careful,” he murmured to them, more to steady himself than to rebuke. “No sudden moves. No mistakes.”

“We’ll watch,” Simon promised. “We’ll tell you when the lanterns are low, when the patrols change, when the stableboy falls asleep.”

The child ghost clicked her tongue in mock impatience. “Hurry up, Nigel. I’m bored of listening to the same lullabies.”

Nigel let out a sound that might have been a laugh. He picked up his diary, thumbed to the page where he had drawn the stables, and traced the route with a fingertip, feeling the plan settle like a stone into place.

Outside, the palace breathed — unaware, indifferent. Inside, a hidden boy breathed too, learning to move between shadow and light. He had nearly everything he needed: a route, time, and the ghosts that would watch his back.

The tower that had been his prison for nearly a decade had become his training ground.
And soon, it would become his gateway to freedom.

At night, he practiced quietly — tracing sigils in the dust, murmuring words that curled like smoke. The air would chill, the candles flicker blue. Small creatures he resurrected shivered before fading again. Each failure taught him patience; each success hollowed him further.

Sometimes, after a ritual, he would sit in the silence that followed and imagine what it would feel like to step into the world again — not as a prisoner, but as something new. Something the world wasn’t ready for.

He only had to wait for the right night.

Thief in the Palace

It was still dark when Nigel woke, stirred not by dreams but by shouting — sharp, urgent, echoing up the stone corridors.

Guards.

Their boots clattered across the marble floors, voices raised in panic. Something had gone wrong. Someone had entered the palace.

Nigel pressed himself against the cold window, peering down. Lanterns bobbed like fireflies below, the shadows of armored men twisting in the light. A figure darted between them, small and quick, moving with impossible silence.

“Stop him!” one guard barked, and the clatter of boots accelerated, frantic.

Nigel’s pale blue eyes narrowed. He recognized instinct, even in strangers: the thief was clever. Agile. Maybe desperate.

He leaned closer, his heart oddly racing. This was life beyond his tower walls — raw, uncontrolled, dangerous. And yet… intoxicating.

A laugh — soft, almost a whisper — came from the figure. The guards cursed, swore, and stumbled over each other. Nigel felt a thrill he hadn’t known in years.

“Interesting,” he murmured to himself. His fingers brushed the windowsill. A plan began to form in his mind. If someone could move through the palace like that, maybe… just maybe, he could too.
For the first time, he wondered if fate was knocking — not gently, but with bloodied hands.

The thief vanished into the maze of corridors as quickly as he had appeared, a ghost among the clamor. The guards shouted and cursed, scattering like startled animals as they pursued him. Lantern light flickered across polished stone, catching on swords and armor, but the figure was gone — swallowed by the palace’s shadows.

Nigel’s pulse slowed, though a strange electricity lingered in his veins. He retreated to the far corner of the room, curling against the cold stone wall.

Gravelight flickered faintly at his feet, casting dancing shadows that seemed almost alive. He opened a book and tried to focus, forcing his mind back into the safe, structured world of ink and parchment.

But even the familiar comfort of his necromantic studies could not drown out the image of the thief — quick, bold, untouchable. The sound of running feet, the shouts of guards, and the thief’s soft, almost mischievous laughter lingered in his ears.

Then, a sound — soft, deliberate — at his window.

Nigel froze, head turning slowly.

Something scraped the stone. Fingers. A shadow.

And then… movement above.

A flash of reddish-gold hair caught the moonlight, glinting like fire through the dust-filled air. Green eyes, bright and sharp, appeared at the edge of the window, wide with a mixture of daring and mischief. The thief had climbed — scaled the side of the tower with impossible skill — and now crouched there, just beyond the glass.

For a moment, time stilled. Nigel’s breath hitched. The boy before him seemed impossibly alive, defying every law of the world he had ever known.

The thief’s hands gripped the windowsill, knuckles pale against the stone. He shifted lightly, testing the gap, then vaulted inside with catlike grace.

Dust swirled around his boots as he landed silently, feet soft on the cold floor. His hair fell across his forehead in the faint light, and his green eyes glittered with a mixture of thrill and challenge.

There was dirt on his cheek, a cut on his jaw, and something fierce in his smile — a spark that didn’t belong in this lifeless tower.

Nigel didn’t hesitate. He moved with the shadows — silent, swift. In one clean motion, he crept up behind the intruder and struck with the heavy book he had been holding.

The dull thud broke the silence.

The thief staggered, eyes wide. For the briefest moment before darkness took him, he saw the boy before him — pale, still, with eyes like ice and starlight.
Such beautiful eyes, he thought — and then the world went black.

For a heartbeat, the sound seemed to echo endlessly, louder than the guards’ shouting, louder than the wind itself. Nigel froze where he stood. His breath hitched in his throat, pulse pounding against his ribs. The boy had crumpled instantly, the light fading from his eyes as he fell.

The book slipped from Nigel’s hand and struck the floor with a flat, lifeless sound.
He hadn’t meant to hit that hard. Had he?

He knelt beside the thief, two fingers trembling as he pressed them to the boy’s throat. A pulse — faint but steady. Relief came in a sharp exhale, though his hands still shook. “Alive,” he whispered, half to the spirits, half to himself.

The tower settled into silence again. Nigel sat back on his heels, staring at the unmoving figure. His ears rang with what he’d done, and the whispering presence of the dead pressed close, curious, murmuring through the stone.

“Another corpse?” one voice hissed.

“No,” Nigel murmured. “Not this one.”

He didn’t realize how strange that sounded — a necromancer defending a stranger’s life. But the air had shifted. Something about this boy didn’t feel like the others who had come and gone, who had fallen and vanished from his sight. This one was alive, blindingly so.

Nigel stood over him, breathing evenly. The boy lay motionless on the floor.

He crouched again, studying the intruder as though he were some rare creature he’d never seen before. The thief smelled faintly of sweat and metal, of city air — real air, unfiltered by the tower’s stale stillness.

Dirt clung beneath his nails; his clothes were torn, his boots frayed. A scar marked his jaw, and another ran along his forearm. Nigel reached out, almost absently, tracing the air above it.

“What kind of world leaves marks like these?” he whispered.

The dead offered no answer. They never did when it came to the living.

For the first time in years, Nigel felt envy — not for power, but for experience. This boy had seen things: the city, the night, freedom itself. Things Nigel had only read about in books and ghosts’ half-remembered murmurs.

A gust of wind swept through the narrow window, stirring the thief’s hair. It shimmered in the dim Gravelight — reddish blonde, like fading fire. Nigel’s pale fingers twitched, as if tempted to touch it. “You’re real,” he murmured, almost accusingly. “How inconvenient.”

Then Nigel noticed the brown sack still clutched loosely in the boy’s hand. It rolled from his limp fingers and came to rest at Nigel’s feet.

He crouched and opened it.

Inside, gleaming faintly even in the dim light, was a crown.

Her crown.

Nigel’s jaw tightened. His mother’s crown — the one she was buried with, or so he’d been told. So that’s what the thief had come for.

Carefully, almost reverently, he lifted it from the sack. The gold felt cold against his skin, heavier than he remembered. He hid it away beneath the loose stones near his bed, covering it with cloth and dust.

Then he turned back to the boy.

“You shouldn’t keep him,” Simon’s voice whispered, thin as frost.

Nigel didn’t look up. “And yet he’s here.”

“He’ll bring trouble.”

“Everything does.”

A second voice — a woman’s this time, older, distant — sighed from the wall. “He smells of danger. And grief.”

“Then we understand each other,” Nigel said quietly.

The air cooled further, shadows pressing in, the ghosts gathering like moths drawn to warmth they could no longer feel.

“Leave me,” he murmured, and though reluctant, they obeyed — fading into the corners. But he still felt their eyes. Always watching. Always whispering.

Then, without hesitation, he tore one of his old sheets into strips, binding the thief’s wrists and ankles, tying the knots tight and sure.

The boy couldn’t have been much older than him — eighteen, maybe nineteen. Reckless, foolish… alive.

Nigel gagged him, dragged him across the room, and pushed him into the narrow closet. The wood creaked shut with a quiet click.

For a long while, Nigel simply stood there. The silence after movement felt unnatural, oppressive. He could hear the thief’s faint breathing through the door — soft, uneven, proof of life.

He sat back down at his desk, candlelight flickering weakly, and opened his diary. The quill hovered over the page before he began to write in his precise, looping hand:

Intruder apprehended. Male, approximately seventeen to nineteen. Physically sound. Unknown motives.

He hesitated. Then, smaller, almost hidden between lines:

Eyes — green. Hair — like copper in firelight.

He dipped the quill again. I struck too hard. He breathes, but shallow. Spirits restless.

The ink blotted on the word “breathes.” He frowned and shut the book.

Nigel stood, pacing the narrow room. The Gravelight burned low, the blue flame trembling like a heartbeat.

Each step across the stone floor echoed — too loud, too alive. He found himself glancing toward the closet every few moments, half expecting the door to burst open, half afraid it never would.

The tower felt different now, heavier, its air stirred by something human. He could almost imagine warmth there, clinging faintly to the walls.

He ran a hand through his hair, restless. “Why the crown?” he murmured aloud. “What use would a thief have for grief-made gold?”

The silence answered. Then, soft as dust, a reply from the dark corner: “Maybe he wanted what you do. Freedom.”

Nigel’s jaw tightened. “Freedom is a story people tell themselves before they die.”

“Or after,” whispered another voice. Then the whispering ceased again.

Nigel sat back at the desk, elbows resting on the worn wood. The candle guttered once, twice, before steadying.

He didn’t read. He simply waited.

Hours passed like that — the room filling slowly with dawnlight, pale and thin. Nigel’s thoughts tangled between curiosity and dread.

He listened to every sound: the soft rasp of the thief’s breathing, the faint scrape when he shifted in his bindings. It was the first time the tower had held two living heartbeats in years.

He found it unbearable. And yet, he couldn’t look away from the closed door.

At last, he spoke — not to the spirits, not even to himself, but to the thief hidden behind the wood.

“Why my mother’s crown?” he asked softly. “Who sent you?”

Only silence. But in that silence, Nigel heard something stirring — not in the closet, but inside himself. A spark he didn’t recognize.

Something that wasn’t quite anger.

Something dangerously close to longing.

Sooner or later, the thief would wake.

And when he did, Nigel would have questions.

Chapter Text

Alex knew he wasn’t a good person. And this wasn’t the first time he’d stolen anything.

If he were to say it plainly, he was a very good thief. Sometimes he went on missions with his two friends, Raj and Josh — the kind of jobs that left you with bruised knuckles and heavy purses, if you were lucky.

He liked the thrill. The moment right before getting caught — that thin line between disaster and escape. That was when he felt most alive.

He remembered the first time he had felt that rush: a purse snatched from a nobleman’s belt in the crowded market square. The man had shouted, the crowd had surged, and Alex had felt every heartbeat of the city pulse through him.

That memory always brought a smile, though he would never admit it aloud.

That’s how he found himself staring at a poster one evening, nailed crookedly to the wall of a tavern.
The ink was still fresh, bold black letters catching the firelight:

10,000 gold coins for those who can steal the late Queen’s crown.

Alex’s fingers twitched as he traced the letters with the tip of his thumb. Ten thousand coins. Enough to vanish from the city entirely, to melt into some far-off town and start again. His chest tightened at the thought of freedom — no shadows, no running, no endless nights crouched in alleyways listening for soldiers’ boots.

“Ten thousand,” Raj whistled beside him, wiping ale from his mouth. “That’s not a reward, that’s a curse waiting to happen.”

“Or freedom,” Alex said. His voice was low, but something fierce flickered in his green eyes. “That’s enough to buy a new life. For all of us.”

Josh laughed — sharp, nervous. “Or enough to get us killed by sunrise.”

Alex was still a child when the Queen suddenly died — and as far as anyone knew, she’d left no heir for the royal couple. The entire kingdom had mourned for a week, and then stopped speaking of her altogether, as if grief itself had been outlawed.

It was better not to speak of the King. Better to pretend he was only a rumor, a shadow behind the throne. Those who did mention him did so in whispers, with eyes lowered.

It was the King’s fault that Alex no longer had a father.

Not that they had ever been close — not really.

Since his mother’s death in childbirth, Alex’s father had looked at him with nothing but blame.

As if every breath Alex took was a reminder of what had been lost.

The man had once been a soldier, proud and loyal, until the King’s wars took everything from him. When his unit was betrayed and slaughtered, he returned home broken — a ghost of the man he once was. He drank himself hollow, cursed the crown, and took his bitterness out on the boy who bore his wife’s eyes.

The man drank himself hollow, leaving Alex to grow up in the corners of other people’s houses — unwanted, unclaimed, learning to take what the world refused to give.

Alex remembered the smell of ale and candle wax, the slam of boots on the floorboards, his father’s voice rough and slurred: “You should’ve died with her.” He had run that night, barefoot and bleeding, until the city lights swallowed him whole. He never went back.

By the time Alex was ten, the beatings had stopped — not because the old man found peace, but because he was dead. A night of drink, a fall down the stone steps, and that was that. No one mourned him. No one claimed Alex either.

He survived the only way he could — stealing, lying, running. The city taught him quick hands and quicker thinking. He learned to vanish in crowds, to climb walls faster than soldiers could shout. To take what he needed and disappear before dawn.

There were people who pitied him once. A baker who tossed him stale bread. A bookseller who let him warm by the fire when the winters bit hard. He stole from them, too, eventually. Pity, he’d learned, never lasted. Hunger always did.

He remembered one winter night, curled under a pile of rags behind the docks, when the snow burned his face and hunger gnawed through his stomach like fire. It was then he swore he would never be weak again, never rely on mercy. Only his own hands would carry him forward.

So when Alex saw that poster, something inside him stirred. Ten thousand gold coins. Enough to leave the city. Enough to buy a name that wasn’t cursed.

He didn’t think about the danger. Only the chance.

He imagined the Crown sitting in its chamber, all gilded splendor and dust. The thrill of taking it was already dancing in his veins, a song of danger and skill. He pictured the guards, the bells, the narrow corridors, and himself slipping through like smoke, untouchable and alive.

So he went to his friends, and together they plotted and planned — nights spent crouched over stolen maps, whispering in the flickering light of an oil lamp.

“You really think the Queen’s crown is still up there?” Raj said, poking at the fire with a stick.

“If it wasn’t,” Josh replied, “there wouldn’t be a bounty that big.”

“Bounty,” Alex repeated, his voice dry. “You mean a death wish.”

The three sat huddled in a half-collapsed shed behind the tavern, the night wind creeping in through the cracks. Somewhere outside, a drunk was singing off-key.

“I’m serious,” Raj said, leaning closer. “If this goes wrong, we’re done for. They don’t just arrest thieves who break into the palace—they hang them.”

“Then we don’t get caught,” Alex said simply, cutting the apple in his hand with a small knife and offering the slice to Josh. “You wanted a way out, right? You wanted to stop hiding? This is it.”

Josh hesitated before taking it. “You talk like you’ve already decided.”

“I have.”

For a moment, the firelight caught his eyes—green, sharp, restless. The others fell quiet. They’d seen that look before.

No one laughed. The night wind whistled through the boards.

“You ever think of quitting?” Raj asked suddenly. “All this running. All this stealing.”

Alex’s knife paused mid-air as he cut the apple in his hand. “Quitting what?”

“Everything.”

“And do what?” Alex’s tone was flat. “Be a farmer? A soldier? Serve the same king who killed my father?” He flicked the slice toward Raj, who didn’t take it. “No thanks.”

A silence fell. Alex’s green eyes caught the candlelight, sharp and restless. Raj shifted, uncomfortable. Josh’s fingers itched toward the hilt of his knife.

Alex didn’t steal for greed. He stole because it was the only time he didn’t feel powerless. Because when he was running, no one could touch him. Because the city had taught him to survive by slipping through cracks, hiding in shadows, being unseen.

Raj had once worked as a stable hand near the palace. Josh knew the sewer routes beneath the city. Between the three of them, a plan took shape: swift, silent, perfect.

Alex rehearsed every step in his mind. He imagined the cold of the stone corridors, the shimmer of torchlight on marble, the weight of the crown in his hands. Every detail mattered.

Every misstep could be death. He felt the muscles in his arms and legs tighten with anticipation, his heart drumming a rhythm that matched the city itself.

The tavern was loud around them — laughter, dice, the smell of sweat and stale beer. But their corner was hushed, wrapped in a different kind of tension. Raj slouched back, arms crossed, pretending not to care, while Josh kept glancing toward the door every few seconds like someone might already be listening.

“You ever wonder,” Raj murmured, “why it’s still there? The crown. Why has no one touched it all these years?”

Alex smirked faintly. “Because they’re cowards.”

“Or because it’s guarded,” Josh muttered. “Cursed, maybe. I heard the Queen’s spirit never left that place.”

“Then she’ll forgive me for borrowing her jewelry,” Alex said, leaning forward, eyes glittering. “It’s not her I’m afraid of.”

He said it like a joke, but even he didn’t believe it.

He had never feared ghosts or curses. The real danger was flesh and blood, steel and orders, and that was more than enough.

Yet in the quiet of the tavern, he felt a twinge of reverence for the crown, for the life it had symbolized, for the people who had once lived under it.

“You sure about this?” Josh muttered one night, chewing his lip. “You’ve seen what happens when people touch royal things.”

Alex smirked. “That’s the point, isn’t it? No one ever expects someone like us to pull it off.”

Raj rolled his eyes. “No one expects it because no one’s stupid enough.”

“We’re not stupid,” Alex said. “We’re desperate.” And that, somehow, ended the argument.

They would enter through the servant tunnels — old passages that connected the royal kitchens to the outer courtyards. Raj would distract the guards with a “drunken scuffle” near the eastern gate, Josh would disable the locks with his nimble hands, and Alex would slip inside, light as a ghost, to steal the crown from the treasury chamber.

Everything went smoothly — for a while.

The tunnels beneath the palace were older than memory. The air smelled of damp stone and rot; their footsteps splashed quietly through shallow puddles.

“This is disgusting,” Raj muttered, covering his nose. “You sure this is the right way, Josh?”

“Do you want to lead instead?” Josh snapped. “Be my guest.”

Alex said nothing. He moved ahead, every step measured. The map in his head—scribbled from rumor and stolen blueprints—had to be right.

There was no other way.

“How many guards?” he whispered.

“Two at the west gate, maybe more in the inner hall,” Raj replied.

“Then we move when the bells strike midnight.”

They waited, pressed against the damp wall. The silence stretched, broken only by the distant murmur of the palace above.

Then—dong. The first bell. They moved.

The corridors opened into a hall of stone pillars. Light spilled through cracks in the ceiling, painting the floor in pale silver. Every sound was too loud: the creak of leather, the scrape of a boot.

“Keep your head down,” Alex whispered.

“You keep your head down,” Josh hissed back.

“Enough,” Alex snapped. “Focus.”

They moved like shadows through the dark corridors, avoiding torchlight, holding their breath each time boots echoed nearby. Alex could hear his heart pounding, but excitement kept him steady.

They reached the inner hall — vast, silent, and lined with marble statues.

“You sure this is it?” Raj whispered.

Josh nodded, fingers twitching. “Yeah. Third door on the left — the one with the gold trim.”

“Gold trim. Subtle.” Alex smirked and pushed the door open.

The door to the Queen’s chamber stood before them, sealed by nothing more than a rusted lock. Josh grinned and made short work of it with a thin iron pick.

Inside, the room smelled faintly of lavender and dust. Moonlight filtered through the high windows, falling on the crown resting atop a velvet cushion.

It was beautiful — gold and silver threads coiled into shapes of wings and lilies, dull now with age but still regal.

For a long moment, Alex didn’t move. He imagined the Queen wearing it — kind eyes, quiet dignity — everything the kingdom no longer had.

“She was real.” he murmured. “Not just a name.”

Raj snorted softly. “She’s dead. Take it and go.”

“Right.” Alex reached out, fingers trembling slightly, and lifted the crown. It was heavier than he expected, as if it carried the weight of all the years she’d been gone.

He felt the cold metal bite into his palms. A shiver ran down his spine, equal parts thrill and dread. Every shadow in the room seemed to twist and bend toward him, the air growing thick with anticipation. He imagined the soldiers’ faces when they discovered it gone, and a dark amusement curled in his chest.

That was when he heard the sound.

A clatter of armor. Shouting. Someone had sounded the alarm.

“Move!” Raj hissed. “They know we’re here!”

Panic flooded the hall. They bolted. Alex sprinted after his friends, the crown wrapped hastily in a cloth. The corridors blurred around him — torches flaring, voices shouting, footsteps closing in.

“They’re coming from the south hall!” Josh shouted.

“No—east! East!” Raj panicked.

“Shut up and run!” Alex barked.

They sprinted down the corridors, hearts pounding, breath tearing at their lungs. Their footsteps echoed against the marble floors, chased by the thunder of boots behind them.

“This way!” Raj yelled, veering left—straight into a dead end.

“Idiot!” Josh cursed. “You said you knew the way!”

“I did! They must’ve blocked it—”

They reached the courtyard — and then everything went wrong.

The clang of armor cut through their argument. The guards were closer now. Alex felt the air shift with their approach—the heat of torches, the echo of swords drawn.

“Raj!” Alex grabbed his arm, pulling him back toward the courtyard. “We’ll go through the old wing!”

But Raj’s eyes were wide with terror. “I can’t—”

“Move!”

Raj wrenched free, stumbled, then turned and ran the other way. “I’m sorry!”

Josh followed him without a word. Cowards. Both of them.

“Raj! Josh!” Alex shouted, but they were already gone.

Now alone, he turned back — and saw the guards rushing toward him, blades drawn.

For a heartbeat, Alex stood there—breathless, surrounded by echoing shouts and betrayal. Then instinct took over.

He ran. Alone.

His mind raced as he fled. Every turn, every shadow, every potential death trap. The palace that had once seemed a sprawling fortress now felt like a labyrinth designed to swallow him whole.

He could hear the guards’ boots pounding closer, the clang of metal scraping stone, the barked orders echoing off the walls. Every shout felt closer.

There was no time to think. He ran. Fast. Down the narrow hall, past the stables, through a cracked door that led into the lower towers.

He didn’t know this part of the palace — it was older, colder, almost abandoned.

He found himself in a dead-end hallway that opened into a courtyard filled with ivy and half-broken statues.

When he burst into the courtyard, the night air hit him like water. The moon hung low, pale and cold, lighting the broken statues scattered across the garden.

The guards were closing in from every direction — their torches flickered through the arches like angry stars. Alex pressed against the wall, chest heaving, searching for a way out.

“Stop!” a voice roared behind him. Arrows whistled past his shoulder.

Alex ducked behind a pillar, clutching the sack to his chest. He could hear his heartbeat louder than the arrows. “Damn it, Raj,” he muttered. “Damn you both.”

Then he saw it — the old tower. Its stone sides were cracked, rough enough to climb. High, but climbable.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered. But it was his only chance.

The tower loomed above him like a giant’s spine, pale in the moonlight. The cracks between the stones were slick with moss.

It looked ancient. Dangerous.

“Perfect,” Alex whispered grimly. “Why not die climbing?”

He threw the sack over the shoulder, spat on his hands, and began to climb.

The wind tore at his clothes, biting cold. Each handhold was a gamble. Moss-covered cracks threatened to tear his gloves, and stone shards cut into his palms.

Every second felt stretched, infinite, as if time itself slowed to watch him fail or survive. He remembered lessons learned in alleys, rooftops, and backstreets — every slick surface, every wobbly ledge, every moment of desperation had led to this.

His fingers found the first handhold. The stone was freezing, biting into his skin. He climbed slowly, one motion at a time—hands, feet, breath. The guards’ torches flickered below, their voices growing fainter.

The cold bit into his fingers, the stone cutting his skin, but he didn’t stop. Below, shouts echoed — the guards had reached the courtyard.

Thankfully, they didn't look up.

Alex kept climbing. His arms burned, his breath came in ragged bursts, but he didn’t dare look down. A loose stone slipped beneath his boot; he caught himself just in time, heart hammering. The wind whipped his hair into his eyes.

Halfway up, his boot slipped. A chunk of rock broke free, tumbling down into the dark. He froze, chest tight, waiting for the shouts below.

None came.

He forced himself to keep moving. Don’t look down. Don’t stop. Don’t die.

Almost there. Just a little higher.

When he reached a narrow window, he hooked one arm over the ledge and pulled himself up. He paused, hanging there for a heartbeat, catching his breath. The inside looked dark and quiet — safe.

He rested his forehead against the stone, breathing hard. “Still alive,” he muttered. “Barely.”

Alex didn’t know whose room this was, and he didn’t care. He just needed to hide until the guards gave up.

When his fingers brush the windowsill, he pauses, gasping. The inside is dark — but not empty.

He can feel someone there.

He shifted lightly, testing the gap, then vaulted inside with catlike grace. Dust swirled around his boots as he landed silently, feet soft on the cold floor. His hair fell across his forehead in the faint light, and his green eyes glittered with a mixture of thrill and challenge.

He slumped against the wall, breath shaking. The crown throbbed heavy against his chest. He felt every bruise, every scrape, every flicker of fear from the chase — and a strange, bitter thrill.

His mind raced, replaying every step: the tunnels, the guards, Raj and Josh disappearing into the shadows. He clenched his fists. Why had he even trusted them? Why had he thought he could control everything?

He swore silently he wouldn’t trust anyone like that again — and yet, a tiny part of him ached at their absence, longing for comradeship, for someone who wouldn’t vanish the moment danger struck.

He turned to glance back out the window — making sure he hadn’t been followed — and that’s when it happened.

Suddenly, someone moved behind him — silent as the wind — and before Alex could turn, a heavy blow struck the back of his head. Pain burst white behind his eyes, and the world tilted away.

The world went silent. Alex’s body crumpled, his last thought a blurred image — the boy standing before him, those strange blue eyes, cold and beautiful, watching him fall.

Then — nothing. Only darkness, and the faint echo of his own heartbeat.

When he came to, his head throbbed. The floor beneath him was cold stone. Shadows wavered across the walls.

And now, tied up in a stranger’s room, his head aching and his mouth dry, Alex wondered if it had all been worth it.

Alex’s head throbbed as he pressed against the tight wood of the closet. The ropes cut into his wrists and ankles, the gag muffling his curses. Darkness surrounded him, but his green eyes adjusted quickly, scanning the tiny cracks in the door for any hint of movement.

He tested the ropes with careful tugs. Tight. Snug. Well-tied. Whoever had done this knew what they were doing—but Alex was clever, and clever had always kept him alive. He flexed his fingers, twisted his wrists, and shifted his ankles, feeling for weak points.

Patience, he reminded himself. Panic would get him nowhere.

His mind drifted for a moment, recalling the fall. The world had gone silent as he crumpled, and in that fleeting instant, a shape had flashed before him—vague, indistinct, but sharp enough to etch itself in his memory.

A boy, standing there with strange blue eyes, cold and beautiful, watching him fall. The image was a blur, but unsettling, like a shadow that had followed him into this room.

Alex didn’t know who he was, or why he struck, but that image was a reminder: someone capable and dangerous had entered his world. That someone had underestimated him. That was a lesson he wouldn’t repeat.

He flexed his toes inside the bindings, testing the pull of the ropes around his ankles. Just enough slack here, a shift there, and maybe… maybe the bindings could be loosened further without a sound. He experimented silently, each tiny movement calculated, measured, rehearsed.

The crown was gone. That weight, that gold—it was someone else’s now. Frustration boiled under his calm. He would get it back, or at least get out. He always found a way. Always.

Outside, the tower was silent. He listened to every creak, every shuffle, every breath. The sound of steps would tell him when to act.

Timing was everything.

He tested the knots again, more aggressively this time, using his body weight to twist and stretch. Pain shot through his wrists, but he gritted his teeth. Every second in this closet was an opportunity—to learn, to prepare, to strike.

Alex imagined the layout of the room, the tower, and the escape routes he could reach once free. His mind raced through options: pulling, twisting, rolling, leveraging. The tight space worked to his advantage; small movements now could lead to freedom later.

He shifted again, pressing his shoulder against the closet wall, straining at the ropes, listening. Whoever had trapped him was careful—but they weren’t perfect. Nothing was perfect. Alex waited, patient and calculating, his heart pounding, every muscle coiled like a spring.

And when the moment came, he would strike. Quiet. Fast. Clever. Like he always did. Because Alex didn’t panic.

He survived. And that’s exactly what he intended to do.

Chapter Text

Nigel sat by the desk, a book open in front of him. He wasn’t reading — not a word, not a line. His eyes flicked across the page, but his mind was elsewhere.

The thief was awake.

He could hear it — the faintest rustle from the closet, a soft creak of wood, the sound of rope straining. The boy was testing his bindings, breathing fast through the gag.

Nigel didn’t move. He turned a page deliberately, slow and quiet, as though lost in study. Let the thief think he was being ignored. Let him wonder.

Let him worry.

The air in the tower shifted slightly, the faint blue glow of the Gravelight flickering against the stone walls. The shadows seemed to lean closer, listening.

Nigel felt them too — the spirits, curious, restless. They could sense the living heart beating so close, confined and desperate.

He felt it as well — that pulse of life. Not just another trespasser, not another fool seeking gold. Something else hid beneath that heartbeat, a rhythm that didn’t belong to the ordinary world.
 
He didn’t understand it, but he recognized its pull. Dangerous, alive, familiar in a way he shouldn’t know.

He let them linger. Just enough for the cold to deepen, for the faintest wisp of mist to slip under the closet door.

A muffled sound came from within — panic, confusion. The thief tried again to pull free, breathing faster now.

Nigel almost smiled. “Good,” he murmured under his breath. “You should fear what you don’t understand.”

He waited, motionless, listening to the thief’s panic grow in the dark. He didn’t need to say a word — the silence said more than a threat ever could.

He dragged one fingertip across the edge of the desk, slow, deliberate, the faint scrape carrying through the stillness. To the thief, it might have sounded like steel.

He tapped once. Then twice. Each sound precisely spaced — a rhythm that didn’t belong in comfort or safety. Something cold and ancient in its pattern.

He could almost feel the thief’s breath quicken through the wood. Good. Let the boy imagine teeth behind the quiet. Let him wonder if someone — or something — was standing just beyond the door, smiling.

He didn’t rise. Didn’t speak louder. Didn’t reveal himself. The less the thief knew, the stronger the hold of imagination.

To the boy in the dark, every sound was a threat. Every flicker of shadow was something alive.

And Nigel preferred it that way.

Nigel let a faint smile tug at his lips, lowering the book slightly. The intruder would never guess the truth: the quiet observer, the invisible presence manipulating fear with a whisper of cold and shadow, was far older, far stranger than any thief had reason to imagine.

And that was the plan. Keep him uncertain, keep him afraid. Make him feel watched, hunted, alone. Nigel didn’t need to show himself. Not yet.

Not until it mattered.

And yet, something about this one felt different. He didn’t sense only fear. He sensed fight. Curiosity. A mind refusing to bend. That was… new. And for the first time in a long while, Nigel found himself intrigued.

When Nigel decided enough time had passed, he reached for the Gravelight and snuffed it out with a twist of his wrist. The soft blue glow died, leaving only thin light from the window. Shadows settled back into their corners — obedient, silent.

No trace. No whispers. No chill in the air.

Better not to reveal anything to an enemy.

He stood from his chair with quiet precision, his movements smooth and deliberate. Every motion rehearsed — measured, almost elegant.

He stood not suddenly, but with a kind of unhurried precision that was somehow worse. The chair didn’t scrape. The floor didn’t creak. The sound of movement came only as a whisper of fabric and breath.

Then, deliberately, he let the tip of his boot brush the floorboards near the closet. The faintest creak broke the silence.

Inside, he heard the thief freeze — and smile barely touched Nigel’s mouth.

Yes. The boy could hear him now. Could feel him there.

He let his voice come low, almost conversational, though the tone cut like frost.

“Do you know,” he murmured toward the dark, “what happens to those who come here uninvited?”

No answer — only ragged breathing.

“They leave,” he continued softly. “But not the way they arrived.”

Then, he reached for the knife—his favorite. The blade was thin and sharp enough to split a hair, the hilt worn smooth by years of use. He slid it into the hidden sheath beneath his sleeve, where it rested against his wrist, unseen.

If the thief tried anything, Nigel would be ready.

He tested the weight of the knife, letting the blade whisper against the fabric of his sleeve. Not a threat yet — just a promise of one.

He pictured the thief inside, tied and blind to what waited for him, and the thought steadied him. 

Fear was art, and he was its quiet craftsman.

Sometimes, all it took to break someone was not pain, but the anticipation of it.

Nigel moved toward the closet. Slow steps, careful not to creak the floorboards. The air between them was alive with tension—fear and curiosity feeding on each other.

He stopped just before the door. Silence. He could hear the thief’s breathing on the other side, ragged and sharp through the gag.

Nigel tilted his head slightly, listening. Then, with one gloved hand, he undid the latch. The faint metallic click echoed far too loudly in the small room.

He let it hang open for a breath too long — long enough for the thief’s heartbeat to thunder against the walls. Then he whispered, low enough that it might have been the wind:

“Still breathing? Good.”

The door creaked open by inches.

Inside, the thief flinched—green eyes flashing in the dark, ropes digging into pale wrists. For a moment, neither of them moved.

Light from the single window cut across the thief’s face, illuminating the defiance behind exhaustion.

So young, Nigel thought. Too young for this kind of recklessness.

But his power hummed at the edge of awareness again—alive. Like a faint heat ripple in the cold air. Strange. Most thieves didn’t radiate warmth. Most didn’t carry that kind of spark.

And yet, this one did. Not arrogance. Not desperation. Something else — alive and sharp, like a blade waiting for the moment to strike. Nigel could feel it, and it made his pulse quicken in a way he didn’t fully understand.

“You’re awake,” Nigel said finally, voice low and steady. “Good.”

He crouched, knife still hidden beneath his sleeve. His gaze swept over the bindings—tight, clean knots. No real harm done. Not yet.

“I don’t like killing people who are useful,” he continued. “And you don’t look stupid enough to try anything suicidal. So, tell me—what were you doing in my tower?”

The thief glared at him, gag muffling whatever sharp retort burned behind his teeth.

Nigel raised an eyebrow. “Ah. Right.”

He slipped the knife free with practiced ease, catching a glint of faint light along its edge. Alex froze, muscles tightening, ready to twist away if needed.

Nigel’s thumb brushed the flat of the blade against the thief’s throat — a razor-sharp promise, light pressure, enough to draw a bead of sweat. I could make this unpleasant, Nigel thought, savoring the control, but why waste it? The fear itself is far more useful than the cut.

But instead of cutting flesh, Nigel leaned closer and sliced through the gag. The rope fell away with a soft snap.

“Talk,” he said.

Alex swallowed, his throat dry, the taste of dust and rope still on his tongue. He licked his lips, testing the air, eyes narrowing as he studied his captor—the strange boy with pale skin and unreadable eyes.

He could feel the knife, the cold gleam of it whispering against him. Part of him wanted to bolt—another part, unreasonably, thrilled at the danger. Something in the boy’s calm, controlled menace sparked adrenaline in a way that scared and excited him all at once.

“First things first,” Nigel said, voice soft but deliberate, tilting his head. “What’s your name, thief? You’re going to have to answer sooner or later.”

Alex blinked. “Names don’t matter.”

“To you, perhaps,” Nigel murmured, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “To me… they do. I’ll tell you mine. Nigel.” He let the name hang there, careful, measured. “Your turn.”

Alex hesitated, jaw tight. Then, quietly, “Alex.”

Nigel’s eyes flickered with something unreadable—interest, maybe amusement. 

He let the tip of the knife trace a near-circle over Alex’s throat, a whisper of cold steel, letting him feel it without harm. 

Good, Nigel thought. Fierce. Sharp. Not just a thief. A player. Perhaps even… more.

“Good. Alex. Names make people easier to watch… and harder to forget.” Nigel finally lowered the knife away from Alex.

“First,” Alex rasped, voice rough but steady, “you hit harder than you look.”

Nigel’s expression didn’t change. “And you break into towers better than you think.”

“Fair trade,” Alex muttered.

Nigel almost smiled. “Not yet.”

Nigel straightened slowly, the knife still gleaming faintly in his hand.

“Now,” he said, voice soft but edged. “Let’s start with something simple.”

He gestured lazily toward the brown sack lying beside the desk—the one Alex had brought. “That little souvenir you were carrying. Where did you find it?”

Alex’s eyes flicked to the bag, then back to him. “You already know.”

“I’d prefer to hear you say it.”

Alex hesitated, jaw tight. Then, quietly, “The queen’s chambers.”

Nigel’s face betrayed nothing. “You walked into the royal wing and thought you’d walk out alive?”

“I’ve done worse,” Alex said, defiant.

“I doubt that.” Nigel’s tone was almost amused, but his eyes didn’t soften. “You didn’t get far, though. The guards were on your heels, weren’t they?”

Alex’s silence was answer enough.

Nigel moved closer, the blade tracing idle patterns in the air. “So tell me, thief—why a crown? Why something so loud, so obvious? You could have stolen anything else—gold, jewels, documents. But you risked your neck for that.”

Alex’s mouth twitched. “Because it’s worth more than all the rest combined.”

Nigel’s brow lifted. “Worth enough to die for?”

Alex’s gaze hardened. “Depends who’s dying.”

The answer intrigued him. Reckless, sharp-tongued—untamed.

He didn’t lower the knife. “So no one sent you?”

“No one I’d name.”

“Which means someone did.” Nigel’s tone was calm, measured. “And you’re loyal. Admirable, but unwise. Loyalty is a poor shield when the guards start asking questions.”

He stepped back, sliding the knife into his sleeve again. “Still, I can appreciate competence. Getting into the royal wing isn’t easy. Getting this far—” he gestured around the tower, “—almost impressive.”

Alex’s eyes flicked upward, trying to gauge him. “Almost?”

“I caught you, didn’t I?”

For a second, Alex’s mouth curved faintly. “Only because you hit me with a book.”

“Effective tools,” Nigel said coolly. “They contain knowledge. And weight.”

He turned away then, pacing a few steps toward the window. Outside, the night pressed close around the tower, distant torches flickering where the guards still searched.

“You know,” Nigel continued, voice quieter now, “if I opened that window and shouted, they’d be here within minutes. You’d be dragged down the stairs, bound, and executed by dawn.”

He glanced over his shoulder, eyes meeting Alex’s. “But I haven’t.”

Alex said nothing, watching him warily.

“That means I see potential,” Nigel said. “You know the outside. You know routes, faces, guards’ habits. Things I don’t.” He let that hang for a beat. “We could trade information.”

“Trade?” Alex asked, skeptical. “You keep me tied up and call that a trade?”

“Freedom has to be earned,” Nigel said simply. “You answer my questions, and perhaps you walk out of here with your head still attached.”

Alex leaned back against the closet wall, exhaustion and defiance blending in his tone. “What do you want to know?”

Nigel’s gaze sharpened. “Everything. The city. The people. The king’s reach. What’s changed beyond these walls.”

Alex blinked. “You talk like you’ve been locked up for years.”

Nigel didn’t answer. He just smiled faintly. “Start talking, Alex.” He said the name softly, tasting it — and something inside him shifted. A name shouldn’t feel like a promise, but this one did

Alex’s gaze drifted to Nigel’s eyes again. Pale, almost icy under the dim light, they seemed to pierce right through him. People talked about eyes like those. Misery. Death. Necromancers. He’d heard the stories—how those born with such eyes were said to bring ruin wherever they went.

But Alex had never believed in tales. Superstition was for the weak, for those afraid of what they couldn’t control. And necromancers? Magical manipulators of death? He scoffed quietly at the thought. Ridiculous.

Still… those eyes.

Too bright. Too alive. Too beautiful for the curse people whispered about.

“Alright,” he rasped, leaning against the wall. “You want the outside world? Fine. Streets, merchants, guards, market routes… what else?”

Nigel didn’t respond immediately. He crouched slightly by the desk, tilting his head as if weighing the words in the air. The shadows around him flickered faintly, brushing the corners of the room. Nothing tangible. Nothing Alex could touch. And yet… the air felt different. Heavy. Expectant.

Something in Alex’s chest tightened, an old instinct stirring—the faintest prickle of warmth beneath his skin. He drew a slow breath, tamping it down. Not now. Not here.

“You know the city,” Nigel said finally. “Tell me—who patrols the outer walls at night? Which guard is easily bribed? Who would recognize you?”

Alex considered the questions carefully, answering slowly, deliberately. “Outer wall patrols change shifts at midnight. Bribes… depends who’s desperate. Recognition… only the night watch, but they only look at faces, not names.”

Nigel’s lips twitched into the barest hint of a smile. “Good. Useful.”

His tone was even, polite almost—but there was something cold and measuring beneath it. The kind of calm that came from someone used to being obeyed. 

Alex met his gaze again, the blue of Nigel’s eyes cutting through the dim like frost. It should’ve made him uneasy. Instead, he felt that faint warmth pulse again beneath his ribs, quiet but insistent.

“And the crown…” Nigel said at last, leaning forward slightly, “you risked everything for it. Why?”

Alex’s gaze hardened. “Gold. Worth more than anything else I could steal tonight.”

“Nothing else?” Nigel pressed, calm, deliberate. “Nothing personal, no message, no loyalty?”

“No,” Alex said flatly. “I didn’t come here for stories. I came for gold.”

The air between them stilled. Silence, thick and heavy.

Nigel studied him, still unreadable. Alex watched him back, the strange light catching against the edges of Nigel’s face. Shadows clung to him like they belonged there—like they moved when he breathed. A trick of the light, surely. 

But the room felt colder when Nigel spoke.

Nigel didn’t move away this time. He stayed where he was, gaze steady, that unreadable half-smile still ghosting his lips.

“Gold,” he repeated softly, as if tasting the word. “You risked the queen’s wrath, scaled her tower, and nearly got yourself killed… for gold?”

Alex met his stare. “I’ve done worse for less.”

Nigel tilted his head. “Have you?” His voice was mild, almost curious, but his eyes sharpened. 

“And how much less, exactly? A loaf of bread? A bed for the night? A promise someone didn’t keep?”

Alex’s jaw flexed. “You ask a lot of questions for someone who ties up his guests.”

“Only the interesting ones,” Nigel murmured. He began pacing, slow and measured. “And you’re interesting, thief. The way you move, the way you talk—like someone who’s been hungry long enough to stop pretending it bothers him.”

“Maybe I just don’t like wasting words,” Alex said.

Nigel’s smile deepened by a fraction. “You’re wasting them now.”

Silence pressed in again. Alex’s pulse thudded in his ears.

Nigel crouched down beside him, not close enough to touch, but close enough for Alex to feel the cool brush of his presence.

“Aren’t you afraid of me?” Nigel asked suddenly, almost lazily.

Alex frowned. “Should I be?”

A flicker of amusement crossed Nigel’s eyes. “They say eyes like mine are cursed. That men who look into them see their deaths.” He tilted his head slightly, the faint light catching in his irises—pale, bright, unnervingly alive. “You’ve been staring long enough. No visions yet?”

Alex held his gaze, unflinching. “I’ve seen worse things than eyes.”

Nigel studied him for a long moment, and something in his smile changed—less playful now, more intent. “You really don’t scare easily, do you?”

“I don’t see the point.”

“No,” Nigel said quietly, “you don’t. You survive instead.”

The words hung between them, sharp as glass. Alex didn’t answer, but his silence was enough.

Nigel rose again, hands clasped loosely behind his back. “Tell me something else, then,” he said. “If you had escaped with the crown—what would you have done with it? Melted it? Sold it? Kept it?”

Alex’s throat worked. “Does it matter?”

“It does to me.” Nigel leaned forward slightly, his shadow stretching long across the floor. “Because men don’t risk their lives for something they don’t understand. You knew it was more than gold.”

Alex’s pulse jumped. “You’re reading too much into it.”

“Am I?” Nigel’s eyes caught the dim light again, cutting through it like frost. “Or are you lying to yourself as much as you’re lying to me?”

Alex’s breath hitched before he could stop it. He forced a smirk. “You like the sound of your own voice, don’t you?”

Nigel’s expression didn’t change, but the air between them tightened. “Maybe,” he said softly. “But I like truth more.”

And Alex—tied up, bruised, and irritated—should’ve been plotting escape. Instead, his mind snagged on details he shouldn’t notice: the even rhythm of Nigel’s voice, the faint curve of his mouth when he thought he had control, the way that impossible blue seemed to cut through every lie.

He looked away before Nigel noticed the stare, jaw tightening. Whatever strange pull that was, it meant nothing. Couldn’t mean anything.

But deep down, somewhere past logic, something flickered—something warm, alive, defiant. And for just a heartbeat, the faintest wisp of heat curled across his palms before vanishing again.

“All right,” Nigel said finally, standing. “That’s enough for now. You’ve answered enough to be… interesting.”

His tone was soft, almost casual, but each word was carefully weighted. “We’ll see if you’re as clever in action as you are in words.”

Alex didn’t respond, only flexed his wrists against the ropes, testing once more—quietly, carefully, pretending not to feel the faint warmth lingering under his skin.

Nigel’s pale eyes fixed on Alex, steady and unflinching. The knife remained sheathed, but the weight of it was implied. 

“The crown,” he said, voice low, precise. “I don’t need it for myself. But it’s yours, and it’s valuable. You want it back, I can return it… under one condition.”

 Alex arched an eyebrow. “Which is?”

“You help me reach a place,” Nigel said, leaning slightly closer, the faintest chill in his presence brushing against Alex’s skin. 
“A place no one remembers. Knowledge erased from the world. I cannot go alone, and I cannot do it without someone capable.”

 Alex’s jaw tightened. “And if I refuse?”

 Nigel’s expression didn’t change. “Then the crown stays with me. Or worse—guards will be informed you trespassed, and I cannot guarantee your survival outside this tower. You decide.” 

Alex swallowed, weighing his options. Nigel wasn’t bluffing. And yet, there was something else in the boy’s presence—something neither warm nor cruel, just… inevitable. “What’s in it for me, besides surviving?” Alex asked, voice wary. 

“The crown, unharmed. Your gold intact. And the chance to leave with both,” Nigel replied. “Do this, and I keep my word. Fail, and…” His eyes darkened slightly.

 “You already know the consequences.” 

Alex exhaled slowly. He didn’t trust Nigel. Not at all. But he wanted the crown, and he wanted out of the tower. That was leverage he couldn’t ignore. “Fine,” he said at last, tone sharp. “I help you. But I’m keeping my crown. I don’t like games.” 

Nigel’s lips curved faintly, almost imperceptibly. “Nor do I. Then we have an understanding. You follow my lead, and you will have your crown.” 

“That is all.”

Nigel stepped back, the air settling as if he had never been close at all. The deal was made—cold, transactional, and without trust.

Alex didn’t answer. He let the word hang between them like a challenge. Nigel’s faint smile lingered in the dim air; he believed the boy was cowed. He believed wrong.

Slow. Quiet. Everything had to be slow. Alex breathed through the ache in his skull and bent every muscle to one job: make the knots fail without giving Nigel the satisfaction of seeing him try.

Under the cloth, fingers found their old tricks. He worked at the edge of pain, wriggling his wrists, rolling them until a stray strand of fabric rubbed thin. The gagless mouth tasted of dust; his jaw clenched as he ground his teeth together and rubbed the braid of cloth with his heel, not pulling, not shouting, only wearing.

Nigel turned to the window, to the night, to his calendar of ghosts and guards. He did not watch the small, patient engineering of a thief born to wait for an opening. He did not see the minute darkening at the hem of the rope where Alex’s skin had pressed and rubbed for long seconds. The fibers, old and threadbare, loosened.

Alex drew his knee up, pivoted, and let the momentum do the work. The rope at his left wrist slipped a fraction. It was enough.

He tasted victory before it arrived — metal and sweat and the cold of the tower. He didn’t think. He moved.

His shoulder slammed into Nigel’s ribs, sudden and brutal. The chair toppled, the book thumped to the floor with a sound like a gunshot in the small room. Nigel staggered, surprise cutting the calm from his face. For one heartbeat the boy’s pale eyes widened.

Nigel felt the shock before the pain. He hadn’t expected the thief to move so fast, so decisively. That spark again — reckless, wild, alive. 

It shouldn’t have thrilled him, but it did. He hadn’t fought someone with will in years. Not since—
He stopped the thought before it could form.

They crashed to the stone. The knife flashed free in Nigel’s hand, a practiced movement, but his arm was half-hidden beneath Alex’s weight. Alex used leverage, drove his forehead into Nigel’s jaw, and forced air from the other boy’s chest. He heard a breath — ragged, animal — and kept going.

Nigel was no stranger to control; the struggle was short, violent, and intimate. He pinned Alex’s wrist with one long finger, and his other hand fumbled for the sleeve where the blade rested. The knife hit stone and skittered away, clattering under the desk as the two of them toppled.

Pain lanced Alex’s side where Nigel’s knee had driven into him. He grunted, channelled the pain into momentum, twisted, and freed one arm enough to hook at Nigel’s throat. He shouldn’t be able to hold him — but he did. For a breath, they were nothing but heat and sound and the scrape of cloth on stone.

Alex’s pulse roared in his ears. Every muscle screamed, but the fight— gods, the fight felt good. It had been so long since he’d found someone who could match him. 

He could taste the thrill, raw and hot, cutting through exhaustion like lightning. Whoever this pale, beautiful bastard was, he wasn’t normal  , and Alex couldn’t help wanting to see how far he could push him.

Nigel’s hand found Alex’s hair and hauled him up by it; Alex answered by driving his shoulder into Nigel’s sternum. A low, shocked sound came from Nigel, a sound that might have been anger, might have been pleasure at the challenge.

He should have ended it. A word, a whisper of command, and the shadows would have obeyed. But he didn’t. Some stubborn, human impulse made him fight fair — as if he wanted to see what Alex would do next.

 The shadows around them thickened, brushing closer against the walls, subtle, alive.

Then something tiny and strange happened: a faint curl of smoke rose from the rope at Alex’s ankle. The fibers had blackened, curling slightly before vanishing as if nothing had occurred. Neither of them noticed; both were too caught up in the motion, the struggle.

Alex didn’t wait for examination. He rolled, shoved, and scrambled toward the desk. He snagged the tossed book and used it to sweep Nigel’s hand away from the hidden sheath. Nigel cursed, a small, sharp sound, and reached instead for the loose stones by his bed.

They grappled across the floor, each move a negotiation of strength and timing. 

Alex could feel the tower’s chill bite into him, but he relied entirely on skill and leverage. Every move was human. Every advantage earned.

He didn’t think about survival anymore. It was instinct — movement, reaction, rhythm. For the first time tonight, he wasn’t afraid. He was alive.

When Nigel twisted, using his weight to pin Alex beneath him, Alex wrenched free enough to bring his knee up hard into Nigel’s side. Nigel grunted and rolled, and the two of them lay panting, staring into each other’s faces.

 Their chests rose and fell in the same rhythm: two heartbeats close enough to count.

Something in the rhythm synced — one pulse echoing the other. Nigel felt it like a thread tugging somewhere deep inside, ancient and wrong and impossible. He told himself it was adrenaline. 

It wasn’t.

Alex’s hands were raw and blistered where the ropes had rubbed. One ankle felt lighter; the charred rope had slackened more than he had dared hope. He could taste metal — adrenaline and the copper of a cut lip.

 He kept his gaze on Nigel’s face, reading pride, calculation, nothing more.

Except there was something there — curiosity, maybe, or restraint. He couldn’t tell. But he recognized that look. The look of someone who understood what it meant to survive.

Nigel’s breath came slowly and deliberately. The half-smile returned, a faint gleam in his eyes.
 
Nothing betrayed surprise at the struggle.

Inside, though, something turned. That heat again, impossible and magnetic. 

The boy wasn’t supposed to matter. He was supposed to be a tool — a way out of the world that had forgotten Nigel’s name. And yet, some part of him whispered otherwise.

“You’re reckless,” he said quietly, noting the challenge.

“Better that than polite,” Alex spat back, a grin breaking through despite the ache.

 Nigel’s gaze dipped to the loose stones near the bed, where something wrapped in cloth lay hidden; Alex saw the movement and calculated his next step.

Alex’s fingers brushed the blackened edge of rope at his ankle. He didn’t answer. He’d earned a small measure of control, not freedom. 

Alex exhaled slowly, chest heaving. The ropes were gone from one arm, slackened on the ankle. He flexed his fingers, testing the motion, all while keeping his gaze locked on Nigel. Every muscle was ready, every sense alert.

Nigel straightened, brushing off the dust from his clothes as if the fight hadn’t happened. His expression was calm, controlled, but Alex could feel the sharp precision behind every movement. The knife was gone from sight, yet the threat lingered in the way Nigel shifted his weight, poised and deliberate.

“You’ve got nerve,” Nigel said finally, voice even, almost conversational, though each word carried weight. “Few would dare to act like that under my roof.”

Alex smirked, fingers twitching at his side. “I don’t do polite.”

A brief pause hung in the air. Neither moved closer, yet the room felt small, charged. Something unspoken, unmeasurable, passed between them — a weight neither acknowledged, a faint tremor of anticipation.

“Enough games,” Nigel murmured. “You wanted your crown. You’ll get it when I say you do.”

Alex’s jaw tightened. He didn’t reach for anything — the crown wasn’t his. The reminder of it, still in Nigel’s possession, pressed heavier on his mind than any weight he could lift. “So, you’re keeping it for leverage?”

Nigel’s pale eyes didn’t waver. “Exactly. Motivation and caution go hand in hand. You want the crown? You’ll have to earn it. Every step, every move, every bit of information I require. Fail, and it stays with me — or worse, the guards find out.”

Alex’s hands flexed, heart hammering. He didn’t like being controlled, didn’t like playing a part in someone else’s plan. Yet he also knew that brute force alone wouldn’t win the crown tonight.

“Where to, then?” Alex asked, voice careful, keeping the edge of frustration and impatience tucked under control.

“First,” Nigel said, moving toward the door, “out of this tower without waking a single guard. Then we will go to my destination.”

Alex nodded, masking his reluctance with a measured expression. “Lead the way,” he said, keeping his voice neutral.

Nigel’s lips curved faintly, almost imperceptibly. The faintest glint of satisfaction touched his pale eyes. He didn’t trust Alex. That was perfect. He never needed to.

Chapter Text

The room was still when Nigel woke.

The first hint of dawn hadn’t yet breached the clouds; the tower was suspended in that thin, gray hour between night and morning — when the dead gathered closest to him.

He stood by the narrow window, fingers tracing the cold stone of the sill, and let the silence stretch before breaking it with a thought.

“They’re restless,” he murmured under his breath. “Even now.”

The air stirred — faint, cold, familiar.

One by one, they came into view.

Pale outlines at first, shaped from the shadows themselves — the shimmer of hollow faces, eyes like candlelight seen through fog. Their movements were soundless, their presence bending the light around them.

“You let him stay,” whispered one, her voice a ribbon of frost. “The living brings danger.”

“Danger brings change,” Nigel replied softly. “You’ve all wanted that.”

Another stepped forward, an older man with eyes like cracked glass. “Not this way. He reeks of blood and pride. He’ll burn what he touches — including you.”

“Maybe,” Nigel said. His voice was quiet, measured. “But he can move where I cannot. He knows things I’ve forgotten.”

The dead stirred in the corners, their pale forms stretching toward the weak dawn light like ink seeping into water. Every movement, every subtle shift, was in Nigel’s defense. Their presence pressed against him, insistent, like an unseen wall of vigilance.

“You brought him here,” whispered the woman whose eyes were thin slits of frost. “Do you not see the peril? He carries the scent of the living. Uncontrolled, unbound. He will draw fire to you.”

Nigel’s fingers traced the cold sill, steady. “I see it,” he said softly. “That is why he remains. He serves a purpose.”

“Purpose?” The hollow man’s fractured jaw trembled with urgency. “Purpose cannot excuse recklessness! The living is fragile and volatile. He will unravel what we have preserved for you, Nigel. He will undo everything!”

Nigel’s gaze flicked toward the sleeping boy. The tiniest trace of something unnameable brushed his chest—a warmth he could neither place nor permit. He shut it down immediately. Curiosity. Strategy. Observation. That was all.

“He cannot touch me where I stand,” Nigel said quietly. “And what he does not know, he cannot ruin.”

The murmurs of the dead grew louder, a chorus of warning. “He is dangerous!” hissed one, voice like a crackling flame. “Every step he takes draws peril toward you!”

“Danger can be guided,” Nigel replied softly, his tone measured, careful. “He thinks he moves me. In truth, I direct him. Always.”

Simon, hovering close, eyes like fractured ice, pressed forward. “You gamble with the living, Nigel. He is desperate. Ambition drives him. He will betray, and he will burn. And you… you allow him near you.”

Nigel’s lips curved faintly. “I allow him to think he holds the advantage. That is all. That belief… protects me better than any of you can.”

The dead bristled, pressing closer, bending the dawn light into angles sharp enough to slice. “He cannot be trusted. He will betray you!”

Nigel’s eyes lingered just a moment too long on Alex’s even breathing, chest rising gently, the faint warmth returning unbidden. He pushed it away. Use. Advantage. Survival. Only that matters.

“Perhaps,” he said, voice low, “but I am not here to trust him. I am here to move through what I cannot touch myself. That is all I need.”

Another whisper, like frost over glass: “You cannot predict the living. They are weak, volatile. If he fails, it will cost you everything!”

“And yet,” Nigel murmured, his gaze returning to the boy, “he moves where I cannot. That is enough reason to allow it. Nothing more.”

The dead circled tighter, protective, vigilant, their light bending and twisting in silent warning. “Do not underestimate him,” Simon said finally, voice low and firm. “Do not allow him to endanger you, even unintentionally.”

Nigel nodded, eyes cold. “I do not underestimate. I calculate. And if he falters, I will adapt. That is all I need to do. That is all that matters.”

A faint tension lingered beneath his ribs, that pull of warmth, curiosity, something he could not name and would not admit. He let the thought hover for a heartbeat, then banished it. Nothing matters but the tower, the escape, the survival. The living is a tool. The dead are my guardians.

The dead murmured among themselves, their forms hovering in the corners, unbroken, unwavering, protective as ever. They did not notice the stir within Nigel—because it was irrelevant to them. Their focus was singular: ensure Nigel’s safety, deflect all danger, even from the fragile, untested human in his room.

And yet, somewhere beneath the ice of his will, that tiny, unwelcome pull lingered. A faint tether to the boy he would never admit mattered, even as the ghosts around him watched, ready to defend, ready to strike, ready to ensure that Nigel survived whatever the living might bring.

Nigel’s eyes flicked back to Alex, the faint rise and fall of his chest under the threadbare blanket. He felt it again—the pull he could neither name nor acknowledge. 

Not for the boy’s sake, never for the boy’s sake, but because the warmth drew something from him that he had long buried: curiosity, concern… perhaps even admiration for the audacity of a living creature who dared to occupy the world he had abandoned.

He shook his head slightly, as if to dislodge the thought. This is not about him. It is about what he can do.

The woman with frost-lined eyes, ever vigilant, seemed to sense the hesitation in him. “You linger too long in thought, Nigel,” she murmured. “Do you not see the danger he brings, yes—but also the opportunity? The living moves where we cannot. He can navigate the world you abandoned. That world is not ours. It is sharp and hungry, full of claws and fire. He can guide you through it.”

Nigel’s gaze narrowed. Yes… perhaps. He could not deny the truth. The real world, with its unpredictable hazards and its living predators, required a conduit—a hand in the chaos. Alex’s ignorance, his recklessness, his fleeting mortality… these could be shaped into tools if handled correctly.

“I do not need a guide,” Nigel whispered, almost to himself. “I can see where others cannot. I can move in shadows, in silence. I do not need him.”

“You do,” said the hollow man quietly, voice like ice grinding stone. “You have been insulated, Nigel. The tower kept you safe, the dead kept you whole. But the world beyond… it is jagged. He can step where you cannot. That is why you linger near him. That is why you keep him sleeping beneath your gaze. Admit it, even if only to yourself.”

Nigel’s lips pressed into a thin line. He is a tool. Nothing more. And yet, the faint warmth lingered, tugging at a corner of his chest he had long sworn to freeze. The idea of protecting the boy—not merely using him—was an alien thought, quick to rise and quicker to retreat.

Nigel’s jaw tightened. Tool. Nothing more. Observation. Advantage.

Yet he could feel the faint pull again. He hated the pull. He hated the warmth he could not name. And yet… it persisted, a subtle tug threading into the cold calculations of his mind.

He turned toward the pale figures circling him, their forms bending the weak dawn light into shimmering, impossible angles. “And you,” he said softly, “all of you. You will stay with me. You will follow. You will protect me. Always.”

A chorus of whispers rose in response, layered and unwavering. “Always,” Simon echoed, his voice like ice grinding against stone. “Where you go, we go. What threatens you, we repel. No living, no magic, no betrayal can touch you if we stand together.”

The woman with frost-lined eyes stepped closer, her ethereal fingers brushing the cold stone of the window frame. “We have been with you since the tower first rose, Nigel. We have taught you, guarded you, seen you through the endless hours of night. We are yours. You are ours. That bond will not break.”

A younger ghost, pale and wiry, whose voice trembled like wind over chimes, added softly, “He may not understand you, Nigel, but the living world is sharp. He can move where shadows falter. If you are to leave this tower, you will need him. Trust, yes… but also use him. He can keep the paths safe where we cannot reach.”

Nigel allowed himself the smallest of nods, the tiniest acknowledgment of the pull at his chest. He did not speak of it aloud, not even to himself. 

It was a hint of something he could not name, not fully, but he felt it—a subtle thread woven into the tapestry of his cold calculations. Alex’s presence… it intrigued him, threatened him, and yet it offered utility he could not ignore.

“I will keep him,” Nigel murmured, almost in confession. “Not for what he feels, not for what he is. But for what he allows me to do. That is enough.”

And the dead watched, ever watchful, ever loyal, their forms rippling in the corners of the room. They did not question his motives. 

They did not doubt his decisions. Their task was singular: to ensure Nigel’s survival, to repel any danger that sought to claim him, and to bind themselves eternally to the one they had chosen to protect.

The faint glow of dawn crept along the edges of the tower, but it could not touch the circle Nigel occupied, the sanctuary of the dead around him. He looked at Alex once more, the faint warmth pressing against his stern control. Nigel did not care for it. He did not need it. But he would use it. And perhaps… he would watch it.

The dead whispered among themselves, promising vigilance, strength, and eternal protection. Nigel closed his eyes for a heartbeat, letting their presence anchor him.

He did not admit it to anyone, not even to himself, but for the first time in a long while, the faint pull toward the living—toward Alex—was something he allowed to linger in the shadows of his thoughts.

A long silence followed — the kind that filled the air with the faint tremor of the unseen, a shift in pressure that made the flame of the nearby candle bend without wind.

Then Simon again, quieter this time. “You would use him.”

Nigel’s lips curved faintly. “No. I would let him think he’s using me.”

A stir passed through the others — disapproval rippling through translucent forms.

Soft sighs. Thin laughter. The murmurs of the long-dead arguing like old courtiers, their voices brushing against his skin like cobwebs.

“You trust too easily.”
“He’ll betray you.”
“He’s only flesh — weak, fleeting.”

“Maybe,” Nigel said, cutting across them. His voice lowered, not unkind. “But he’s still alive. You aren’t. That’s reason enough.”

The dead fell quiet, their shapes dimming at the edges — their light bleeding away until only Simon remained, his face half-shadow, half-glow.

“He’ll bring you trouble, young one.”

Nigel’s eyes drifted to where Alex slept on the floor, half-shrouded by shadow. His breathing was even, his face unguarded — too human, too alive.

“I know,” Nigel whispered.

Then softer, almost to himself, “That’s why I won’t let him leave.”

The silence after that wasn’t peace — it was consent.

The kind that came when the dead agreed out of fear, not faith.

As dawn broke faintly against the window, the last traces of them faded — leaving only the chill where they’d stood, and the faint echo of their obedience.

Before the last traces of the dead fully faded, Nigel caught a glimpse of Simon’s hand, pale and translucent, hovering just above the windowsill — then drifting slowly toward the sleeping Alex, as if testing the boy’s weight in the world. 

It lingered a heartbeat too long, a silent warning, before retreating into nothingness. Nigel blinked, the chill of it lingering, and turned back to the window, alone once more.

The morning light crept lazily across the tower, spilling through cracks in the shutters, thin and pale, revealing motes of dust dancing in the air.
 
Alex woke from sleep on the cold, hard floor. His body ached — not from the stone beneath him, but from the tension coiled in his chest that refused to ease. The sunlight filtered through the narrow window, landing across his eyes.

For a moment, he didn’t know where he was. Then he remembered the voice — calm, measured, dangerous.

Nigel.

Outside, servants moved quietly through the halls, their soft footsteps and hushed voices weaving through the early morning calm.

Alex pushed himself upright, muscles stiff from the cold floor, and glanced around the room.

Nigel was already awake, standing by the window, hands resting lightly on the sill as he looked out. 

There was no trace of fatigue on his face, though he must have been awake far longer than Alex.

For a moment, Alex just watched him in silence. The sunlight streaming through the narrow window caught in Nigel’s hair, turning it a muted gold, casting a pale glow across his skin. It was an unguarded sight — sharp lines softened by the light — and something about it made Alex’s chest tighten, though he couldn’t have said why.

Nigel didn’t seem to notice that Alex was awake — or perhaps he did, and simply chose not to acknowledge it. He stood motionless at the window, gaze fixed somewhere beyond the glass, lost in thought.

Alex studied him quietly, wondering what could hold his attention so completely — what thoughts could reach that far behind those pale, unreadable eyes.

He didn't understand why, since the moment he met Nigel, the fire in him never seemed to want to calm. It kept raging, burning brighter and brighter, demanding something that not even Alex knew.

He moved toward Nigel, each step careful, soundless against the cold stone. When he stopped behind him, the distance between them felt sharper than touch.

Nigel didn’t turn, yet a faint shift in his posture betrayed him — a stillness too careful to be natural. He knew he was being watched, and though he gave no sign of acknowledgment, a flicker of awareness passed between them — brief, electric, impossible to ignore.

“Finally awake?” Nigel asked, his voice calm, distant. He didn’t look back; his gaze stayed fixed on the window. He hadn’t slept much, if at all. Plans had filled the hours where dreams should have been.

Alex’s jaw tightened slightly. Something in Nigel’s tone — the quiet certainty, the faint edge of authority — made his pulse quicken with irritation and something else he didn’t want to name.

“I suppose you didn’t,” Alex said, his voice steady but low. “You don’t seem like the type to rest when you can obsess instead.”

That earned him the faintest tilt of Nigel’s head — a slow, deliberate motion, like a predator acknowledging noise from its prey.

“Sleep is for those who have the luxury of safety,” Nigel replied softly. “I haven’t had that in a long time.”

For a heartbeat, Alex almost said something — a retort, maybe, or a question. But the words caught in his throat. There was something about the way Nigel said it — something raw beneath the composure — that silenced him.

Nigel stood framed in the sunlight, its gold catching at the edges of his hair, and for the first time, Alex saw how alone he looked. Not the kind of alone that came from solitude, but the kind carved deep — the kind that lingered even when someone stood beside you.

He didn’t know why it hurt to look at him like that. But it did.

And beneath the ache, something else stirred — a sudden, quiet anger. Not at Nigel, but at whoever had made him this way. Whoever had carved that loneliness into him so deep it had become a part of his bones.

He didn’t understand any of these feelings; they were new, raw, and the cause of them stood right in front of him.

Alex forced himself to look away, to bury it all beneath practicality — there were still things to do, too many to waste time on what he couldn’t name.

He parted his lips to speak, but a sudden knock at the door froze him mid-breath. His pulse stumbled.

Nigel didn’t flinch. He turned with the same unhurried grace as if he had expected it, lifting a hand to gesture silently toward the closet.

Alex hesitated only for a second before moving. Nigel’s composure — that quiet, unshakable confidence — made the air feel thinner. He walked toward the far side of the room, his steps careful, the wood groaning faintly beneath his boots.

Nigel moved to the old wooden door, every motion deliberate, precise — a strange, regal grace in the way he carried himself. For a fleeting heartbeat, Alex caught himself admiring him: the posture, the calm, the poise of someone who had known power even in captivity.

Then Alex shook his head. Pathetic, he thought.

He slipped into the closet, the air thick with dust and faint traces of Nigel’s scent — parchment, herbs, something faintly metallic. Just before the door closed, he glanced once more toward Nigel.

Something had changed. The faint humanity in Nigel’s face vanished like a snuffed flame. His eyes turned cold, glassy, unreadable. Every hint of warmth drained away until what remained looked almost inhuman — a statue carved in the likeness of beauty and cruelty both.

And then the knock came again.

Alex pressed himself into the shadows of the small closet, knees pulled to his chest. Every sound from outside — a creaking floorboard, a low murmur, the faint clink of plates — made his pulse quicken. The small room in the tower seemed to shrink around him with each noise that came too close.

Nigel opened the door, and in the doorway stood a servant with a breakfast tray in her hands.

She didn’t look at him — they never did.

She quickly shoved her hands forward, urging Nigel to take the tray.

Nigel didn’t wait for her to speak; it was rare for a servant to address him at all. And when they did, it was only a word or two, whispered in fear.

He accepted the tray from her with a polite nod, his voice quiet, almost hesitant, as if he knew she wouldn’t want to hear it.

“Thank you.”

The girl didn’t wait. The moment he took the tray, she turned and hurried out of the room.

Nigel stood still for a moment, staring at the closed door. He could hear her sigh of relief even through the wood.

It was a small sound — but it struck him harder than he’d ever admit.
 
For a long moment, Nigel didn’t move.

The tray felt heavier in his hands than it should have.

That sigh — that small, terrified breath of relief — lingered in the air long after she was gone. It clung to the walls, to him.

He looked down at the tray in his hands. As always, it was two slices of stale bread and hard cheese. It was one of the luckier days; usually, it was just some moldy bread.

Even this — the simplest sustenance, offered with trembling hands — felt like a reminder of everything he had lost.

He set the tray down carefully, almost reverently, as though breaking the silence too abruptly might shatter something fragile inside him.

It never stopped stinging, no matter how often it happened. No matter how much he shut the world out, no matter how much he tried not to care for the living.

The way they avoided his eyes. The way they spoke to him only when they had to. The way even a thank you made them flinch. And the worst part — he understood it, but understanding didn’t make it hurt any less.

He’d learned to be gentle, to soften his voice, to never move too fast. As if carefulness could make them forget what he was.

It never did.

For a second, his composure faltered — just enough that his shoulders sank and his breath left him in a slow, soundless exhale. Then, as always, he straightened. The moment passed.

Alex’s gaze lingered on him, taking it all in: the stillness, the care with which he handled the tray, the faint ache in his posture.

It was a quiet kind of sorrow, and yet it was beautiful in a way Alex couldn’t name. 

Something about Nigel — the way he carried himself, the loneliness he bore so silently — made Alex’s chest ache and stirred feelings he wasn’t ready to understand.

From the closet, Alex saw only the outline of him — still, poised, beautiful in that terrible kind of way. Like a man built entirely of restraint.

Something twisted in Alex’s chest — a pulse of anger sharp enough to make him clench his fists.

He didn’t know who he was angry at. The servants? The people who made Nigel this way? Or Nigel himself, for accepting it so quietly?

He only knew that no one should look that alone.

Not even him.

Then, just before Nigel turned away from the door, his head tilted ever so slightly — not enough to see Alex, but enough to feel him.

For a breath, his expression softened, the faintest trace of something human and breakable surfacing through the calm.

Then it was gone, and the mask was back in place.

But Alex had seen it.

And that single, fleeting crack would stay with him far longer than either of them would admit.

Alex shifted in the shadows, fingers tightening around the closet doorframe. Part of him wanted to intervene, to offer some measure of aid. Part of him — a smaller, quieter part — wanted to see this boy, this enigma, move through the world.

Alex waited until the footsteps of the departing servant faded before easing the closet door open. The air in the room was heavy — a strange blend of parchment, iron, and something colder, something that seemed to hum beneath the surface.

Nigel didn’t startle when Alex emerged. He turned slowly, one hand still resting on the satchel. “You hide well,” he said quietly. “I almost forgot you were still here.”

Even the simplest sustenance had become a kind of ritual here. Nigel set the tray down on the small table with careful precision — two slices of stale bread, a thin slab of hard cheese.
 
It wasn’t much, but it was enough for now.

He glanced at Alex, still pressed into the corner of the room. “Sit,” he said quietly, nodding toward the other side of the table. His voice carried no warmth, but it wasn’t unkind either — just measured, deliberate, like everything else about him.

Alex hesitated. The bread looked… sad. But hunger outweighed hesitation. He moved closer, settling onto the floor, knees pulled up, eyes on Nigel.

Nigel broke one slice in half, handing one to Alex. His own hand lingered for a moment over the bread before picking up the other half.

They ate in silence. Each bite was slow, deliberate, and the quiet between them hummed with an unspoken tension — observation, measurement, curiosity. Alex stole glances at Nigel, noticing the pale light catching in his hair, the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the careful control in every movement.

Nigel didn’t look at him, didn’t ask questions. Yet there was a weight in that silence — an acknowledgment that, in this moment, they shared something human. Something fleeting.

When the bread was gone, Nigel set his slice down carefully, as though handling it too abruptly might shatter some invisible boundary. His hands lingered for a moment over the empty tray, and for a heartbeat, he seemed smaller, more vulnerable — a glimpse Alex wasn’t meant to see.

After that quiet, shared moment, Nigel began packing. His movements were methodical, almost ritualistic. A few worn books were stacked carefully, each one tied with thin leather straps.

His knife slid into its sheath at his belt. Small bundles of notes, vials, and tools — remnants of experiments, some old, some recent — were gathered and tucked into a canvas satchel. And there, at the center, lay the crown: gleaming faintly, heavy with promise, untouched and uncompromising.

Alex stood, rolling his shoulders. His eyes flicked to the satchel — the crown’s faint gleam visible through the half-open flap.
 
“You’re really taking that with you?”

“Would you leave it?” Nigel asked.

Alex’s lips twitched. “Fair point.”

Nigel set the bag down on the table. “I assume you have an idea for getting us out of this place. Unless your plan was to stay in my closet forever.”

“Not forever,” Alex said dryly. “Just until the guards change shift. I’ve watched their routes from the courtyard. The tower connects to the lower kitchens — if we move through there, we can reach the stables without being seen.”

Nigel regarded him for a long, quiet moment, as if measuring the truth in his words. “You’ve been inside the palace before?”

Alex hesitated — just for a breath — then said, “No. But I’ve studied enough from outside to know how it breathes.”

Nigel raised an eyebrow. “That’s supposed to make me feel better?”

Alex gave a faint grin. “It should. It means I’ve had time to think about how not to die in here.”

A faint smile touched Nigel’s mouth, humorless, tired. “That’s becoming a pattern between us.”

They fell into an uneasy silence. Nigel resumed sorting through his things, and Alex paced, restless, memorizing the pattern of the guards’ patrols from the window slit. 

When Alex turned away, Nigel’s movements grew quieter, more deliberate. He drew a small knife from his belt, the metal catching the light. 

A shallow cut along his palm — just enough for a few drops to fall onto the bag.

The blood shimmered faintly as the enchantment took hold, binding with the fabric. Only he would be able to open it — or someone he chose.

He flexed his fingers, wiping the blade clean against his sleeve, and the brief grimace that crossed his face wasn’t from pain. It was from necessity.

He couldn’t risk trust. Not yet. Not even with him.

Outside, the world had begun to turn golden, sunlight spilling over the courtyard stones. The sound of distant bells marked midmorning.

They both knew they’d have to wait until dark.

Chapter Text

Hours passed. The tower creaked softly. Sunlight shifted across the stone floors, dust motes drifting lazily in the beams. Nigel’s eyes remained distant, focused on nothing and everything at once, while Alex cleaned his blade, memorizing the faint clatter from below, the creak of doors opening and closing.

By midday, the servant returned with a narrow jug of water. No food, just water, poured into the same chipped cup Nigel had used for years. He drank slowly, deliberately, then looked at Alex.

“Here,” he said, tilting the cup. “You’ll need it.”

Alex hesitated, then took a careful sip. “Thanks.”

Nigel nodded, lips tight. “We both need what little energy we can get. Better keep it.”

They sat in silence for a long moment, the faint sound of water moving between them filling the empty space.

Evening brought the next tray: a thin bowl of watery broth and a single, hard slice of bread. Nigel set it down, breaking the bread in half. “One for you,” he said, handing a piece to Alex.

Alex looked at it. “You really think we’ll survive on this?”

Nigel shrugged, a ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “We’ll survive. That’s enough for now.”

They ate slowly, deliberately, sharing the small, insipid meal as though it were a ritual. Each bite was measured, and each sip of broth was cautious. For a moment, the tower felt less like a prison — a quiet, shared space where two people took what little the world offered and made it enough.

“Why do you share it?” Alex asked, finally, breaking the silence.

Nigel’s gaze lifted to meet his. “Because we need each other, even if the world doesn’t. Better that we face this hungry than alone.”

Alex nodded, letting the words sink in.

Night approached, heavy and silent. Candles flickered in the upper halls, casting long shadows over the floors. The palace had quieted; laughter from the kitchens had faded into the slow pulse of pre-curfew silence.

Nigel pushed the empty tray aside, eyes distant once more. “Rest while you can,” he said quietly. “We’ll move when it’s dark.”

Alex sheathed his blade and leaned back against the wall, watching the rain begin to patter against the tower windows. The hours had been slow, bland, and bitter, but in that small sharing of food and water, something fragile had passed between them — a recognition that neither would face the night entirely alone.

Hours dragged. Nigel read a book slowly, eyes distant, occasionally glancing toward Alex as though trying to decipher him. Alex, seated by the door, cleaned his blade and watched the sun shift across the floorboards. The tower creaked softly around them.

After a long silence, Alex spoke. “So,” he said, keeping his tone casual, “you live up here alone? Doesn’t seem like a place someone chooses.”

Nigel didn’t look up from his book. “Some of us don’t really want to be surrendered by other people,” he said mildly, turning a page. His tone carried just enough weariness to sound truthful — but not enough to be trusted.

Alex tilted his head. “That’s not the same as wanting to be locked away.”

A faint smile ghosted across Nigel’s mouth. “Isn’t it? Isolation’s just freedom with fewer illusions.”

Alex frowned slightly, watching him. “You say that like you’ve convinced yourself of it.”

Nigel finally looked up, the faintest amusement flickering in his eyes. “Does it matter?”

Alex watched him for a moment. “You’re good at not answering questions.”

“I prefer to answer only the important questions,” Nigel said evenly. Then, after a heartbeat,
 
“You strike me as someone who asks more than he should.”

“Maybe,” Alex said. “But I get better results that way.”

“Do you?” Nigel’s tone was light, almost teasing — but beneath it, something sharper moved.
 
“You’ve been watching me all day. Decided what I am yet?”

Alex hesitated, caught off guard by the reversal. “Still thinking about it.”

“Good,” Nigel said, closing the book softly. “Keep thinking.” He smiled faintly, but it never reached his eyes.

At one point, Nigel asked. “You said you’ve done worse. What did you mean?”

Alex looked up from his knife. “I meant I know what it takes to get out alive.”

Nigel tilted his head, studying him like an experiment he hadn’t yet decided the outcome of.
 
“You say that like you expect me to follow your lead.”

Alex gave a low, dry laugh. “I don’t expect anything from you.”

Nigel’s mouth curved in a faint, almost approving smile. “Good. Expectations tend to disappoint.”

When dusk finally came, the tower dimmed to amber and gray. Candles flickered in the upper halls; the clatter of dishes faded from the kitchens below. The rain began just before full dark — soft, steady, a veil over the city.

Alex unfolded a small, wrinkled parchment from his coat and spread it on the table. The lines were uneven, drawn from memory — hallways, stairwells, servant doors, escape routes.

Nigel leaned closer. Beyond the slit window, torchlight flared across the courtyards — more than before. Voices echoed faintly from below; the sound of boots striking stone carried farther than usual. The guards were moving in larger groups now, their routes overlapping, the rhythm of the palace tightened since the night of the theft.

Nigel’s eyes lingered on the crude map, then on Alex. “So,” he said quietly, “your grand plan involves sneaking past half the palace guard disguised as one of the people they ignore?”

Alex smirked faintly. “Exactly. No one looks twice at a servant — as long as you move quietly and carry yourself like you belong.”

He pointed to a faint, narrow line drawn across the lower edge of the parchment. “There’s an old servants’ passage under the east wing — it runs beneath the kitchens. If we reach it before the patrols loop back, we can get out through the garden wall.”

Nigel studied the map for a long moment, expression neutral. “You haven’t seen it?”

Alex shook his head. “No. But I’ve watched this place long enough to know how it breathes. There has to be a way through.”

Nigel’s lips twitched, almost imperceptibly. “There is,” he said finally. “It’s old, half-forgotten. I’ve walked these halls enough to know where things hide… even passages the living don’t remember.” He lies easily, not telling Alex that he hadn't left the tower for years, and all this knowledge was from the ghosts of the dead.

Alex frowned. “You knew about it?”

Nigel glanced at him, voice calm, detached. “I know a few things. Not that it matters. It’s just knowledge. Might help if someone were… interested.”

Alex tilted his head, unsure how much to press. “So you’ve been thinking about leaving?”

“Not thinking,” Nigel replied, his tone clipped. “Observing. The castle has patterns. One day, someone could use them. That’s all.”

He crossed the room and pulled a pile of worn servant garments from the trunk — coarse cloth dulled by age, cloaks smelling faintly of dust and candle smoke. “These will do,” he said, laying them beside the map.

Alex’s eyes lit up. “So we’ll dress the part. Servants of the kitchens, silent and unnoticed.”

Nigel shrugged. “Practicality. Nothing more. If you’re moving unseen, you dress to fit. That’s the first rule.”

He traced a route on the parchment with his finger. “The guards will be sharper tonight. Two patrols already doubled back — you can hear it in the rhythm of their steps. The kitchen changes watch at the second bell. That’s the window.”

Alex leaned over, studying the map. “You’ve thought this through.”

Nigel met his gaze, expression unreadable. “I’ve learned to notice things. That’s all anyone needs to survive.”

A silence stretched between them, tense but unspoken.

Alex straightened, tying his cloak. “Then we move at the second bell. Through the east wing passage.”

Nigel nodded, draping one of the rough cloaks over his shoulders — the same one he had worn the night he first learned to keep secrets. “Then let’s see if your luck and my observation can carry us through.”

Outside, the rain deepened, drumming softly against the tower walls. The palace below glimmered with scattered torchlight — restless, watchful, waiting.

Nigel leaned back, voice dry. “You’re remarkably confident for someone trespassing in a royal tower.”

“I’ve done worse,” Alex said. “And lived.”

Nigel studied him for a long moment — the steady eyes, the careful way he tied his cloak, every motion efficient, practiced. “You’re not doing this just for the crown,” he said quietly.

Alex’s jaw tightened. “Doesn’t matter why I’m doing it.”

“It does,” Nigel countered. “Because if I’m walking out of this tower with you, I want to know what you’re capable of when things go wrong.”

A pause. The candle flickered.

Alex finally said, “I’m capable of keeping us alive. That’s all you need to know.”

Something unreadable crossed Nigel’s face. Then he stood, pulling his cloak over his shoulders. 

“Then let’s test your confidence, thief.”

A long silence fell after their exchange, the candle flickering as the rain tapped against the window. Alex folded the map carefully, tucking it into his coat, while Nigel adjusted the rough cloak around his shoulders. 

Neither spoke; the weight of anticipation filled the space more than words ever could. Finally, Nigel gave a single, sharp nod. “Second bell. We move then.” Alex met his gaze, noting the unspoken agreement: no more discussion, no more hesitation. The castle waited, and so did they.

Alex moved through the narrow halls like a shadow, each step measured, each breath controlled. Behind him, Nigel followed, soundless but unmistakably present — the faint scuff of boots, the soft shift of his satchel against his side.

They reached the first locked door of the servant corridor. Alex crouched and examined the rusted latch, while Nigel fumbled in his satchel, pulling out a thin, flat tool. 

With quiet precision, Nigel lifted the latch, the lock clicking open with barely a whisper. The door creaked as it swung inward, but Alex held it gently, letting the sound die before they slipped through.

The corridor beyond was narrow, lined with old stone, damp, and smelling faintly of mold. Shadows clung to the walls. Alex led, fingers brushing the walls, listening. Nigel adjusted his satchel, keeping the bundle close to avoid snagging on broken beams. Every step was measured, deliberate.

Ahead, a faint murmur: a servant carrying a tray of dishes. Alex froze, pressing Nigel into the wall’s shadow. 

The tray rattled lightly, and the servant paused, head tilting as if sensing movement. Nigel’s hand tightened on the satchel, but neither breathed. After what felt like endless seconds, the servant shuffled away, humming softly, and Alex exhaled, motioning for Nigel to continue.

They reached the lower corridor, the one that led toward the old stables. Faint torchlight flickered from the upper floors, but down here, the world felt forgotten — untouched for years.

“Almost there,” Alex whispered, pausing at a corner. He glanced back, eyes adjusting to the dim.

Ahead, the heavy boots of a guard clattered on the stone floor, echoing unnervingly through the narrow corridor. Alex froze, pressing Nigel into the shadow of a pillar.

Nigel’s fingers clenched the satchel’s strap, and he felt the old cloak weigh heavier than usual, hiding him from sight but not from his racing heart. Don’t give him a reason to look closer, he thought. Just… keep still.

The guard’s torch swung dangerously near, illuminating the damp stones in a harsh golden wash. His eyes scanned the corridor, sharp, calculating.

“Evening,” the guard said, voice low but carrying, each syllable a test. “What are you two doing down here? Shouldn’t be wandering after curfew.”

Alex forced a calm tone, his voice steady, but every muscle coiled for a sudden run or duck. “Just… returning some supplies to the stables. Came down the back stairs.”

The guard’s gaze lingered on Nigel. The hood shadowed his face, but not completely — a pale chin caught the torchlight. Nigel felt a prickle of alarm crawl along his spine. Don’t move. Don’t speak unless necessary.

“And you?” the guard asked, nodding toward Nigel, his eyes narrowing.

Nigel’s voice was quiet, clipped, controlled — the words tasting like ash in his mouth. “Helping carry the sacks. Don’t want them to fall.”

The guard stepped closer, torch beam brushing Nigel’s cloak. Damn it, Nigel thought. 

One twitch, one breath wrong… 

His hand tightened on the satchel.

“You two better not linger,” the guard muttered, the edge in his tone sharpening into a promise of trouble. “The third bell is near. Keep moving.”

Alex inclined his head, swallowing the tension that clawed at his chest. “Of course, thank you.”

As the guard’s boots echoed away, Nigel exhaled silently, heart thundering in the hollow of his chest. He adjusted the hood again, lowering his gaze, letting the shadow swallow his features.
 
Almost had us, he thought. One more second and we’d be in big trouble.

Alex waited, chest tight, letting the pulse of the corridor calm before signaling forward. One slip, one question too many… and it’s over before it begins, he reminded himself, eyes scanning the next stretch for any sign of movement, any unexpected shadow.

They moved again, slower now, each footfall deliberate, ears straining for anything — a creak, a whisper, the soft clink of distant chains — until the corridor twisted toward the east wing passage.
 
Alex led them down a winding corridor, stopping at a heavy door that blocked the way to the east wing passage. Nigel knelt briefly, using his satchel to pull out a small, worn key he had gotten from the ghost of a long-dead servant. 

The lock resisted at first, but with gentle persistence, it turned, and the door swung open. Damp air washed over them, carrying the scent of earth and old stone.

The tunnel beyond was narrow and uneven. Alex moved first, crouching low, and Nigel followed, his satchel brushing the ceiling beams, careful not to make a sound. 

The passage twisted, and they had to pause multiple times as they heard the distant shuffle of patrolling guards and the occasional creak of floorboards above. Each time, they held their breath, pressed against the cold stone, and counted steps until it was safe to move again.

Finally, they reached the archway that led to the stables. Alex peeked out, scanning the courtyard. A few dozing horses shifted, and one guard moved lazily along the far wall. Alex motioned Nigel forward, and they slipped out, each footstep silent against the wet cobblestones.

Nigel’s satchel swung lightly against his side, every movement precise. The open air smelled of rain and hay, and for a brief moment, the tension eased just enough to let them continue.

Nigel stood a few paces behind, his pale eyes catching what little light there was — unearthly, reflective, wrong. Alex’s chest tightened.

“You’ll need to cover those,” Alex murmured. “Before we go outside.”

Nigel frowned slightly. “Because of… the eyes?”

“Because people talk,” Alex said simply. “Because I don’t want to draw a crowd before we even leave the gates.”

Because people stare. Because people fear anything they don’t understand — and fear turns ugly faster than fire.

He swallowed down the thought.

Nigel’s jaw tensed. “I don’t—”

“Trust me,” Alex cut in, pulling a strip of dark cloth from his pocket. He kept his voice flat, practical — easier than letting the real thought slip out: that he’d seen what people did to anyone who looked ‘wrong,’ even children.

That he’d be damned if he let them turn those looks on Nigel.

Not that he cared. Not really. Just… logistics. Safety. Practicality.

That’s what he told himself.

But still — a quiet ember of anger burned low in his stomach at the idea of anyone hurting Nigel for something he couldn’t change.

“It’s temporary,” he added, softer despite himself. “Just until we’re clear.”

For a long, suspended moment, neither moved. Nigel stood perfectly still, heart hammering against a cage of ribs he hadn’t realized could feel this exposed. He hadn’t let anyone this close, not for a decade. Not since the tower became his world and his walls.

Alex could feel the resistance in the air — not pride exactly, but the weight of a lifetime without anyone close enough to touch him. He reminded himself to be careful, to move deliberately, because Nigel’s calm was like ice over water; one wrong gesture could shatter it.

When Alex finally stepped forward, the space between them shrank to a breath.

He reached up, carefully wrapping the cloth around Nigel’s eyes. The faint warmth of his fingers brushed skin that had gone untouched for years — cold, unaccustomed, startled.

Nigel’s pulse jumped; every nerve screamed in alert, yet he forced himself to inhale, to stay rigid. Vulnerability was alien, and the feeling stung sharper than any blade.

Nigel didn’t flinch, but something flickered in his breath. A tension loosened, just slightly, though he would never admit it aloud. He felt an unspoken acknowledgment passing between them, fragile and fleeting, that he was letting someone guide him.

Alex tied the knot gently at the back of his head. “There,” he said quietly. “No one will notice you now.”

Nigel exhaled slowly. “It’s… disorienting.” Disorienting, yes, but also… unnervingly intimate. The world had narrowed to the sound of Alex’s voice and the press of the cloth over his eyes. 

He didn’t like it. And yet, part of him felt… safer than he had in years.

“Good,” Alex said with a faint, wry smile. “Means you’ll actually have to trust me.”

He noted the smallest shift in Nigel’s posture, a silent acknowledgment, and his chest eased slightly. This was a start, he reminded himself.

A first step in coaxing the boy out of his isolation.

A faint, humorless sound escaped Nigel — something close to a laugh, more exhale than voice. “That’s not something I’ve done in a long time.” 

Not something he had ever allowed himself to do willingly. It left him feeling raw, exposed, yet… alive.

“Then start small,” Alex said. “Follow my lead.”

They slipped into the courtyard, the moonlight catching on damp cobblestone. The stables loomed ahead — half-rotted wood and the soft, sleepy shuffle of hooves. 

The horses stirred as Alex approached. He whispered to them in a steady tone, practiced and calm, and the chestnut gelding leaned forward to sniff his hand.

Nigel lingered behind, one hand brushing against the wall to orient himself. The air shifted around him, colder, sharper. Somewhere deep in that dark, something moved — a whisper only he could hear.

You’re leaving, little prince.

The voice slid through his mind like smoke. Nigel’s fingers froze on the doorframe. He didn’t respond. He had learned long ago that answering the dead only made them louder.

Alex glanced over his shoulder. “You alright?”

“Fine,” Nigel murmured, shaking his head slightly. “Go on.”

Alex mounted the chestnut gelding with practiced ease, then turned to Nigel. “You can take the black mare. She’s quick, but calm. Just… be gentle.”

Nigel stepped toward the animal, hand outstretched. The mare’s ears twitched, and she shied back a step, nostrils flaring. He tried again, slower this time, whispering under his breath as if the calm might reach her. But the air around him shifted colder, heavier. The horse’s muscles bunched, her eyes rolled white — and with a shriek, she reared, hooves slamming against the ground.

“Nigel—!”

Too late. The reins snapped from his grip, and the mare bolted into the dark, vanishing into the mist beyond the wall. Nigel stumbled back, breath sharp.

Alex swore under his breath, swung down from his own saddle, and caught Nigel’s arm. “You really can’t ride, can you?”

Nigel’s voice was tight. “Apparently not.”

The faintest smile tugged at Alex’s mouth despite the chaos. “Figures. You’ll ride with me, then.”

“I don’t—”

“Too bad,” Alex interrupted, already pulling him closer. “We don’t have time to wait for your horse to forgive you.”

He guided Nigel’s hand to the saddle, his own arm firm around the other’s back. Nigel tensed at the contact — the unfamiliar warmth of someone steadying him. His breath caught. The last person who had touched him without flinching had been… he didn’t remember.

Alex swung up first, then tugged Nigel up behind him. The movement was clumsy, awkward. Nigel’s blindfold brushed his shoulder; his hands gripped Alex’s waist, tentative at first, then tightening almost desperately as the horse shifted beneath them.

“Hold on,” Alex murmured, voice close to his ear. “You fall, I’m not going after you.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Nigel replied, his tone quiet, but there was a flicker of something else beneath it — tension, restraint, something dangerously close to feeling.

They moved. The gelding’s hooves struck the cobblestones softly, steady and sure.

The night air clung to them, cold and alive. Alex led them down narrow paths between old stone walls, the faint echo of water somewhere below the city. Nigel’s breath was even against his shoulder, unnervingly calm now, though his pulse still betrayed the tremor of adrenaline and something deeper — something he refused to name.

 A stir of life he hadn’t felt in years pressed into the warmth of another human being.

Behind the blindfold, Nigel’s world was darkness, sound, and the rhythm of Alex’s voice — soft commands, measured breaths, the occasional muttered curse when the horse stumbled on loose rock.

He felt every movement — the rise and fall of Alex’s lungs, the steady press of his body against his own. He didn’t understand why it steadied him, only that it did.

And when the first wind of freedom brushed against his face — cold, real, unfiltered by stone — Nigel felt something inside him stir. Not joy. Not peace. Something older. Something like life.

The crown remained packed in his satchel, heavy as fate. But for that brief stretch of night, with Alex’s heartbeat steady beneath his hands and the city falling away behind them, Nigel almost forgot the weight of it — and the dead went silent for a while.

The gelding’s hooves struck soft against the cobblestones, their rhythm swallowed by the rain. Alex kept his body low over the horse’s neck, eyes darting through the sheets of water.

Alex’s hand was steady on the reins, the other braced against Nigel’s thigh to keep him balanced. The blindfold hadn’t loosened, though the wind kept tugging at it; every breath Nigel took smelled of wet leather and fear.

Behind him, Nigel clung tight, blindfolded still, his breath ragged against Alex’s shoulder. Every rise and fall of the horse sent a tremor through him — not fear of the beast, but the awareness of how exposed they were.

He could feel everything — the heartbeat of the beast beneath him, the echo of the rain on the walls, the faint hum of the spirits drifting at the edges of perception. The dead did not sleep, and neither did his awareness.

“Stay close,” Alex whispered. “We’ll ride straight through the service gate — it’s unguarded this time of night.”

Nigel didn’t answer. His fingers only tightened on Alex’s coat, knuckles pale under the rain. He hated this blind trust. Hated it — and yet, beneath it, something older stirred. 

The world of the living was all noise and color and chaos. The world he knew — the silent, listening dark — was calm. Controlled.

The faint echo of voices whispering through the storm, low and indistinct. Not yet, they murmured. Wait for the bell.

He almost smiled. They always knew.

They passed under the north gate. The rain did the rest — a curtain between them and the watchtowers. Alex’s mind ran quick calculations: angles of light, rhythm of patrols, the soft glow of lanterns swaying in the wind. Every time he thought they’d made it clean, a torch would flare where it shouldn’t.

“Left,” he hissed. The horse obeyed, slick mud spattering their boots.

Nigel tensed. He shouldn’t have trusted him this easily. He barely knew the man — thief, liar, trickster. But Alex had been right so far. Too right. And somewhere between the storm and the pounding of hooves, that truth pressed close, uncomfortable.

The gelding stumbled once on the slick stones; Alex’s arm shot back instinctively, steadying him.

 “Easy. Just hold on.”

They thundered through the last archway and onto the outer path. The palace walls loomed behind — tall, black, and cold against the lightning. Alex reined the horse to a canter, guiding them along the hedgerow where the torchlight broke and shadows deepened. Every few strides, he glanced back, scanning for movement.

“They’ll find the empty stalls soon,” Alex muttered. “We’ll have to cut through the gardens, then the east gate.”

Nigel’s jaw tensed. No, not the east, a voice whispered faintly, curling like smoke through his mind. The north road. The guard sleeps there.

He hesitated — then spoke, careful, quiet. “Go north. The ground’s firmer. Faster that way.”

Alex half turned, surprised. “North? That leads toward the barracks.”

“Trust me,” Nigel said, his tone cool — too certain for someone blindfolded. He didn’t have to see — the whispers painted the map for him in sound and cold.

Alex frowned but adjusted the reins without arguing. “All right. North it is.”

They rode hard across the sodden grass, the rain masking the drumming of hooves. Behind them, a bell rang once — the first alarm. Alex swore under his breath, leaning forward. “We’ve got minutes.”

But Nigel’s pulse steadied. The dead never lied. The bell was permission. The way forward had just opened.

He felt the air shift — faint ripples in the world as the restless spirits near the stables turned, curious. Not warning him. Helping.

Keep them busy, he thought, not aloud. The whisper that followed was almost fond. As you wish, young one.

Far behind, a stall door slammed. A shout followed, then another — guards drawn off in the wrong direction. Alex laughed under his breath. “Hah! Lucky break.”

Nigel said nothing. He could feel them moving now — the dead — drifting through walls and rain, pulling sound and light astray. His allies. His family.

They reached the north road just as the lightning flared. Alex slowed the gelding, scanning the way ahead — open field, a line of trees, and the glint of the drainage channel by the far wall.

“We’re almost through,” he said. “We take the ditch, then—”

A lantern flared suddenly to their right. A guard on patrol.

“Stop!” the man shouted, sword half drawn.

Alex’s heart lurched. He yanked the reins, turning hard, the horse sliding on wet mud. The guard ran forward — then froze mid-step. His face went pale, eyes fixed on something in the dark behind them.

Nigel felt it before Alex saw it — a wave of cold sweeping through the air, the kind that silenced the world. The whisper of presence. They’d answered his call.

The guard’s face drained of color. His sword clattered to the ground as he stared into the dark behind them, whispering a prayer to something that wasn’t listening.

“What the hell—” Alex muttered. “He saw something.”

Nigel’s voice was flat. “No. He didn’t.”

Alex stared at him for a heartbeat, then urged the horse forward again. The lantern’s flame sputtered and died.

They galloped through the gap in the wall, the rain turning to mist as they hit the open road.

 Behind them, the palace bells began to wail in earnest.

“Two hours to Branthorpe,” Alex said, breathless, glancing back once. “If the horses hold, we’ll make it by dawn.”

Nigel didn’t answer. The whispers receded now, faint but content. He could feel their distance — like a mother’s hand letting go. They’d done their part.

The wind tore at his soaked blindfold, cold and raw. He tilted his face into it, breathing deep. The air tasted alive.

Unfamiliar.

Alex slowed to a steady trot once the road leveled, the forest pressing close on either side. “Not bad for a night’s work,” he said, half a grin in his voice. “You didn’t scream once. Impressive.”

Nigel gave a quiet, humorless huff. “Wasn’t planning to.”

“Still,” Alex said, glancing back at him, “for someone who can’t see, you’ve got good instincts. North road, right call. I’ll give you that.”

Nigel kept his expression blank. “Luck.”

Alex chuckled. “Then remind me never to gamble against your kind of luck.”

The road curved ahead, vanishing into mist. Behind them, the palace lights faded — nothing but memory now.

For the first time in years, Nigel breathed without walls pressing close. He felt the hum of life all around him — insects, rain, heartbeats — and beneath it, the faint echo of those who had followed him this far. The dead did not fade. They waited. Always.

Alex leaned forward slightly, voice low over the rain. “Once we hit the town, we’ll find shelter. You can take the blindfold off then.”

Nigel nodded, though he already knew what waited beyond the next bend — he’d heard it whispered minutes ago, faint as a sigh.

Safe now. For a while.

He closed his eyes beneath the soaked cloth, letting the rhythm of the horse and the faint breath of the dead carry him forward — into a world that had forgotten him, and that he had never truly left.