I sat in the high window, leaning against the wall as I listened to the gossip around the palace. It was strange to sit in the library and not page through the books, but I no longer saw a reason too. Sometimes Yssac would come in, muttering to himself as he searched for more information, but we all knew the letter was our best hope of finding the truth. For my part, the library was the one place I felt safe relaxing my control, and I shifted as my scales rubbed against the wood.
The servant gossip had been frantic and constant since Caspian’s return, which considering what Isadora had told me about Thorne, made sense. Just like her, almost all of them seemed to think Caspian had the same illness, and that terrified them. From what I could tell, it wasn’t just because he was the Crown Prince, but because Caspian had always been the immovable stone in every crisis. To hear of him unraveling, lashing out in fits of fury or lying motionless for hours like a corpse that hadn’t caught up with its own death, sent a tremor through the halls that had seen the same thing happen in the former prince.
“I heard he hasn’t been lucid since he returned,” the maids were outside, gathering up the laundry ahead of the afternoon rains. I couldn’t see them from my window, but they were the easiest to hear, since they had a habit of not whispering while outside. “Even the prince had moments when he was normal. I still have the rock he painted for me.”
“Oh my, maybe Caspian is more of a risk? They say some people can handle disease better than others,” another offered, her tone light and uncertain, like she wasn’t sure if she was being hopeful or stupid. “Maybe he is just… burning through it faster.”
“Or maybe it’s not the same thing at all,” a third voice added, sharper than the others. “I mean, His Highness fought that beast, didn’t he? Who knows what it did to him before it died.”
The others murmured in agreement and I sighed, allowing my focus to wander to see what else I could hear. Some of the servants were complaining about the heat, arguing that it was the unusually warm summer that was making things worse for Caspian. I couldn’t argue against it; the summer heat was frustrating for me as well, especially since I didn’t have my tail yet. Since my body ran hotter than a human’s, my tail was my way of regulating my temperature; it pulled the heat away when I started to get too hot. Caspian, who was older and more developed than I was, would be suffocating under the weight of his own body if his control slipped even the smallest amount.
A faint breeze slipped through the window, and I tilted my head against the stone, my horns brushing the cool frame as I closed my eyes. New set of voices drifted toward me, a pair of maids walking past the library.
“Did you hear? Those merchants have been sending gifts almost every day since Caspian got back.”
“That beast must have been frightening! After all, only Caspian returned and he is struggling to recover.”
“Yes, but the duke has been silent. He merely attends the court meetings and hasn’t even offered his gratitude for Caspian saving his business,” one of the maids huffed, clearly feeling indignant on Caspian’s behalf. “I mean, I suppose his son is still recovering from his injuries, but you would think he would thank the person who saved his livelihood.”
“Still? That boy is locked up at home. Only Amalia visits him, the poor dear. If she wasn’t so blinded by love, she’d find a better man to marry,” the older one clicked her tongue and I frowned, staring off toward the encroaching clouds. If only it was love that bound Amalia to Seymour. “Perhaps he is waiting to thank the prince in person. After all, all the gifts are merely gathering dust as Caspian recovers.”
“Or he’s waiting for him to die,” I muttered under my breath, the conversation fading as the women continued discussing the duke’s lack of action. Why send thanks when he was certain Caspian would pass away? I had no doubt he likely had an excuse ready if someone tried to point out the strangeness of his indifference, and I shifted in the window, listening for another bit of useful gossip.
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
“Cyran?” I sat up quickly, surprised as I suddenly heard Tritetia’s voice. I glanced down to see her closing the door to the library, looking up to see me in the window. How in the world had she managed to approach the library without me hearing her? “Are you alright? I haven’t seen you since…”
Tritetia’s voice trailed off and she glanced down at her hands, fingers tightening around the hem of her sleeves. The fabric wrinkled under her grip, but her voice stayed soft, almost drowned out by the whisper of wind curling through the window.
“I’m fine,” I said, my tone flat and sharper than it needed to be. I leaned back against the stone, angling my body just enough that I wasn’t looking directly at her anymore. “I’m listening.”
“Listening?”
“Yes. Servants gossip.” I closed my eyes as I focused on the noise in the palace, doing my best to ignore Tritetia’s presence again. She didn’t smell like the sea, which meant she had her body under control, but that other unfamiliar scent was still there, mixing with the ambient scent of the books. It wasn’t distracting, but I didn’t like that I still couldn’t place why her scent had changed.
After a moment, I heard as Tritetia moved below me and to my surprise, she sat against the wall below me instead of leaving. She didn’t make any further attempts to talk, but her quiet didn’t feel like surrender. I exhaled, slow and even, listening as the last few maids outside folded up their chatter and disappeared back inside with their laundry. Yet for some reason, Triteia’s breathing was something I couldn’t ignore.
It was calm and even, with no hint of her usual hesitation. For a moment, I considered telling her to leave; if she just wanted someone to be around, there were plenty of maids who would have loved to have her company. But the words didn’t come, and a strange silence stretched between us, not awkward, just… uninvited. She didn’t move, and didn’t attempt to speak, she just sat silently below me.
“There was a painting,” Tritetia suddenly said, her voice barely above a whisper.. “In the guest room.”
I blinked. “What?”
“In the room you gave me. It was behind the wardrobe—I don’t think anyone knew it was still there. The servants didn’t mention it when they brought my pool in,” she added, her voice oddly neutral, like she wasn’t sure if she should’ve brought it up. “It’s old. It… was rolled up in a tube but… I thought you should see it.”
I heard as she pulled something from her dress and my curiosity got the better of me. I exhaled and slid from the window, letting my boots hit the floor with a dull thud. My scales shifted slightly beneath my shirt as I moved, the cool air brushing over the ridges on my arms. I shook my head to dismiss my horns and scales, allowing the gossip to fade from my ears.
“Show me.”
Tritetia carefully walked over to one of the tables, and I watched as she opened the tube, a slight plume of dust escaping as she gently coaxed the old canvas free. It was thicker than I expected, the paint slightly cracked at the edges but still preserved well enough to make out every detail. Tritetia didn’t try to flatten it entirely—just held it at the corners, letting the weight of it settle enough for me to see.
It was a portrait, nothing grand in scale, but intimate—clearly meant for someone’s private quarters rather than a public gallery. The boy in the painting looked young, maybe six or seven, draped in a muted blue coat lined with silver thread, standing in front of what looked like a faded balcony view of Arvendon’s skyline. His expression was soft but uncertain, like someone had asked him to smile and he wasn’t sure how. But it was his face that made the breath catch in my throat.
It looked… a lot like mine. The shape of his jaw, the slight slant to his eyes, even the hint of unease in his posture—it was all familiar in a way that made my skin crawl. The only real difference was his hair. Not black like mine, but bronze—striking, metallic even, as though the painter had used fine threads of copper rather than pigment. It shimmered unnaturally even in the dim library light.
“I… figured it must be…”
“Thorne,” I interrupted, my eyes still dancing over the image. If this was Isadora’s half brother, no wonder the Empress had seen him in me. She must have felt like her son was suddenly standing in front of her again, as if he had somehow never died. But why did he look like me instead of them? “I–”
The doors to the library slammed open, and both Tritetia and I jumped as Yssac panted in the open doorway. His dirty blond clung to his face from sweat, as if he had sprinted across the palace grounds to reach mine and then find me in the library. But my eyes were quickly drawn to what he held in his hand.
“Is that–”
“It is,” Yssac confirmed, taking a moment to get himself together as he closed the doors. It was finally time for some answers, and we both quickly huddled around Yssac, the painting forgotten as we focused on the present.
