The prince returned to the guest wing the next morning.
I heard him before I saw him.
His steps weren't loud, but they didn't try to hide. Confident, but not sharp. The kind of presence that was used to walking where it pleased.
I kept my eyes down. The floor still needed polishing. One more lap with the cloth, and I could move to the windows.
He stopped behind me.
"You missed a spot," he said softly.
I looked up.
His smile was faint, but not cruel. He gestured at a patch of marble near my knee — a smear I hadn't seen.
He crouched.
"I can help."
"No," I said quickly, voice too sharp. "You can't."
His eyebrows lifted.
"I mean — you don't have to."
"I know."
He took the cloth anyway.
And rubbed the floor beside me.
The silence between us stretched again — not awkward. Just real. Solid.
"I'm not supposed to talk to you," I said after a while.
"Why not?"
"You're the son of an empire. I'm…"
I didn't finish.
He didn't press.
"Does it hurt?"
I blinked. "What?"
"Not being allowed to speak."
His voice was calm. Curious. Not mocking.
"I don't know," I said. "I stopped trying a long time ago."
When we finished, he stood and brushed the dust from his knees.
"You should come to the garden later," he said.
"I can't."
"Not even if I ask?"
"I'm not allowed."
"Then come when no one's looking."
I should've said no.
I didn't.
The garden was different than I remembered.
Cleaner. Warmer. The trees hadn't bloomed in years, but now their branches looked less brittle. Less afraid.
The prince was waiting near the old well, robes loose around his shoulders. Sunlight caught in his hair — too warm for this part of the world.
He didn't speak when I approached.
Just looked at me like I belonged there.
And that scared me more than anything.
We sat beneath the shade of a dying tree.
He offered me fruit from a silver plate the guards had left nearby.
I shook my head.
He ate slowly. Without comment.
After a while, he asked:
"Why do they keep you here?"
I said nothing.
He didn't need an answer.
"I asked one of the ministers," he continued. "She told me you were cursed. That your blood wasn't pure."
He glanced at me.
"That's a lie, right?"
"…I don't know."
"Why do you let them treat you like this?"
I didn't answer.
He sighed and leaned back against the tree.
"I don't like this place," he said.
"Then why did you come?"
"Because the empress told me to," he said. "And because there's something here that doesn't belong in the dark."
I turned my head.
He was looking at me again.
Not with pity.
Not with desire.
Just… light.
That night, I lay awake for a long time.
I didn't think of his words.
I thought of the way he looked at me.
Like I was something whole.
Like I could be.
I heard the whisper after midnight.
Soft.
Like silk on stone.
It wasn't a voice. Not exactly.
Just a pressure behind my eyes.
Like a hand hovering above my shoulder.
I sat up.
No one was in the room.
But I could feel it.
Something brushing the edge of thought.
Not cold.
Not kind.
Just present.
The window had been sealed since last season.
The guards didn't patrol this hall anymore.
I stood, slowly, and walked to the edge of the room.
Nothing.
Only silence.
But it wasn't empty.
Not anymore.
I didn't sleep.
The next day, I was reassigned to the great hall.
Not to clean.
To stand.
To serve.
The visiting dignitaries would be presenting gifts to the queen and king.
All ceremonial. All staged.
The MC — me — would be present, but silent.
An ornament.
A forgotten son dressed in black, hands folded at the base of the dais.
Kael hadn't appeared in days.
I hadn't seen his mask since the last ritual.
I thought maybe he was gone.
But when I stepped into the hall, I felt the weight shift.
Subtle.
The kind of shift that doesn't come from bodies.
But from sight.
He was watching.
I didn't know how I knew.
I just did.
The prince entered with his entourage.
He wore silver again.
But the robe was darker this time — embroidered with threads that shimmered when the light moved.
He smiled at me once before bowing to the queen.
She ignored it.
The king nodded faintly.
Kael wasn't there.
But the weight was.
Heavy.
Distant.
Like a gaze anchored in bone.
The prince stepped forward after the final offering.
There was a long pause before he spoke.
"I have one more gift," he said.
The court stilled.
The queen raised a brow.
"I wish to offer a private audience," he said, "with the Hollow."
The silence cracked.
You could hear it.
Not in sound — in breath.
Every noble turned.
Every eye shifted.
The queen's fingers twitched once, then stilled.
The king said nothing.
No one did.
Except me.
I bowed my head.
And stepped forward.
The room felt colder as I passed the threshold.
Not because of fear.
Because of something else.
Absence.
A silence that wasn't mine.
The prince walked beside me.
He didn't speak.
He didn't touch me.
He just walked.
And every step felt heavier than the last.
When we reached the garden again, he turned to me.
"They don't deserve you," he said.
"I don't belong to anyone."
He frowned.
"Not yet," he said.
That night, I found something on my bed.
A slip of paper.
No seal. No ink.
But when I held it to the light, a symbol revealed itself.
A mark I didn't recognize.
Not royal.
Not sacred.
It pulsed, faintly.
Warm.
Then cold.
I tucked it beneath the mattress.
And didn't tell anyone.
Somewhere far below, behind stone and smoke, a pool of still water rippled.
Kael stood over it, hands folded.
The mirror glowed faintly — not with light, but shadow.
The spell was complete.
He had seen everything.
The way the prince looked at him.
The way the boy stepped forward.
The way he didn't flinch.
Didn't cry.
Didn't say Kael's name.
Kael didn't speak.
But the mirror cracked.
And the silence that followed was deeper than before.