The marble floor was cold beneath Silvain’s bruised feet, the polished white streaked faintly with the grime of his chains. Every step the guards forced him to take echoed through the silent halls of the royal palace—a sound that once belonged to his silk shoes, not to the dragging shuffle of a prisoner’s stride. His wrists were raw, his back burned from lashes, and yet his chin remained slightly lifted, as if he refused to surrender the last shreds of nobility still clinging to him.

This had been his final audience—a last, pathetic attempt to sway the king’s mercy. But the monarch had not even let him speak more than a few words before waving him away like a failed court jester. Silvain hadn't expected forgiveness, but the sharp humiliation of it—being nothing, being beneath attention—cut deeper than any blade they’d used on him in the dungeons.

The guards gripped him harder as they turned a corner, forcing him to quicken his pace. He could already see the stairwell that would drag him down—back into rot, back into shadow.

And then she appeared.

From the golden corridor beyond, she glided into view like a living flame. Draped in intricate gold, each piece of her armor glimmered with soft firelight. Her hair was braided and adorned with delicate filigree and chains, every step she took a composition of grace and quiet power. Her gaze was calm, but carried weight—a presence used to being obeyed.

Silvain froze.

So did the guards.

The woman raised a single hand, and without a word, the two soldiers halted. Her eyes settled on Silvain with interest—not disgust, not pity. Just sharp, unblinking curiosity.

“Who is this man?” she asked, her voice low and resonant like honey poured over steel.

“Traitor to the crown, Highness,” one of the guards said. “Former noble. He stood before His Majesty earlier. He is to be returned to the lower dungeons.”

She did not respond immediately. Her gaze lingered on Silvain’s face—taking in the dark bruises, the torn collar of his once-fine shirt, the quiet defiance still burning behind his tired eyes.

Then, with effortless authority, she said, “Do not take him back.”

The guards shifted uncomfortably.

“Your Highness, we were instructed—”

“I said,” she interrupted smoothly, “wait. Here. I shall speak with the king.”

And just like that, she turned and disappeared through the throne room’s gilded doors, leaving behind the scent of lilies and warm metal.

Silvain stood still, chest rising and falling, not understanding what had just happened.

The guards did not look at him. They simply kept hold of his chains and obeyed.

Time passed in slow heartbeats.

Ten minutes. Then fifteen. The guards began to murmur to each other, unsure.

Then, the sound of footsteps returned—not hers, but a steward in dark robes, his eyes wide and uncertain. He stopped before them, cleared his throat.

“Orders from His Majesty,” he said. “This prisoner is not to be returned to the dungeons.”

Silvain raised an eyebrow faintly despite himself.

The steward continued, “He is to be taken to the chambers of Her Highness, Princess Calithea of Caerleon. Effective immediately.”

The guards exchanged a stunned glance.

“Her chambers?” one asked.

“Yes,” the steward repeated with an edge of finality. “He is to serve her directly. In whatever capacity she deems fit.”

Silvain’s breath caught. He didn’t speak, didn’t trust his voice. He simply allowed himself to be turned around and guided in a different direction—away from the prison halls and toward the golden-lit corridors of the palace's upper floors