The palace gardens were warded—layered with old enchantments that shimmered faintly at dusk, woven generations ago to keep intruders out and magic contained. No commoner could cross the iron gates without a royal sigil. No sorcerer could breach the barrier without setting half the court’s alarms screaming.

Yet there he was.

Barefoot in the reflecting pool.

Alaric stood rigid at the top of the marble steps, hand resting on the pommel of his ceremonial sword. The evening court had just ended; nobles still lingered in the colonnades behind him, perfumed and whispering. Torches burned gold against the indigo sky.

In the center of the pool, a boy about his own age—perhaps nineteen—stood ankle-deep in water that should have been still.

It wasn’t.

The surface rippled outward from him in slow, luminous circles, glowing faintly blue. Tiny lights drifted upward like drowned stars rising to breathe.

The guards hadn’t noticed yet.

Alaric descended the steps alone.

“Who let you in?” he demanded, voice sharpened by years of command.

The boy looked up.

His eyes were the color of stormglass—clear and almost translucent in the torchlight. His dark hair clung damply to his temples, though there had been no rain.

“No one,” the boy said simply.

The water lifted at his feet as he stepped forward, not splashing but rising to meet him, shaping itself around his ankles like something alive.

Alaric felt the wards tremble.

Magic was outlawed in the kingdom. Not quietly discouraged—eradicated. His father had built his reign on that promise after the Sorcerer’s Revolt scorched half the countryside. Anyone born with power was to be surrendered to the Crown for “containment.”

Alaric had signed three containment orders himself.

“You’re aware this is treason,” Alaric said, though the words felt thinner than they should have.

The boy tilted his head slightly. “Is it still treason if I was born inside your walls?”

The world seemed to tilt with him.

“What?” Alaric stepped closer despite himself. “That’s impossible.”

“I was raised in the lower ward,” the boy replied. “In the servants’ quarters. My mother worked in the kitchens. I learned early how to hide.”

As if to demonstrate, the glow in the water dimmed until it looked almost ordinary again.

Almost.

Alaric searched his memory. He had grown up surrounded by faces that bowed and blurred together. Servants were movement without identity.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Alaric said quietly.

“I didn’t come for the gardens.”

The boy stepped fully out of the pool. The water followed for a heartbeat, clinging like liquid glass before slipping back into stillness. His clothes—simple linen, worn at the cuffs—remained impossibly dry.

“I came because the wards are failing,” he said. “And when they collapse, they won’t just keep magic out.”

Alaric’s jaw tightened. “You expect me to believe that?”

“I expect you’ve already noticed.”

Alaric had. The palace wards had flickered twice in the past month. The court mages—what few remained in royal service—had blamed “atmospheric disturbances.” His father had dismissed it.

The boy’s gaze didn’t waver. “There’s something building beyond the northern forest. Something older than your father’s laws.”

A shout echoed from the colonnade—guards finally spotting movement.

Alaric made a decision that would haunt him later.

“Run,” he snapped under his breath.

The boy blinked. “Your Highness?”

“Now.”