The silence between them burned like a coal.

  Kael was breathing hard, fists clenched, unable to contain the anger still roaring inside him.

  But this time, Maria didn’t lower her eyes.

  She looked at him—really looked.

  And in her gaze, there was no softness left. Only exhaustion, and that quiet, heavy anger.

  “Do you want to know something, Kael?” she snapped.

  “You think you’re the only one who suffers? The only one who sees the injustice?”

  He opened his mouth, but she stood up, took a step forward, and shoved him in the chest with a firm hand.

  Not violently—just the kind of gesture that spills when a person is overflowing.

  “Look around you!” she shouted. “Look at where we’re talking!”

  “This room reeks of piss, beer, and sweat. This is where I come when I want to breathe, when I need a moment alone. Do you get that? Even my privacy smells like garbage!”

  She moved closer.

  “And you—you walk in here with your clean worker’s face, with your pretty words that sound right, and you lecture me? You think I need you to tell me what I deserve?”

  Kael froze, eyes wide.

  She pushed him again—harder this time—as if trying to shove him back into reality.

  “You talk about dignity, about morals, about promises! You want to change the world with your principles? You want to save souls? Well I just want to fill stomachs!”

  Her voice rose, thick with years of choked anger.

  “You think I want to smile at pigs? That I like those hands on me? You think I chose this?!”

  Her eyes shone now with a mix of rage and tears.

  “If I do it, it’s because no one else will! Because if I stop, five women don’t eat. If Connie has to sell a piece of her soul to feed the others, then I’ll follow her without hesitation!”

  She stopped, breath shaking, chest rising and falling with fury.

  Then, lower—sharper:

  “You live for your principles. I live for people. And I would rather dirty my hands a thousand times than watch one of these women die while telling myself I kept my head high.”

  She shoved him once more. Kael stumbled back into the edge of the table.

  He stayed still, breath trapped in his throat.

  Maria wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, her voice cracked but steady:

  “You want to help me, Kael? Then stop treating me like some lost little girl. I’m not your moral compass. I’m just a girl trying to survive in a merciless world.”

  She held his gaze one last time, jaw clenched.

  “And if the end justifies the means… then so be it.”

  Then she turned, slammed the door, and walked back toward the noise of the bar.

  Behind her, Kael remained frozen in the trembling glow of the candlelight.

  Silence fell again—thick with sweat and shame.

  The door slam echoed for a long time, like thunder rolling across the quiet.

  Kael stayed there, unmoving. Breath short.

  His back pressed to the wall, his eyes lost somewhere in the dark.

  He could still hear her voice—her words—her footsteps leaving him behind.

  The silence that followed felt deafening.

  A rancid smell of beer and sweat rose to his nose—the smell she had thrown in his face.

  He felt it like another slap.

  She had been right. About everything.

  And he hated that.

  He dragged a shaky hand across his face.

  “…Shit…”

  His fingers brushed the cut on his cheek—still sore.

  He looked around: the crooked table, the stained walls, the shadows of the barrels.

  Every detail screamed back at him, accusing him of his arrogance.

  He had thought he was defending her.

  He had wounded her.

  He had thought he was lifting her up.

  He had crushed her under his principles.

  Kael took a deep breath, but it stayed pinned in his throat.

  “I ruined everything…”

  The words came out on their own, barely audible.

  He slid down the wall, sitting on the cold floor, elbows on his knees.

  His eyes fixed on the closed door, as if hoping—childishly—that she might still return.

  But on the other side, the bar’s laughter had already resumed—voices, clinking glasses—life moving on as if the argument had never happened.

  Kael sat there for a long time, alone with sweat, shame, and the muffled noise of the world.

  Eventually, he stood, tied his headband, and left without a word.

  His gaze no longer held the same light.

  Kael left the bar without a word.

  The night air was heavy, humid, filled with the scent of the river.

  The Broken Crown never truly slept—especially not near the Lantern Market.

  He stepped onto the wide wooden walkway overlooking the Soléen.

  The planks under his feet vibrated softly with the rhythm of the current.

  The wide, peaceful river reflected hundreds of floating lanterns drifting slowly downstream.

  They looked like fireflies trapped in clay shells, painted by hand, shifting between amber and deep red.

  Boats loaded with goods slid along the banks, brushing past each other by just a few feet.

  On each vessel, a merchant shouted an offer:

  glossy tropical fruits sealed with wax,

  vials of scented oil,

  hangings of cloth shimmering like liquid gold in the lamplight.

  The market didn’t just sit on land—it existed on water.

  Arched bridges connected the banks, forming a tight network of walkways above the river.

  Children ran barefoot across them, laughing, chasing soap bubbles or silver fish following the lanterns.

  The land alleys were so narrow that people brushed shoulders when they passed.

  The walls, chewed by moisture, were covered in moss and roots—

  trees had grown directly out of the stone, their twisted branches dipping into the water as if to drink.

  Drums and flutes blended with the gentle slap of the river.

  On a wider barge, a group of lunar dancers turned slowly, their veils brushing the surface of the water.

  At every step, the lantern reflections scattered around them like falling light.

  Hundreds of eyes watched them in fascination.

  But Kael saw none of it.

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  He walked the bridges with his head lowered, shoulders heavy.

  The cries, the laughter, the music—everything sounded distant, muffled.

  He walked like a man absent, passing through a dream that no longer belonged to him.

  The market pulsed with life, but he felt only its weight.

  The lantern light blinded him, the dancers’ gleam burned his memory.

  Every laugh felt like it mocked him.

  He passed a silk merchant—fabric trembling in the breeze like waves.

  Further on, a child held out a tiny lantern to him, smiling timidly.

  Kael hesitated, then gently shook his head.

  The child ran off, and the little flame vanished into the crowd.

  The river rumbled softly beneath the bridges.

  Kael paused, lifting his eyes to the hundreds of lanterns hanging above him.

  They formed a sea of fire spilled across the sky.

  “This world keeps dancing even when we collapse,” he murmured.

  Then he walked on—slowly—among boats, laughter, and reflections,

  while the night swallowed his footsteps without letting a single light cling to him.

  Kael didn’t take the path back to his shack.

  His feet, without asking his opinion, carried him south—toward the Crown’s cemetery, perched higher up, where the wind erased the sounds of the city.

  The climb was long and silent.

  The paving stones, pushed aside by roots, glistened with dew.

  The farther he got from the market, the more the crowd’s noise faded, swallowed by the fog and the height.

  Only a few wavering lanterns marked the way, hanging from wires drawn between the fa?ades.

  Soon, the stone arch came into view.

  It still bore, half-buried in lichen, the old symbol of the Primordial Mother: a woman holding a sun between her hands, arms folded toward her chest as if shielding a fragile flame.

  Time had erased her features, but the outline remained—simple, soothing, maternal.

  Beyond the arch lay the cemetery.

  No crosses, no towering monuments: only smooth slabs, often cracked, sunk into damp earth.

  Some stones bore spiral engravings that echoed the currents of the Soléen, as if each grave kept a trace of the river.

  A few still held small effigies of the Primordial Mother, roughly carved in sandstone or wood, clutching the sun against her with gentle hands.

  Kael followed the path to the very edge of the grounds, where the land dropped off.

  From there, the whole Broken Crown stretched out below him, crouched in the night.

  Far beneath, the river unfurled its silver ribbon, strewn with drifting lanterns.

  Their reflections slid across the surface like patient souls.

  Roofs, bridges, boats—everything trembled under the flickering light of the lamps.

  And farther north, the towers of Lucénine’s palace: tall, cold, bathed in a glow that didn’t seem to belong to this world.

  Even from here, Kael couldn’t look at them without squinting.

  The wind blew hard up on the height, carrying the smell of river and stone.

  He sat on a cracked bench, in the shadow of a half-erased effigy.

  The familiar pose of the Primordial Mother, hands folded around her sun.

  Around him, the headstones seemed to breathe faintly under the moon.

  Below, the city kept living, sparkling, forgetting.

  Kael closed his eyes.

  Maria’s words still spun in his head like a thread he couldn’t snap.

  She had been right. And still, he couldn’t accept it.

  “Maybe you have to betray a little to survive,” he muttered.

  Kael sat motionless for a long time on the bench.

  The wind had pushed a curtain of mist aside, revealing the distant silhouette of Lucénine’s palace.

  He raised his eyes.

  By now, the night had swallowed its colors.

  Only a dark outline remained, an unreal shape suspended above the city.

  No window cast any light, no detail pierced the black: the palace looked like it was floating in the void, a dead mountain.

  Kael felt something stir in his chest—a slow, old burn.

  It wasn’t the sadness from earlier, nor the shame Maria had hurled back at him.

  It was something else.

  A cold anger, woven from rancor and despair.

  He clenched his fists.

  He had always seen that palace from the Broken Crown’s alleys.

  Always up there, out of reach, perched on its own private cloud.

  People said even its stone didn’t come from Soléandre.

  That it had been shaped from a material no common hand had ever touched.

  Kael ground his teeth.

  “Even at night they refuse to show themselves…”

  His gaze vanished into the dark sky.

  He suddenly wondered what they were doing, up there—the members of the Soléandre family.

  The heirs of the sun.

  The so-called guardians of the light.

  Were they really sleeping behind those windowless walls?

  Or were they still feasting by a fire no one below would ever be allowed to approach?

  Did they even know the city was still alive, still bleeding, still breathing under their silence?

  He imagined their faces—figures draped in gold, fingers covered in rings, eyes washed clean of all fatigue.

  He tried to imagine their voices, their laughter, their gaze turned toward the Crown.

  But nothing came.

  Not a single image.

  Nothing human.

  He straightened slowly, eyes fixed on the palace’s dark mass.

  The wind slipped through his hair, carrying a faint smell of ash and metal.

  And in that breath from above, he thought he heard a distant whisper—a shiver, maybe, or the memory of a world that no longer shone.

  A crack sounded behind him.

  Kael spun around, muscles taut.

  The wind was still blowing hard, but what he’d heard wasn’t stone or leaves.

  It was a step.

  Two voices were drawing closer through the mist.

  One, melodic, almost sung, rolled like a voice accustomed to being listened to.

  The other, thin and hissing, cut through the air with the twitchy edge of a cornered animal.

  Kael frowned.

  Who would come up here at this hour?

  The cemetery only attracted the desperate—or the mad.

  The voices came closer still.

  Instinctively, he backed up a step, then another, before slipping behind a thick clump of ferns.

  He didn’t know why he was hiding.

  Part of him found it ridiculous—but his instincts were screaming not to be seen.

  Through the leaves, he made out two figures emerging from the fog.

  One wore a long, well-made coat—clean, well-cut, almost out of place in a spot like this.

  The other was small, wiry, his hands in constant motion like a rat in the grip of a tremor.

  The smaller man hesitated, breath shaking in the mist.

  “She was entrusted to the Institute. Most of the objects she touches crack… or break.”

  His voice dropped lower.

  “Apparently, she feels like she’s falling every time she falls asleep. And… and the élan around her, my lord… it’s…”

  He stopped, as if the word burned his tongue.

  Silence stretched between them, broken only by the wind whispering through the graves.

  The man in the fine coat turned his head slightly.

  “It’s… what?”

  The messenger swallowed with difficulty.

  “It’s too strong. And too… pure.”

  A long silence followed.

  Then the melodic voice spoke again, calm, almost pleased.

  “Interesting. Keep gathering as much information as you can.”

  The two figures stopped again in the mist.

  The wind pressed their cloaks against their legs for a moment.

  “And what about the Axis?” the melodic man asked.

  His tone was light, but each word fell like a blade.

  The small man tensed, fingers trembling on his coat.

  “I… I can’t get any information regarding the Axis, my lord. Getting that from the king will be impossible.

  As for the queen… trying to pry anything from her would cost me my life,” he added in a low voice.

  He swallowed again, eyes darting.

  “There might be one other person… but I’d rather be roasted alive than end up in the same room as her. Even saying her name out loud frightens me more than anything…”

  The melodic man’s lips curled in something almost fond.

  “Ooh… Sylène,” he murmured.

  He let the name linger in the air like a dangerous perfume.

  “Yes… you’re wise not to try your luck. Some names are best left unspoken, even here.”

  The smaller man said nothing. His eyes flicked between the mist and the headstones, as if merely hearing that name exposed him to some invisible curse.

  The other, on the contrary, seemed calmer now—almost satisfied.

  “We’ll see,” he concluded softly. “Things always fall into place on their own, if you know how to wait.”

  A thick silence followed, the kind where only the wind dared speak.

  Then they walked away, their footsteps barely brushing the damp earth, until the mist swallowed them whole.

  Kael stayed hidden, his breath held.

  Silence fell over the cemetery again, as if the fog itself had swallowed everything.

  His eyes remained fixed in the direction the two figures had vanished, unable to believe what he’d just heard.

  The Axis? Sylène?

  The words spun in his mind like sharp fragments.

  He could feel none of those names were ordinary.

  Each syllable vibrated with invisible weight, as if he’d stumbled upon the beating heart of a secret he was never meant to hear.

  He dragged a hand down his face, trying to shake off the daze.

  None of it made sense.

  And yet, part of him already knew this night marked a point of no return.

  He straightened up slowly.

  The wind felt different now—charged with mute tension.

  Below, the city stretched out, scattered with lanterns.

  And somewhere, in the shadow of the palace, a princess and a secret had perhaps just sealed their fate.

  Kael left the cemetery slowly, arms wrapped around himself.

  The wind had shifted. It carried that damp, metallic smell that always rose from the Soléen after the rain.

  Below, lanterns floated on the water like lost fireflies, and the city seemed to breathe in a restless sleep.

  The words kept circling in his head: the Axis… Sylène…

  He brushed them aside with a flick of his hand, like someone pushing away a bad dream.

  No. That wasn’t his concern.

  He was just a weaver—some poor guy good for patching up everyone else’s rags.

  He stopped on a wooden bridge, his gaze lost in the river’s reflection.

  For a few days now, he’d felt his heart pounding too hard, as if something deep inside were tugging at his veins.

  But he refused to think about it.

  It was nothing. Just exhaustion. The cold. The misery.

  And then, there was Connie.

  Connie and her precious contract.

  She had managed to catch the attention of an Unyielding, to get her workshop’s name written back into the High Lands’ records.

  A miracle for the Crown.

  Kael bit the inside of his cheek.

  All of that was because of that dress.

  Because of him.

  He closed his eyes.

  He saw Connie’s gestures again, her nervous laughter, the gleam in her eyes when she talked about the deal.

  She really believed in it.

  And maybe she was right: if the Unyielding liked their work, everything would change.

  Maybe the Broken Crown wouldn’t be quite so broken anymore.

  For a moment, he felt a flicker of hope—fragile, almost ridiculous.

  Then something growled in his chest, like a thread pulled too tight.

  He leaned against the railing, trying to steady his breathing.

  No. It was nothing.

  Not yet.

  The wind felt different now—stretched thin with unspoken tension.

  Below, the city spread out, studded with lanterns.