“On guard!” Gideon bellowed, his wooden sword crashing against a broomstick handle clutched by a clumsy opponent.

  The royal chapel, stripped of its sacred stillness, had become his battleground. Each week, the once-holy space transformed into an arena where the former prince tested his swordplay against the eager but unseasoned youth of Vasier’s nobility. For them, it was an honor to spar with royalty. For Gideon, it was a fleeting escape from the suffocating confines of the palace.

  “What is this nonsense?”

  Venessa’s scorn cut through the chapel like a lash. The participants scattered, wooden weapons clattering to the stone floor as they bowed their heads and scrambled out of sight.

  She entered flanked by Bishop Arcadius and his blind monks, her every step carrying the cold authority of a queen regent. Even without a crown, her presence reduced Gideon to little more than an errant child.

  He shrugged, his confidence wilting under her gaze. Nothing he did was ever good enough—not for his sister, who would burn kingdoms to keep him safe yet chastise him like an unruly pup at every turn.

  His irritation flickered, replaced by a creeping unease as his attention drifted to Arcadius’s monks. Their cloth-bound eyes, stained with dark, ink-like smudges, hinted at some unnatural affliction. Yet despite their blindness, they moved with eerie precision, navigating the chapel without hesitation. In complete silence, they rearranged seats, their skeletal hands shifting in unison—a harmony so unnatural it made Gideon’s skin crawl.

  “Hey, mole man.”

  He lobbed his wooden sword toward one of them.

  The monk’s hand shot out, snatching the weapon midair. Slowly, almost predatorily, his bandaged head tilted toward Gideon. For a fleeting moment, the chapel seemed to close in around him, the air turning sharp and cold as a prickling unease sank deep into his bones.

  Venessa stepped between them, her hands cupping his face, forcing his wandering gaze to meet hers. “Do you understand what we’ve sacrificed to get you here?”

  “Huh. You could’ve fooled me.” Gideon muttered. “Seems like all you wanted was the deaf, dumb, and blind. Or maybe I’m all three. Who’s counting?”

  Her grip tightened. “Listen to me. You are under the bishop’s service now. He will not tolerate your antics.”

  Gideon exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. “No disrespect intended,” he said, the bite in his voice easing. “It’s just… these boys’ fathers are out fighting our wars. I’m making sure they can lead their houses if they don’t come home.”

  His words were laced with sincerity, though Venessa knew him too well—knew the subtle deflection, the unspoken self-interest beneath it. She studied him, searching for something real. A flicker of accountability.

  She found only the childish brother she had left all those years ago.

  “My lady,” Arcadius interjected. His hand rested lightly on Venessa’s arm, a subtle but commanding gesture. “The day is young, and your journey is long.”

  “You’re leaving?” Gideon asked, his frustration melting into a childlike vulnerability.

  “I’m departing on a pilgrimage to the Holy City.” She held his hands, willing him to see the seriousness in her word. “Promise me, Gideon. Promise me you’ll stay out of trouble. And if all else fails, protect my daughter.”

  “So, I stay cooped up here. Alone.”

  "For your protection," Arcadius said smoothly, gesturing toward the towering palace walls with a single finger. "We cannot afford anything to happen to you."

  Venessa squeezed Gideon’s hands one final time, a silent plea he refused to acknowledge.

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  “Be safe, brother.”

  For a fleeting moment, he was no longer a man but a boy, lost in the echoes of their childhood—when his sister had guided him through the sounds of silence into a world of imagination. Then came the young Vasierian prince, the one who claimed her heart as much as she had once held his. And with him, she left, leaving behind only cherished memories, untouched by the longing that would define Gideon’s adolescence.

  Fate crowned her queen of a distant land, while he remained—alone. Deaf and deserted.

  Now, standing in the pall of those memories, he could only watch as her purple headscarf fluttered in the breeze, a final splash of color against the whitewashed stone of the palace courtyard. The blind monk beside her moved with eerie precision, his unseen chains tethering her to the journey ahead.

  "It doesn’t have to be a point of contention," Arcadius said, breaking the silence. "Her departure creates possibilities that were once withheld."

  Gideon’s irritation flared. "Like what?"

  "The North needs moral guidance," Arcadius replied. "And this"—he gestured to the chapel—"is no cage for a prince."

  Gideon scoffed. "Oh, she’s not even past the gates, and you’re already trying to swindle me. This is a farce."

  "It is," Arcadius admitted with a smirk. "But it is also necessary—to make certain people feel safe, comfortable. I do not see you as someone who needs comfort, Prince Gideon. I see you as someone who needs freedom. So, escape this prison."

  Gideon’s expression darkened. "And what of my brother’s assassins? Release me, and I’m a hunted man."

  Arcadius’s smirk deepened. "You knew him better than I. Perhaps you're better placed to judge his intentions."

  “I know your game of give-and-take. Silver-tonguing your way into my nephew’s court while stripping away every independent voice that could oppose the church.”

  "Davos plays that game, yes," Arcadius conceded. "But my role is simpler—I uphold the church’s standards of worship."

  Gideon scoffed. "And what do you gain by sending me north?"

  "Standards," Arcadius replied cryptically. "That’s the most truth you’ll hear in this place."

  Gideon exhaled sharply. "Alright. How do we make this happen?"

  "With the queen’s permission, which Davos can easily arrange. And, of course, we must bathe you in God’s blessing."

  Gideon chuckled. "Ha, that nonsense. Fine—baptize me, but make it quick."

  "As you request. Your arm?" Arcadius extended his hand expectantly.

  Gideon’s nose twitched with irritation as he dragged out the moment, begrudgingly offering his arm. His movements were slow, lethargic—compliance edged with defiance.

  The bishop braced his grip and sprinkled water across Gideon’s face. A pause. Arcadius’s fingers slackened slightly, waiting.

  Gideon opened his eyes. Nothing. No divine revelation, no searing pain—just the cool trickle of water. With a lazy swipe, he brushed the droplets away.

  "Is that all?" said Gideon.

  "Yassss."

  It was the most shaken Gideon had ever seen the dry, lifeless bishop.

  Arcadius stiffened, staring at the holy water as if it had betrayed him. He poured a small amount onto his own hand, rubbing it between his fingers. No change. No difference. And yet, the result was not as it should have been.

  Confusion carved into the bishop’s features, cutting through his practiced composure. Without another word, he turned abruptly and strode toward the remaining blind monks, leaving Gideon behind.

  Scoffing, Gideon retrieved his discarded wooden sword. “Yeah… good chat.”

  Later that evening, in the privacy of his chambers, Arcadius stood before a desk-mounted mirror. Arcadius placed his palm against the mirror, and at his touch, the ornate frame shuddered, releasing a low, unnatural hum. Its glass reflected only his robes and jewelry—not his flesh.

  “There are deviations,” Arcadius hissed. “Improbabilities that threaten the design.”

  The mirror vibrated in response, speaking in a language of unspoken rage.

  Arcadius’s expression twisted. “What does it say of you if we cannot overcome this imbecilic, deaf prince? Better yet, what does it mean for me?”

  The mirror answered again, its prolonged hum stretching into something oppressive. Joints cracked in Arcadius’s wrists as he endured the long, grueling lecture.

  His patience snapped. He pressed his palm against the glass, harder this time. A fracture splintered beneath his touch, and blood beaded from the fresh wound, staining the mirror’s gilded edge. His breath came ragged as his voice rose in fury.

  “This is mortality! The pain, the fragility, the futility of existence! Do you understand what it means to bleed? To fear the one cut in a million that ends it all?”

  The glow in the mirror pulsed—mocking, taunting, amused.

  Arcadius’s bickering with the unseen entity lasted long into the night, his words dripping with anger and desperation. Beyond the thin windowpane, a pair of prepubescent ears listened, hidden by the veil of darkness. Then, as silently as they had come, they slipped away—vanishing into the labyrinthine depths of Vasier’s underbelly.

  By morning, the bishop’s secrets had begun their journey, carried on parchment through cracks in the city’s foundation, until they reached the hands of Cestmir, who sat by a smoldering firepit.

  Reading the whispered warnings, he frowned, his mind churning as he stared into the embers—trying to untether the knot before it became a noose.

  As uncertainties swarmed like a plague of locusts stripping the land bare, one truth became clear: the time to act was nigh.