Chapter 91 CLOSE
Crossing beneath the gate arch felt like stepping into a memory she had no right to touch.
The scent of baked bread drifted from a nearby stall. A woman argued loudly over the price of fish. Two boys raced past, wooden swords clacking as they shouted about dragons and glory.
Athalia kept walking.
Every stone of the street was carved into her mind. She knew which corners held rainwater, which alleys curved without warning, which rooftops gave clear views of the palace towers in the distance.
But she did not look at the palace.
She stopped at a ribbon stall.
“Pretty,” the vendor said, holding up a strip of deep blue silk. “Would suit you.”
“Too fine for me,” Athalia replied lightly.
“Nothing’s too fine if you wear it like you mean it.”
Athalia bought it anyway.
By afternoon, she had a room above a busy tavern. The innkeeper barely glanced up as she counted out coins.
“Keep your door locked,” he muttered. “City’s restless.”
“I will.”
The room was small but clean: a narrow bed, a washbasin, a single window overlooking the street. Athalia set down her bundle and crossed to the glass.
From here, she could see the palace towers.
Her throat tightened.
She pressed her palm to the warm pane. “I’m back,” she whispered.
That evening, she went out again.
This time she dressed with care. The blue ribbon braided through her hair. A touch of crushed berries stained her lips. The illusion did the rest, softening every edge into effortless beauty.
Eyes followed her.
She pretended not to notice.
At a wine stall near the square, a young nobleman leaned against a post, watching the crowd with bored entitlement. Silver thread gleamed on his doublet. A signet ring flashed as he lifted his cup.
Athalia stepped beside him. “The same he’s having.”
He glanced at her—then did a double take.
“Good choice.”
“I usually make poor ones,” she said, accepting the cup.
He laughed. “Then tonight is special.”
“Is it?”
“It is now.”
She sipped, letting her gaze drift past him toward the palace gates at the far end of the square.
“Are you from the city?” he asked.
“Not originally.”
“Pity. I would have remembered you.”
“Would you?” She tilted her head.
“I never forget a face.”
Athalia smiled. “That sounds like a curse.”
“Only for the faces I don’t like.”
She let him talk. His name was Corin. Third son of a minor lord — enough status to enter the palace, not enough responsibility to be missed.
“Have you ever been inside?” she asked, as if idly.
“The palace? Of course.”
“I’ve always wanted to see it,” she said, lowering her voice. “Just once.”
Corin grinned. “That can be arranged.”
Athalia met his eyes. “Can it?”
“Tomorrow. Small reception. Boring — but you’d outshine half the room.”
She raised her cup. “Then I suppose I’ll owe you.”
“Oh, I plan to collect.”
Athalia held his gaze, unflinching. “Good.”
Later, in her room, she washed the color from her lips and sat on the bed. The charm at her throat dimmed as the illusion faded.
Her reflection in the small mirror showed the truth again — paler, older, eyes heavy with storms.
“Tomorrow,” she told the empty room.
Sleep came late. When it did, she dreamed of marble floors slick with something dark, a cradle rocking with no one inside, a familiar voice whispering her name from behind a locked door she could never reach.
She woke at dawn with her heart racing and the taste of iron in her mouth.
But today was not for grief.
She dressed carefully again, this time hiding everything but her eyes.
The palace gates loomed larger than memory. Guards stood in polished armor, halberds gleaming. Corin waited near a side entrance, looking pleased with himself.
She tapped his arm.
He looked at her blankly.
“It’s me. Lina.”
“Oh! You came,” he said.
“I said I would.”
“But the hood..."
“I’d rather not cause a scene at the gate.”
He grinned. “Mysterious. I like it.”
Athalia smirked.
He offered his arm. She took it.
Inside, the air was cooler, scented faintly with roses and wax. Footsteps echoed across stone. Servants moved like quiet shadows, eyes lowered.
Athalia’s pulse thudded in her ears.
She kept her expression light as Corin led her through archways and past tall windows spilling sunlight across intricate mosaics.
“Try not to look too impressed,” he murmured. “They’ll smell you’re new.”
“I am impressed,” she said softly.
“I know.”
They entered a long hall where nobles stood in careful clusters, wine in hand, smiles measured.
Athalia felt it immediately.
She kept her breathing steady.
“Stay close,” Corin said. “If anyone asks, you’re my cousin from the south.”
“How many cousins do you have?”
“Enough that no one checks.”
A woman in green silk approached, eyes sharp.
“Corin. And who is this?”
“My cousin, Lina.”
Athalia dipped into a graceful curtsey. “A pleasure.”
The woman’s gaze lingered, assessing.
“Enjoy the view,” she said at last, and moved on.
Athalia exhaled slowly.
“Permit me to find the washroom,” she murmured.
“Of course.”
But near the far end of the hall, a pair of tall doors stood slightly open. Beyond them lay a familiar corridor leading deeper into the palace.
Her fingers twitched.
Corin kept talking — court gossip, petty scandals — but a ripple passed through the room. Conversations softened, shifted.
The king had entered.
Adrian looked older.
The realization struck like a blow. His hair, once dark as wet ink, was streaked with gray. Lines marked his mouth and his shoulders bore an invisible weight.
He spoke with a cluster of advisers, nodding absently. Composed but distant.
Athalia’s nails bit into her palm.
She could see the faint scar near his jaw — the one she used to trace with her fingertip.
Corin leaned toward her. “He’s been like that for years. Since the queen disappeared.”
Athalia lowered her gaze to her cup. “That must have been… difficult.”
“Court’s been chaos since. Consorts come and go. None stay or are dead.” He lowered his voice. “Some say the palace doesn’t want another queen.”
Athalia looked up.
Adrian’s gaze swept the room.
And landed on her.
Her breath caught as their eyes met.