I stepped out onto the balcony again. The air was cooler than before, brushed with the kind of breeze that didn't sting but still made you notice it. The stars were out—hundreds of them, maybe thousands.
Back at the orphanage, I could only ever see a few. The city air there was thicker, the buildings pressed too close together, and the windows were always too small. But here… The sky was bigger. Wider. Quieter. Closer. It looked like I could reach out and touch the stars if I really wanted to.
The moon hung just off-center—bright, but not full—and its light reflected softly against the crystal-topped towers of the Ice Palace. In the daytime, it shined too brightly to look at for long. But at night, without the sun to blind it, I could see its shape more clearly.
Glass spires that curved like icicles. Stone walkways that glimmered with frost even though it wasn't winter anymore. It didn't look like it belonged to this world. But it was beautiful.
I looked farther. Across the wide stretch of rooftops and polished stone, I could see the Sun Palace, still glowing in its own quiet way. Lights flickered in some of the windows—tall and narrow like candle flames—but most of the building was dark now. Sleeping. Like most of the Capital.
But not me. And not the garden below. Beneath the balcony, the rose maze was still visible in the moonlight. But what caught my eye wasn't the shape of the hedges or the gentle curves of the paths. It was the fireflies.
Dozens of them, maybe more, drifting lazily through the garden paths. They hovered near the rosebushes, circled the gazebo, floated above the trimmed grass like stars that had fallen and didn't want to go back.
They looked like they were dancing. The way they blinked. The way they swirled and drifted. It was the kind of soft movement you couldn't watch without going still yourself. I stood there for a long time. Breathing. Not talking. Not thinking. Just... watching.
When I finally went back inside, I looked at the bed. It was soft. Beautiful. The sheets were white and smooth, pulled tight and turned down neatly like they had been waiting for me. The pillows were large. The canopy, gently tied back, made the whole bed feel like a floating cloud.
But I couldn't do it. Not tonight. It was too soft. Too warm. Too sudden. I wasn't used to comfort arriving without warning. My back expected the chill of stone. My legs waited to curl against the wall. My hands itched for the rough weave of old blankets.
The bed felt like falling into someone else's dream. So I didn't sleep there. I brought the extra pillow and a folded sheet from the closet. I returned to the balcony and made a small nest against the wall, where the railing cast a bit of shadow. I laid the pillow down first, then spread the sheet out and wrapped it around my shoulders.
The floor was stone—but clean. Smooth. The breeze made the fabric flutter, but I tucked the corners beneath my legs. My ribbon stayed wrapped around my wrist. My braid was still intact from earlier. My heart beat steadily, not fast. It wasn't fear. Just... adjustment.
I curled into the sheet. And I slept. Sometime during the night, I felt it. A soft touch. Fingers, maybe. Brushing lightly against my cheek. Not cold. Not urgent. Just there. Then... two voices. Or maybe three. Calling my name. "Elarion..." Whispered. Like the breeze. Like silk sliding over a windowsill. Like someone far away was trying to wake me but didn't want to be unkind about it.
I didn't open my eyes. Not really. I drifted somewhere between dream and memory. Between balcony wind and voices I couldn't place. And I let it pass.
I woke before dawn. Like always. The sun hadn't risen yet, but the sky had changed. No more stars. Just a pale glow, soft and stretched out like a held breath. No one came to wake me. No voices outside the door. No footsteps in the hallway. No knock.
They were waiting. Waiting for me to wake on my own. To say I was ready. I liked that. I gathered the sheet and pillow and took them back inside. Folded them neatly. Smoothed the fabric. Set them at the foot of the bed, just in case I changed my mind next time.
Then I walked to the desk. The books were already stacked there. Not hidden. Not locked. Just waiting. They weren't books for toddlers. Not the kind with animal sounds or padded corners or songs with hand movements. They were bound in soft leather. Edges gold-trimmed. Titles printed in silver on the spines.
I picked one up and opened it slowly. There were pictures inside. But not colorful ones. Not bright drawings meant to make children laugh. They were painted illustrations—deep, layered, detailed. Full of shadows and texture. The kind you had to look at to understand.
The first was of the Sun God. Not with a smiling face or golden beard like the statues in town. But with a cloak of light draped around his shoulders, eyes hidden in shadow, walking through a field of cracked earth. The chapter was called: "When Light First Walked Among Us."
I sat at the desk and turned the pages. Slowly. Reading what I could, tracing the letters with my finger. The words were long. The paragraphs dense. But I tried. It wasn't written for three-year-olds. But I knew... He meant for me to have it. Caelum had put these books here on purpose. Like he had put me here on purpose.
The first story was about how the Sun God descended from the sky not in fire, but in silence. How he walked through a world full of selfishness and shadow. How people turned away from each other, and how no one listened. Until one boy, starving, offered him a piece of earth.
I knew this story. I'd heard parts of it from the priests. From Matron. But never like this. The words here weren't about punishment or obedience. They were about choice. About quiet kindness. About how something small—like sharing dirt with a stranger—could open the world again.
I turned the page and saw the image of the boy—barefoot, bruised, hair tangled, eyes wide. His hand outstretched. Mud crumbling in his palm. The god knelt before him, sunlight coiling gently around his fingers.
I closed the book softly. Then opened the next one. The second book was about the first Emperor. The one the Sun God blessed. The boy from the first story, grown into someone strong, but never cruel. A man who didn't build cities with walls to keep people out, but with gardens to welcome them in.
The pictures showed him walking with elves and dwarves and humans alike. No crown. No throne. Just... a torch in his hand. Lighting the way.
The third book was thinner. A book of symbols and meanings—how the nine types of magic formed the circle of balance. No baby animals or talking clouds. Just diagrams. Arrows. Elements. Words like ritual, essence, spirit, void.
I didn't understand all of it. But it felt familiar. Like how I'd watched the Matron's footsteps to learn when she was angry. Or studied the way Evelune breathed when she was sleeping to know when she was cold. Like learning the patterns of a world no one bothered to explain.
When the sky finally brightened, no one knocked. No tray of food was pushed in. No impatient voice called my name. They waited. Because I was allowed to wake slowly. Because I was allowed to begin the day when I was ready.
I sat at the desk a while longer. Tracing letters. Thinking about the boy with the mud pies. The god who didn't bring fire. The Emperor who chose kindness first. And for the first time, I thought—Maybe this place wouldn't try to change me. Maybe it would teach me. One quiet word at a time.