The gates closed behind them with a sound like the world sealing shut. What waited on the other side made Mira stop walking entirely.
Six royal guards in silver trimmed armor flanked the King, three to each side. They moved with him like shadows, hands resting on their hilts, eyes sweeping the streets even here inside Solstia's walls. The King never walked alone.
"Leiya," Mira said, tugging at her sleeve. "Look up."
Above the street, a woman in pale robes drifted between two towers, trailing a thread of blue light like a ribbon caught in slow wind.
Below her, a merchant cart rolled past on its own, pulled by nothing but a glowing core embedded in its frame.
Children chased each other through the square. One of them lifted off the ground mid-stride, laughing, before drifting back down a few seconds later like it was ordinary.
"They're flying," Mira whispered. "Just flying. Like it's nothing."
"I don't understand any of this," Leiya admitted, her eyes following the woman until she vanished behind a spire. "None of my training ever mentioned anything like this. What is this place?"
Jaeger walked a half step behind the group, silent as always. His eyes tracked the streets, the rooftops, and the guards. He said nothing, but his jaw was tight. He was cataloging threats, not wonders.
A few paces behind the crowd, tucked against a fruit stall, Bijan grabbed Jarek's arm.
"We're following them," Bijan said under his breath.
Jarek stared. "The King's private escort? We're archers, not royal guard."
"Exactly," Bijan said. "So no one watches us." He was already moving, keeping the group in sight without drawing attention. "Come on."
The King led them through the winding streets toward the palace. As they left the main square, the six guards shifted without a word. Two moved ahead to clear the path, two dropped behind the group, and two stayed at the King's sides.
They didn't push citizens aside, but the crowd parted anyway. No one questioned the King's path.
Bijan and Jarek slipped through the streets behind them. The bows on their backs marked them as city guards, but of low rank. No one stopped them. Bijan kept his head down, eyes locked on Kota's torn cape ahead.
They passed fountains that ran with liquid light instead of water and spires that hummed with their own quiet sound. Ribbons of color swirled through the air, weaving between the citizens like they belonged to the street itself.
Leiya reached out instinctively and let her fingers pass through one. It dissolved against her skin like warm smoke.
"Don't touch things," Kota said.
"I barely touched it," she said.
Kota kept walking. He didn't look up at the floating woman. He didn't glance at the cart moving on its own. Eyes forward.
"Doesn't any of this amaze you?" Mira asked him.
Kota shrugged. "Yeah. It's cool." He didn't break stride. "But that's not why I'm here."
The King had walked with them the entire way from the gate, saying nothing, letting the kingdom speak for itself. His guards kept their formation tight. Close enough to respond, far enough to give the conversation room to breathe.
When they reached the grand hall he didn't stop to announce anything. He kept walking, gesturing toward a corridor to his left without breaking stride. "Come. All of you."
Two guards took position at the corridor entrance. The other four followed the King inside.
Bijan and Jarek moved to slip in behind the group.
A guard's arm shot out, palm flat against Bijan's chest. It stopped him cold. The guard's eyes flicked to the bows on their backs. He knew them.
"Not you two," the guard said. "Royal audience only."
Bijan recovered fast and flashed his best grin. "Come on, Rhen. You know me. I'm a guard too. I deserve to be in that room with the King."
Rhen didn't blink. "You're wall archers. Not cleared." He shoved Bijan back a step. It wasn't violent, but final. "Move along."
Jarek grabbed Bijan's sleeve before he could argue. "Bijan."
Bijan's jaw worked. He glanced at the closed doors, then at Jarek. "Fine," he muttered. "There's other ways in."
They vanished into a side passage.
The King led them into a private receiving room off the main hall. Smaller. Warmer. A hearth burned in the corner. There was a long table with chairs that hadn't been arranged for a formal meeting. It looked like a room for family.
The King took his seat at the head of the table. His guards posted at the door and by the windows, hands still on their hilts. He gestured for the crew to sit. His eyes moved over each face before settling on Kota.
"You look like her," the King said. "The eyes are different, but the face is hers."
Kota didn't respond.
In the service hall behind the eastern wall, Jarek hissed, "This is how people get executed."
Bijan pressed his ear to the stone and traced mortar lines with his fingers. "Then stop breathing so loud." He found a loose seam and wedged his dagger in. "Help me with this panel."
The King clasped his hands on the table and exhaled slowly. "You are thin. All of you are thin." He turned toward the door and raised his voice.
"Someone bring food and water. Now." He paused. "And send for the royal tailors while you're at it."
Leiya straightened slightly. "We don't need…"
"You've walked through dead lands in rags," the King said, not unkindly. "You'll accept the food at least."
A servant disappeared through the door, slipping past the guards. The room settled into silence broken only by the fire.
"Your mother was meant to sit where I sit," the King said, looking at Kota again.
"This entire nation was built for her bloodline. When her parents passed, I held the seat because there was no one else. I wrote to her. I waited. She never answered."
"She chose a different life," Kota said.
"I know what she chose," the King replied. "I'm not bitter. I'm telling you so you understand what you've walked into. This kingdom has been waiting for her blood to return for a very long time."
The stone panel scraped. Jarek caught it before it fell. Bijan peered through the gap into the receiving room with Kota's back to him. "We're in," he whispered. "Shut up and watch."
Before Kota could answer, the tailors arrived. Three of them, carrying bolts of fabric and pressed garments over their arms. They hesitated at the sight of the guards, then looked at the King for direction.
The King gestured toward Kota. "Start with him."
They stepped forward with embroidered shirts, high collars, and a heavy velvet jacket.
Kota looked at the pile and took a step back like it had teeth. "I don't like garments. Too heavy. Gets in the way when I move."
The tailors froze. Leiya pressed her lips together. Mira looked away toward the ceiling.
Thorne cleared his throat. "Kota," he said quietly. "Maybe just take the shirt."
Kota didn't look at him. "No."
Jarek's breath caught. "Did he just…"
Bijan shoved an elbow into his ribs. "Quiet."
"What is it you want, then?" the King asked, studying him with something close to amusement.
Kota's gaze moved across the room until it landed on a ceremonial robe hanging on a stand near the window. Deep crimson fabric trimmed in gold thread. It was decoration, not an offering.
"That one," Kota said, pointing.
The King blinked. Then he nodded once.
A tailor lifted the robe from its stand and carried it over carefully, holding it out like it was fragile. One guard's eyes tracked the movement, but he didn't intervene.
Kota took it, gripped the collar, and tore the sleeves clean off in one motion. He ripped the front clasps loose next, stripping it down until what remained was a long sweep of crimson fabric.
He threw it over his bare shoulders, kept his ruined pants and worn boots exactly as they were, and turned back toward the table like nothing had happened.
Thorne exhaled through his nose. He didn't say anything else.
Behind the tapestry, Bijan had stopped breathing entirely.
Beside him, Jarek's jaw was clenched so tight it was audible. "I cannot believe you dragged me into this wall," he whispered.
"Be quiet," Bijan whispered back, not moving his eye from the gap. "He just destroyed a royal artifact and made it look like nothing."
"He looks like a refugee wearing a curtain."
"He looks like a king who doesn't care that he's a king," Bijan corrected.
Inside the room, the King let out a sound between a laugh and a sigh. "You have her stubbornness. Leona never wore a crown comfortably either."
Kota didn't answer. He tested the weight of the cape over his shoulder once and turned back toward the table.
The King leaned back in his chair. "Excuse me for not giving you my name." His eyes didn't leave Kota. "I am Xerxus Solstia."
He rose slightly from his chair and gave a small bow of his head. "Welcome to your new home, son of Queen Leona Solstia."
Kota's eyes narrowed. "Solstia?"
Xerxus saw it immediately. He raised a hand in a conciliatory gesture. "My apologies. Leona Speedhardt."
Behind the tapestry, Jarek went still.
"Son of Queen Leona Solstia?" he whispered. "The princess who left the kingdom many years ago and never returned?"
"We don't know her," Bijan whispered back, eyes wide. "Only stories. Passed around the barracks. Songs in the streets."
He stared at Kota through the gap. "But if he's her son, wouldn't that make him the actual king of this place?"
Jarek's face had gone pale. "This cannot be. There is no way he's her son." He shook his head like the words would fall out if he shook it hard enough. "Or the king."
Bijan didn't answer. He just kept watching.