The palace learned new habits quickly.
Aelira's door was opened at dawn and sealed at dusk. Guards rotated in disciplined silence. Servants entered only when summoned, eyes lowered, movements efficient and afraid.
She was alone.
And never unobserved.
Aelira adapted.
She spoke less. Smiled politely. Walked the same paths at the same times. She let boredom settle into her posture, obedience into her steps.
They mistook stillness for surrender.
The first attempt came on the third night.
Aelira sat by the window, fingers folded in her lap, when she felt it—a faint tremor in the air, barely perceptible. Not magic. Something subtler.
She didn't move.
A moth fluttered against the glass, wings dusted silver by moonlight.
It circled once.
Twice.
Then settled.
Aelira lifted her hand slowly, as if brushing the windowpane.
The moth stilled.
Three taps, it sent—not in sound, but in pattern.
Pause.
Two.
Her breath remained steady.
Message received.
Later, when the guards changed and the corridor noise shifted just enough, Aelira rose and crossed to the desk. She opened a book she had not touched in weeks—a dull volume on court etiquette.
Inside, between pages that no one bothered to read, lay a thin strip of dark metal.
Kael's token.
She pressed her thumb against it.
Warmth answered—not her magic, but a different presence. Distant. Attentive.
I'm alive, she thought, focusing on the steadiness of that warmth.
I'm watched. But not broken.
The metal cooled.
A pause.
Then—I hear you.
Aelira allowed herself a single breath of relief.
The days passed.
The queen sent small tests—missed meals, delayed replies, invitations rescinded at the last moment. Each time, Aelira responded with patience and perfect courtesy.
She learned the watchers' rhythms. Which guards were bored. Which servants lingered. Which eyes followed her longest.
At night, the moth returned.
Sometimes a sparrow. Once, a shadow along the wall that bent at the wrong angle.
Messages were brief. Patterned. Untraceable.
North quiet.
Too many eyes.
Don't trust the steward with the scar.
She replied in kind—by rearranging books, altering candle placement, changing the order of her walks.
Kael would know.
He always did.
On the seventh night, the pressure changed.
Aelira felt it before she saw it—the wards tightening, humming lower, closer to her skin. The ring cooled sharply.
They were narrowing the cage.
She moved to the window and stared out at the darkened gardens.
"Soon," she murmured.
The shadows along the sill stirred.
Not wild.
Not loud.
Listening.
A knock came at the door.
"Your Highness," a guard said, voice respectful. "Her Majesty requests your presence tomorrow morning."
Aelira turned.
"Of course," she replied calmly.
When the door closed, she pressed Kael's token once more.
Tomorrow, she thought. Be ready.
The reply came slower this time.
But it came.
Always.
Aelira extinguished the candle and lay down, eyes open, mind sharp.
Alone did not mean helpless.
Silence did not mean surrender.
And under watch—
She was learning how to move unseen.