The Walk Home
The palace loomed ahead like a sleeping beast, all dark stone and watchful towers silhouetted against the star-scattered sky. Rafayel kept to the shadows as he walked Nana back, his steps silent while hers were light with lingering joy. She was practically floating beside him, still giddy from the festival, from the lanterns, from the taste of freedom she'd stolen from the night.
She didn't notice how carefully he tracked their surroundings. How his eyes catalogued every guard rotation, every blind spot in the palace defenses, every escape route she might use in the future. Didn't notice that while she was lost in the memory of floating lights, he was mapping the architecture of her cage with the precision of someone who planned to use it.
"We should stop here," Rafayel said quietly when they were still two streets away from the main gate. His hand on her elbow was gentle, halting her forward momentum. "Any closer and the guards might see."
Nana's face fell slightly, reality crashing back over her like cold water. "Already?" Then, catching herself, "I mean—of course. You're right. I just..." She looked up at the palace walls, and something in her expression dimmed. "I don't want it to end."
*It hasn't even begun*, Rafayel thought, but didn't say. *This was just the opening move.*
"Next week," he found himself saying, and watched her face brighten instantly. "The market will be busy with preparations for the king's birthday celebration. The palace will be chaotic—guards distracted, everyone focused on the festivities. It'll be easier to slip away unnoticed."
Her eyes widened with hope and surprise. "You mean... you'd want to see me again?"
The question caught him off-guard. As if she genuinely couldn't fathom why someone would choose her company a second time. As if being a princess had taught her that people sought her position, not her person.
"Yes," he said, and it wasn't entirely a lie. He *did* want to see her again. That was the problem. "Same time, same place?"
"Yes!" The word burst from her with such unguarded enthusiasm that Rafayel felt something twist in his chest. "I promise I'll be there. I swear it."
*Don't*, he almost said. *Don't make promises. Don't you know how those can destroy you?*
But of course she didn't know. This version of her had never made a promise and failed to keep it. Had never left someone waiting for a hundred years while the sunset marked time and hope slowly calcified into bitterness.
This version of her was innocent.
And he was going to ruin that.
Rafayel reached into his robes, his fingers closing around something he'd carried with him for longer than he cared to admit. When he pulled his hand back out, a small object rested in his palm—a fishtail-shaped beacon carved from Lemurian coral, so pale it was almost translucent, shot through with veins of iridescent blue and purple that caught the moonlight.
"Take this," he said, offering it to her.
Nana accepted it carefully, turning it over in her hands with reverent curiosity. The beacon was warm to the touch, pulsing with a faint internal light that matched the rhythm of a heartbeat. "It's beautiful," she breathed. "What is it?"
"A way to call me," Rafayel explained. "If you need help. If you're in danger. If you just..." He paused, choosing his words with care. "If you need someone. Press your thumb to the center and think of me. I'll come."
It was true, technically. The beacon was keyed to him through ancient Lemurian magic, a connection that transcended distance. If she called, he would know. Would feel the summons like a hook in his chest, pulling him toward her no matter where he was.
Another thread binding them together. Another chain forged link by link.
"Anywhere?" Nana asked, her voice small and wondering. "Anytime?"
"Anywhere. Anytime."
She closed her fingers around the beacon, holding it against her chest like something precious. When she looked up at him, her eyes were bright with unshed tears—though whether from gratitude or the bittersweet ache of their parting, he couldn't tell.
"Thank you," she whispered. "For everything. For tonight. For this. For... for seeing me. Not the princess, just... me."
Rafayel's throat tightened. *Don't thank me. Don't look at me like I'm someone good. Don't make this harder than it already is.*
"Next week," he said instead of all the things he couldn't say. "Don't forget."
"I won't!" She was already backing away, reluctant but necessary, her smile bright despite the tears threatening to spill. "I promise, Rafayel. I'll be there. I promise!"
*Stop making promises*, he wanted to shout. *Stop, stop, stop—*
But she was already running toward the palace gate, the beacon clutched in one hand, her other hand raised in an enthusiastic wave. She glanced back once, twice, three times, each look accompanied by that radiant smile, before she finally slipped through a servant's entrance he suspected she'd used before.
Then she was gone, swallowed by stone and duty and the gilded cage she called home.
Rafayel stood in the shadows for a long moment, perfectly still. Watching. Waiting.
A light appeared in one of the upper windows—her chambers, he'd already memorized which ones. He could see her silhouette moving behind the rice paper screens, imagine her changing back into her royal robes, sliding back into the identity of Princess Angelina Wang like a costume that never quite fit right.
Was she thinking about him? About the strange, beautiful man who'd shown her the festival and asked for nothing in return? Was she replaying the night in her mind, holding it close like the precious thing it was?
Of course she was. He'd made sure of it. Carefully crafted every moment to be memorable, meaningful, the kind of experience that would burrow into her heart and take root there.
It had worked perfectly.
So why did he feel like he was the one who'd been caught?
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🐚🐚🐚
The Strategy
Rafayel forced himself to think clinically. Strategically. To examine the night the way a hunter examines tracks, looking for patterns and opportunities and weaknesses to exploit.
*She likes gerbils*, he noted, filing the information away with cold precision. A small, innocuous preference, but useful. He could use it—manufacture some excuse to take her somewhere to see them, to catch them perhaps. Build an adventure around her interests. Make himself indispensable to her happiness.
*She likes floating lanterns*. Even more useful. The lake could become their place, somewhere she associated with peace and beauty and freedom. Somewhere she'd want to return to. With him.
*She's desperate for freedom*. The most important piece. Her cage was her greatest weakness, the ache she carried that made her vulnerable. If he positioned himself as her escape, her window to the world beyond palace walls, she would cling to him like a drowning person clings to driftwood.
It was all so perfectly clear. He had gathered exactly the information he needed to proceed with the next phase of his plan. Everything was going according to strategy.
*So why do your hands shake when you try to clench them?*
Rafayel looked down at his palms, watching the slight tremor he couldn't quite control. Warrior's hands, assassin's hands, hands that had killed without hesitation when the contract demanded it. But they shook now like those of a nervous boy facing his first battle.
*Pull yourself together*, he commanded. *You know what you have to do. This is no different than any other mission.*
Except it was. It was completely different, and pretending otherwise was just another lie in a growing collection of them.
The fishtail mark on his chest suddenly flared hot, pulsing with an intensity that made him press his hand against it with a hiss of pain. The glow was visible even through his robes—red light bleeding through dark fabric like a wound that wouldn't close.
"No," Rafayel whispered to the uncaring night. "No, I don't want this. I don't want to feel this."
But the mark pulsed again, insistent, reminding him that want had nothing to do with it. The bond was there whether he wished it or not, tying him to her with threads that grew stronger each time they met, each time she smiled at him, each time she looked at him like he was worth her trust.
He thought of his kingdom—*what remained of it*. Tried to summon the memory clearly, to use it as armor against the dangerous softness growing in his chest.
*pathetic. She abandoned you once, died and left you waiting like a fool, and you're still—*
But that wasn't fair, was it? She hadn't abandoned him. She had *died*. Lost her parents to the same storm, been taken away by family, succumbed to disease before she could return. It wasn't her fault.
This version of her wasn't to blame for the pain of the past.
So why did it still hurt so much?
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🐚🐚🐚
To be continued.