CHAPTER EIGHT
Chapter Eight
The Guardian did not come back.
That truth settled into me like a quiet ache, neither sharp nor dull, but constant. I felt it when I walked the corridors alone, when the palace lamps dimmed at night, when silence lingered too long. Whatever path had opened before me had done so without a guide, and I was left to follow it by instinct alone.
And instinct, I was learning, could be dangerous.
The tremors came again that morning while I was seated at the long dining table, silverware arranged with ceremonial precision. Laughter drifted around me, light and practiced. I lifted my cup—and my fingers betrayed me. A shiver ran through my hand, subtle but unmistakable. Warmth bloomed beneath my skin, pulsing once, twice.
I set the cup down quickly.
"Excuse me," I murmured, rising before anyone could look too closely. I did not wait for permission. I never did anymore.
In the privacy of the corridor, I pressed my palms together, breathing slowly until the sensation faded. This had become routine. Retreat. Breathe. Hide. The palace had no language for what was happening to me, and I intended to keep it that way.
Later, alone in my chambers, the memory returned unbidden—sharp and clear, as if the past itself demanded to be heard.
I had been standing before the Guardian then, the air around him heavy with something I could not name. His voice had been calm, measured, but his eyes had held a warning that chilled me.
"When you reach eighteen," he had said, "what sleeps within you will no longer be content to remain hidden."
I remembered how my breath had caught. "What happens then?"
He had hesitated. Just for a moment.
"It will awaken fully," he replied. "And when it does, you will not be able to hide it. Control will not come before manifestation. It will come after—if it comes at all."
I had been seventeen then.
I was still seventeen now.
The nearness of that truth weighed heavily on me. Every passing day felt louder, sharper, as though time itself were closing in. The Guardian had said nothing more—only that I must prepare, that the palace was not ready, that I was not ready.
But what if waiting was the greater danger?
Lady Mireya's pregnancy progressed quietly but steadily, guarded with obsessive care. Servants spoke of it in hushed tones. The court had already decided what the child represented. Salvation. Continuity. A future shaped neatly within ancient laws.
I could not shake the certainty that if the child was born, something irreversible would follow.
I wanted—desperately—to awaken what slept inside me before that moment came. To reach eighteen first. To stand prepared rather than helpless.
But desire did not equal understanding.
That was why I began to wander again.
The palace had become a maze of forbidden knowledge, and I moved through it carefully, slipping into forgotten wings and sealed corridors. I searched places where dust lay thick and history breathed heavily. The southern chambers yielded fragments. The old council vaults offered diagrams I could not decipher. Everywhere, the same pattern repeated—truth fractured, altered, hidden beneath tradition.
I carried what I could, hiding parchments beneath loose stones, beneath my mattress, inside the hollow of a broken statue in the gardens. I did not know what they meant, only that they felt important. Necessary.
Some nights, exhaustion overcame caution, and sleep claimed me unwillingly.
The dreams always returned.
In one, I stood barefoot upon stone that glowed faintly beneath my feet. Lines of light spread outward from me, racing across the floor like veins. My hands shook violently, light pouring from them in waves I could not stop. Figures stood at the edges of the chamber, watching—not intervening, not helping.
In another dream, I stood before a mirror that did not reflect my face. Instead, it showed a crown breaking in two, falling into darkness. I reached out, and the mirror shattered.
I woke from that dream with my hands burning.
Terrified, I plunged them into cold water, watching steam rise as the heat faded. I stared at my reflection, barely recognizing the girl looking back at me. She looked the same—but her eyes held something new. Something awake.
I knew then that waiting was no longer an option.
If the power was coming—if it would rise fully when I turned eighteen—then I needed to learn how to stand when it did. I could not allow it to consume me. I could not allow it to expose me before I understood it.
So I began to test it.
Carefully. Quietly.
In the gardens at night, I focused on my breathing, on the warmth beneath my skin. I lifted my hands and concentrated—not on force, but on stillness. Sometimes, the air responded faintly, shifting as though listening. Sometimes, nothing happened at all.
Once, when frustration overwhelmed me, the fountain before me surged violently, water leaping high before crashing back down. I stumbled backward, heart pounding, fear clawing at my chest.
I was not ready.
But readiness would not wait for me.
The days passed more quickly after that. My birthday loomed unspoken, uncelebrated. Each tremor felt stronger. Each surge harder to suppress. The palace watched Lady Mireya closely—but no one watched me.
And that, I realized, was both my greatest danger and my greatest advantage.
I continued to search for the Guardian, lingering in the places where shadows deepened unnaturally, whispering questions into the silence. "How do I control this?" I asked once, my voice barely sound. "What am I supposed to do?"
No answer came.
Only a growing certainty settled in my chest.
The power would awaken fully.
I would not be able to hide it.
And when it did, the palace would no longer be able to pretend I did not matter.
Until then, I would prepare as best I could. I would learn restraint. I would observe. I would gather every fragment of truth left behind by those who had misunderstood destiny for centuries.
I did not know what would happen when I turned eighteen.
But I knew this:
If the child was born before that day, the kingdom would face consequences it did not yet understand.
And if my power awakened before the palace was ready—
Neither would I.