Chapter Twelve:
It had been three days since the bodyguard's death.
The palace had grown quieter, but not calmer. Every corridor, every stairwell, every shadow seemed suddenly more alert. Servants whispered to one another, moving carefully. Guards shifted positions without announcing themselves. Questions were asked in low voices that carried through hallways like hidden currents. No one named the danger directly, but everyone sensed it. Something had awakened, something invisible yet impossible to ignore, and the palace had learned to live alongside it, even if only by pretending.
I had learned to observe this new rhythm, tracing the subtle movements, the pauses, the way the halls themselves seemed to listen. The warmth beneath my skin had grown more alert over these days. It pulsed faintly, responding to the tension, learning to anticipate the palace's attention before it fully settled. It no longer stirred in mild curiosity—it waited.
And now, it would not wait much longer.
My maid was with me, folding garments near the foot of my bed. Normally, her presence was comforting. Today, it was a weight, almost intrusive, though she did not notice. The warmth stirred beneath my ribs, subtle at first, a pulse I could have ignored, but it deepened quickly, spreading through my arms, tightening my chest, pressing against my lungs as though demanding recognition.
I stiffened.
"Leave me," I said softly, trying to maintain control.
She turned, startled. "Princess?"
The warmth grew impatient. My breath hitched. Candles flickered violently, flames bending toward me, yet without wind. The walls themselves seemed to hum faintly, responding to something I did not yet understand.
"Leave," I repeated, sharper.
She hesitated, confusion and concern written across her face. "Are you unwell? I can call for—"
"Leave!" I shouted, the word tearing from me with more force than I had intended. The chamber seemed to shiver in response. My maid jerked back, eyes wide, and hurried to the door, pulling it closed behind her.
I did not know that she paused just outside. She had heard noise, a low, hollow vibration, the faint shifting of stone. But she did not see. She did not know. All she knew was that something had startled her deeply. Her mind, quick to rationalize, told her it was nothing — the palace was old, the walls thin, and fear made imaginations vivid. Slowly, uncertainly, she backed away and left the corridor.
Inside, I collapsed to my knees. The warmth had surged unchecked, fierce and overwhelming, rolling through me with a momentum that nearly toppled my balance. I pressed my palms against the cold stone of the floor, grounding myself, breathing unevenly, forcing the rising tide of heat to retreat.
Control it. Contain it. Remember what happened before.
The surge receded slowly, reluctantly, leaving me trembling. Candles burned unevenly. The room was intact. Nothing else appeared disturbed. And yet, everything inside me had changed.
This was no accident.
The power had responded to pressure, to fear, to proximity. It had acted on its own. If I had been less careful, if my maid had not left when she did, the consequences could have been worse. I could not continue as I had before. I could not pretend it would remain obedient.
I rose and crossed to the mirror. My reflection stared back at me, pale and wide-eyed. Nothing looked different — no visible mark, no unnatural glow — and yet, I felt everything inside me rearranging, tightening, awakening.
I had tried once before to reach the guardian. I remembered every detail: the careful steps along the halls, the shadows I had used to move unseen, the moment my plan had failed, and the guard had died. The memory clawed at me, reminding me of what failure could cost. I had fled then, ashamed, panicked, terrified of what I had done. But now, waiting was impossible. The power would not wait. The palace would not wait. And I could not ignore the guardian any longer.
He was the only one inside these walls who might guide me without condemning me. Loyal, trained, discreet, and capable of understanding the difference between destructive power and something that could be honed. But reaching him meant treading carefully — far more carefully than before.
I sat on the edge of my bed, tracing the palace in my mind. Every corridor, every staircase, every small service passage I had once explored as a child became part of a plan. I memorized the patterns of guards, the moments when their attention lapsed, the small openings in surveillance that came from habit rather than negligence. I thought of the postern gate near the gardens, lightly guarded and seldom opened. I thought of stairwells that led to storage areas and hidden balconies. I calculated the timing of shifts, the overlap of patrols, the sequence of footsteps that would not alarm anyone if I moved with care.
The warmth beneath my skin pulsed faintly as I considered each route, acknowledging my intent. It was not restless now, not violent, but focused, alert, like a creature learning to obey my mind. I tested control in small ways: slowing my breathing when it pressed, pressing my palms to the floor to ground it, letting it ripple beneath me without flaring. It responded to my will in subtle measures.
I had no physical tools. No weapons. Nothing I could leave behind to mark my passage. I would move silently, carefully, invisibly.
My mind returned to the guardian. Where he had appeared before. The quiet certainty in his presence, his patience, his understanding. He had not judged me. He had not condemned. He had only waited, silently, until I might be ready. And now, I would be ready.
I rose and began moving through my room quietly, checking the window latch, the door lock, the arrangement of furniture that could give me cover or concealment. I envisioned each step I would take in the palace — each turn, each pause, each shadow to hide in — and considered contingencies. If a guard appeared unexpectedly, I would retreat. If a door were locked, I would find another route. I would not rely on the power this time. Not yet. I would rely on strategy, observation, and patience.
Hours passed slowly. The palace shifted around me, unnoticed, alive with the routines of servants, the cautious movement of scholars, the careful placement of candles and symbols along corridors. Everything was predictable, and yet, the unpredictability of the warmth beneath my skin reminded me that predictability was an illusion. One misstep, one surge, one lapse of control, and the consequences would be irreversible.
I paused in the dark, leaning against the cold stone of the wall. The warmth beneath my skin pulsed, slow and deliberate, listening, waiting. I allowed myself the briefest flicker of hope. I could do this. I would do this.
I would reach the guardian. I would learn to control what had awakened inside me. I would understand it before it destroyed everything I had left.
And if I failed… then there was only one certainty: the palace would contain nothing for me.
The night stretched on. Footsteps in distant corridors echoed faintly, but none came near. The air smelled faintly of wax, incense, and something older — anticipation, fear, perhaps instinct. I traced my plan once more, step by step, door by door, shadow by shadow.
I packed nothing. I would leave nothing behind. My belongings, my trinkets, my garments — all would remain. Only my mind, my will, my knowledge of the palace would move with me.
Guardian or witch. Law or survival.
I could not remain here and remain safe. Not any longer.
The warmth beneath my skin stirred once more, gentle but insistent. It was not unruly. It did not demand release. It listened. It approved.
Tomorrow, I would act.
And whatever waited beyond the palace walls, I would face it awake.