Stellan hated the palace at night.
It never stopped beating.
Behind every door: breath. Pulse. Little panics dressed in silk.
Out in the wildlands, quiet belonged to the world.
Here, quiet belonged to whoever could afford it.
He moved through the lower wing where the stone sweated cold. The menagerie sat beneath the palace like a shame.
Beasts for display. Proof the crown could cage anything.
Stellan wasn't impressed.
Pulse-sight gave him what mattered. Not pretty colors. Not halos.
Rhythm.
A guard dozing on a bench—slow beat. Rats behind a wall—fast flutter. Even roots pushing through mortar—old, stubborn thrum.
Tonight, a rhythm skipped wrong.
Beat—beat—pause—beatbeat—
Stellan slowed.
The last cage stood under dim blue witch-lamps. A plaque read SHADOW-FOX in polished letters.
Property of the Crown.
Inside, the fox paced tight circles. Smoke-fur. Too-bright eyes. Tail lashing.
Its Pulse didn't just race.
It stuttered.
Like two patterns were trying to share one skin.
Stellan stepped closer to the bars. Kept his hands away. Kept his shoulders loose.
"You're hurting," he said quietly.
The fox snapped toward him. Teeth bared. A high, furious sound.
Stellan didn't flinch. Flinching made animals believe you were prey.
He narrowed his focus until the rest of the room dimmed.
Only the fox.
Threads of shadow curled around its heartbeat—magic imitating blood. Too clever. Too neat in the wrong places.
Stellan's stomach tightened.
He'd seen this once before—on the edge of a burned village.
That "beast" had been wearing a man's boots.
A handler's voice came from behind him. "Harrow. You seeing anything?"
Stellan didn't look away from the cage. "It's not a display."
The handler snorted. "It is a display. That's why it's here."
Stellan's jaw tightened. He ignored the man and reached into his pouch.
Dried meat. Plain. Real.
He held it out.
The fox froze like it didn't trust the idea of being offered anything.
Stellan stayed still. Breath slow.
The fox stepped forward, cautious. Sniffed. Grabbed the meat through the bars and retreated to eat like it expected punishment to follow.
Its Pulse eased—barely.
Still wrong.
Stellan stared at the aura seam—an ugly knot where rhythms met.
Two pulses. One body.
Stitched wrong.
"Grafted," he said under his breath.
The fox lifted its head. Eyes locked on his.
For one second, its Pulse leaned toward him. Not aggression.
Recognition.
Stellan's breath caught.
Then the world broke.
A brutal bloom of light punched down from above. The lamps flickered. Wards on the cages flashed.
The fox's Pulse spiked into a scream.
The menagerie erupted.
Bars shook. Metal shrieked. A serpent struck at air. Birds slammed into cage tops in a storm of feathers.
Stone above groaned.
Throne wing.
Stellan felt it in his teeth.
A young guard—bench-sleeper from the corridor—came sprinting in, sword half drawn, face white. Ivo Renn. Too green. Too fast. No plan.
"Menagerie breach—" Ivo shouted.
A tapestry rod tore loose overhead and dropped straight toward his skull.
Stellan moved.
Two strides. Shoulder into Ivo's chest.
Ivo flew backward and hit the floor hard.
The rod smashed down where he'd been standing, cracking stone and throwing sparks.
Stellan hauled Ivo up by the collar. "Move."
Ivo's mouth worked. No words came out that mattered.
Behind them, the Shadow-Fox slammed against the bars again and again—directed, not mindless.
Like it was trying to get out before something else arrived.
Stellan's Pulse-sight flared outward.
Beasts. Guards. Panic everywhere.
Then—
Absolute Silence.
Not midnight quiet. Not snow-hush.
Force.
Sound grabbed by the throat and squeezed until it couldn't breathe.
The handler's mouth was open mid-shout—no noise. Cages clanged without sound. Ivo's frantic breathing vanished.
Stellan's ears didn't just go quiet.
They hurt.
Pressure built inside his head like he'd dove too deep too fast. He staggered and slapped a hand to the wall.
Pulse-sight sharpened.
And threading through the chaos—cold and clean—was an absence shaped like a person.
Silence magic.
Personal. Controlled.
Stellan turned toward it.
His Pulse reached the Silence the way it reached for living things.
To read.
To measure.
It touched—
And the Silence touched back.
His vision doubled.
Menagerie: iron bars, blue lamps, beasts thrashing in mute fury.
Over it: a different room.
Stone ceiling. Low. Damp. Torch bracket. Chains.
A cell.
Stellan blinked hard.
The cell ceiling didn't vanish.
It hovered over the menagerie like a second skin.
Then sound slammed back in all at once—metal shriek, screams, alarms starting far above.
His head throbbed. Pulse-sight wavered.
The cell flickered—gone—back—gone—
And for one clean, terrifying heartbeat, it snapped into perfect focus.
Not above him.
Around him.
Stellan wasn't looking at the menagerie anymore.
He was looking up at a dungeon ceiling—
Through someone else's eyes.