The traders left at dawn three weeks later.
Orion watched them go from a window in the east tower, a small group of men on horseback leading pack mules loaded with cloth and spices. They looked ordinary. That was the point. No banners, no uniforms, nothing to mark them as royal agents. Just merchants heading north to trade.
Their leader was a man named Corvis, a former scout who'd spent twenty years in the northern territories before coming to the palace as a hunting guide. Kaelen trusted him. That was enough for Orion.
"They'll be gone four months at least," Elara said, appearing beside him. "Maybe longer if the weather turns."
"That's a long time to wait."
"It's a long time for them to stay alive." She leaned against the window frame. "Father's already thinking about what comes after. He's been meeting with General Aris every night."
"About what?"
"War. What else?" She shrugged. "If there's a whole city of Andromedas up there, and they want the throne, it's not going to be settled with words."
Orion thought about that. About soldiers marching north. About sieges and battles and people dying. About cousins he'd never met killing each other over a chair in a room he sat in every day.
"It doesn't have to be war."
"Maybe not. But Father has to prepare for it anyway. That's his job." She pushed off from the window. "Come on. Council meeting in an hour. You're supposed to be there."
The council meetings had become routine. Orion sat in his corner, watched, listened, filled pages of his journal with observations. He'd gotten good at reading the room—who was angry, who was nervous, who was hiding something. Lord Cassian still aligned with General Aris on every vote. Lady Mira still played the reasonable mediator. The treasury minister still flinched whenever anyone mentioned spending money.
But there were new tensions now. Rumors had started spreading about the north—nothing specific, just whispers of trouble beyond the mountains. The council didn't know about Newhaven, didn't know about the rival line, but they could feel something coming. It made them edgy. Made them argue more, trust less.
Orion watched and learned.
After the meeting, Kaelen called him aside. "Come with me. There's something you need to see."
They walked through corridors Orion had never visited, down staircases that spiraled into the earth, past guards who snapped to attention and then pretended they hadn't seen anything. At the bottom, a heavy iron door. Kaelen produced a key from around his neck and unlocked it.
The room beyond was small, circular, lit by a single torch. In the center stood a pedestal, and on the pedestal rested a book. Old, bound in leather so dark it was almost black, with metal corners that gleamed dully in the torchlight.
"This is the Shadow Book," Kaelen said. "Every king of Alaya has kept one. It contains the things that can't be written anywhere else. The names of enemies who haven't shown themselves yet. The debts owed to us by people who don't know we own them. The secrets that could destroy houses if they ever came to light."
He opened the book. The pages were covered in handwriting—dozens of hands, centuries of secrets. He flipped toward the back and pointed.
"This is my father's entry. About the man who killed him."
Orion leaned closer. The writing was shaky, angry. The assassin's wife and children escaped before we could take them. I have placed watchers at every port, every road, every pass. If they try to leave the kingdom, we will find them. If they are already gone, we will wait. This debt will be paid.
Below it, in different ink: They are gone. The watchers found nothing. But I will not forget. The debt passes to my son.
Kaelen's handwriting. Orion looked up.
"You've been looking for them your whole life."
"Yes. And found nothing. Until you." He turned a few more pages. "Now look at this."
Another entry, much older. The hand was different, the ink faded to brown. Year 873. Theron and all his line are dead. Corin rides from the north to claim the throne. But there are whispers—survivors, they say, who fled before the fever took them. I have sent riders to investigate. If the whispers are true, we must decide what to do with them.
Below it, a single line: The riders did not return. The whispers continue. I will send more.
Orion read it twice. "Someone knew. Even back then, someone knew there were survivors."
"My ancestors knew. They sent people to find them. They never did." Kaelen closed the book. "The mountains are vast. The north is wild. If people want to disappear, they can. For a hundred years, that's what they did."
"Until now."
"Until now." Kaelen looked at his son. "I'm showing you this because you're going to be king someday. When you are, this book becomes yours. You'll add to it. You'll pass it to your child. That's how it works—secrets handed down, generation to generation, so the truth never dies."
Orion looked at the book. At all those names, all those secrets, all that weight. "It's a lot."
"Yes. It is." Kaelen put a hand on his shoulder. "But you're ready for it. You've already found more in three weeks than I found in thirty years. That's not luck. That's you."
They stood in silence for a moment. Then Kaelen closed the book, locked it away, and led Orion back up into the light.
---
Summer faded into autumn. The days grew shorter, the nights colder. Orion turned ten. His mother cried when he blew out the candles on his cake, though she pretended it was just the smoke.
The traders had been gone two months. No word had come back—that wasn't expected, not yet—but Orion found himself watching the north road anyway, looking for riders who never came.
His lessons continued. Master Varen pushed him harder now, aware that time was short. Captain Dorn pushed him harder too, though that seemed to be his natural state. Even Seraphina pushed, though her pushing was softer—more time spent discussing court politics, more questions about what he thought of this lord or that lady.
Elara was his constant. They still met in their secret room, still shared what they'd learned, still planned. She'd started cultivating her own network among the younger nobles—friends her age whose parents served on the council, whose siblings were guards, whose servants gossiped freely.
"Lady Mira's daughter told me something interesting," she said one night. "Her mother's been receiving letters from the north. Private letters, not official correspondence."
"From who?"
"She doesn't know. Her mother keeps them locked up." Elara leaned forward. "But she's seen the seals. They're not from any house she recognizes."
Orion's mind raced. Lady Mira was the voice of the northern provinces. If she was in contact with Newhaven—if she'd been feeding them information—
"We have to tell Father."
"We have to be sure first. If we're wrong, we destroy her for nothing. If we're right, we need proof." Elara pulled out her map of the palace. "Her rooms are here. Guarded, but not impossible."
"You want to break into a council member's chambers?"
"I want us to know what we're dealing with." She looked at him. "Unless you have a better idea."
He didn't.
---
Three nights later, they did it.
Elara picked the lock—she'd gotten even faster—while Orion kept watch. The corridor was empty, the guards at the end of the hall facing the other direction. They slipped inside.
Lady Mira's rooms were neat, orderly, exactly what he'd expected. A desk by the window, a small safe built into the wall. Elara knelt in front of it, working on the lock with a set of tools she'd acquired from somewhere.
"This is taking too long," Orion whispered.
"She has good taste in safes. Shut up and watch."
He watched. The lock clicked. Elara pulled open the door and reached inside. A moment later, she withdrew a small stack of letters bound with ribbon.
They took them all.
Back in their secret room, they spread the letters across the floor. There were eight of them, all written in the same hand, all addressed to Lady Mira. The seal was unfamiliar—a mountain with a star above it.
Orion opened the first one.
My dear Mira,
The winter here has been harsh, but we endure. Your reports on the court are most valuable. Continue to watch the young prince—he shows more promise than we anticipated. The king remains the primary obstacle. We will address him in time.
Do not write to us again until the snows clear. The passes are too dangerous now.
Your cousin,
E.
Orion read it twice. Then he read it aloud to Elara.
"Your cousin," she repeated. "She's one of them. She's been one of them this whole time."
"Feeding them information. Watching us." He picked up another letter, then another. Each one contained more details about the court—who was loyal to whom, who could be bribed, who might switch sides in a conflict. Details about Kaelen's schedule. Details about the guards' rotations. Details about Orion.
"She's been reporting on us since before the birds fell," Elara said quietly. "They knew about us before we knew about them."
Orion looked at the letters. At the mountain seal. At the signature at the bottom of each one.
E.
"Elara," he said slowly. "How many female names start with E in the northern territories?"
She thought about it. "Dozens. Hundreds. Why?"
"Because whoever's writing these letters knows us. Knows me. Knows I show promise." He looked up at her. "They're watching me specifically. That means they're planning something. Something that involves me."
"Or someone who wants to meet you." Elara's eyes widened. "A cousin your age. Someone raised to take the throne."
"The merchant said the refugees had children. That was over a hundred years ago. There could be dozens of them now. Hundreds." He set the letter down carefully. "And one of them is writing to Lady Mira. One of them is planning something."
They sat in silence, surrounded by evidence of betrayal, and tried to understand what it meant.
Finally, Elara spoke. "What do we do?"
Orion thought about his father. About the Shadow Book. About all those secrets passed down through generations.
"We take these to Father. Tonight. And then we let him decide."
It was the only choice. But as they gathered the letters and crept back through the dark corridors, Orion couldn't shake the feeling that they were missing something. Something important. Something that would change everything.
He just didn't know what it was yet