That night, the palace did not sleep.
Silence clung to the corridors like damp fog, thick and watching. The wind outside brushed against the paper windows, whispering like voices too quiet to understand. Somewhere in the distance, a bell rang once—low, dull, and out of place, as if it had not been meant to ring at all.
Lucen sat on the edge of his narrow bed, back straight, hands folded in his lap. The small room they had given him was beautiful in the way a cage was beautiful—clean, polished, empty. A painting of cranes hung on the far wall, their painted necks seeming to bend too far in the low light, beaks too sharp. A silk curtain stirred gently. A cup of untouched tea sat cooling beside a single oil lamp, its flame small and nervous.
He had not changed from the banquet robe.
The collar was stiff with dried broth. A faint floral scent still clung to the sleeves—the same black flower that floated in the poisoned tea.
He had not moved for hours.
He felt it again—that gaze. Not just from one person. From many. From everywhere.
From the walls themselves.
The floorboards beneath his feet seemed to breathe. The cranes in the painting twitched, or seemed to. The lamp's flame leaned sideways for a moment, as if something unseen had licked at it.
He pressed a hand to his chest. His heartbeat thumped steadily beneath his ribs. But the memory of the black veins still haunted him. That unbearable heat. That twisting fire. And the silence that followed when it all simply... vanished.
They all saw it.
Every prince. Every noble. The emperor.
They watched him burn from the inside and then watched him heal like nothing had happened.
Now they were whispering. He could feel it like breath on his neck.
They think I'm cursed.
He closed his eyes.
They want to hurt me.
He thought of the First Prince's wide eyes, Liang's cold study, the ministers murmuring behind their fans. Even the servants who once bowed quickly now seemed to linger in the corners, silent too long, staring too much.
And where was Jang Ho?
Lucen frowned. He had not seen him in two days.
Not even in passing.
He had grown used to the old man's presence—his sharp remarks, his calm authority, his quiet protection. Jang Ho was supposed to teach him every morning. He had never missed a day.
Now the classes were postponed.
No explanation.
Lucen had asked. The servants pretended not to hear.
One servant had paused outside the old man's quarters. The hallway smelled strange—too clean. The scent of lye clung to the wooden floors, sharp and astringent, masking something fouler beneath.
A chill crept up his spine.
What's happening to me?
A soft creak broke the silence. Lucen turned.
The door hadn't moved.
But the curtain had.
He stood slowly—then froze.
The lamp's flame stretched sideways, long and thin.
The curtain swayed again.
Not from wind.
From something pressing against the other side.
He reached for it.
Then stopped.
Nothing moved.
No one there.
Just emptiness.
Or something pretending to be empty.
He sat again, pulling the blanket around his shoulders. The warmth didn't help.
Somewhere beyond the palace walls, a second bell rang. Higher. Sharper.
He didn't sleep.
He couldn't.
Not when he knew—deep in his marrow, in the way Gor'Sekra had taught him—that something had followed him back from the banquet.
Something old.
Something hungry.
And worst of all, something the palace had invited in.
That afternoon, the palace dozed.
The sun hung high, heavy and golden, pouring heat into the courtyards and dulling the minds of even the sharpest guards. Servants napped in shaded corners. Conversations faded into murmurs. Shadows stretched, lazy and long.
Lucen moved like a ghost.
He avoided the two maids who had whispered about him that morning. Their fear was useful now—none dared stop him.
He found Jang Ho's quarters.
His hands shook as he picked the lock—slow, silent. The pirates had taught him well. Click.
He slipped inside.
The room was obsessively tidy. Bed made. Scrolls stacked. No dust.
But the teacup on the desk was still half-full, its surface stained with dark leaves sunken into strange patterns—like fortune-telling dregs. A warning, maybe.
The inkstone was dry.
On a scrap of paper, a single character had been carved again and again, deep into the fibers:
逃
Escape.
Lucen's breath caught.
He crouched low and pulled back the edge of the bed.
One training shoe lay beneath it, splintered, as if kicked off in a struggle.
Something was wrong.
He remembered what Jang Ho once showed him—a hollow floorboard near the window. He knelt, fingers sliding over the grain until he found it.
Lifted.
Inside: a small pouch of emergency coins, a map of the palace with a red X drawn near the old wells, and a note in Jang Ho's rough handwriting:
"They drown the ones who ask about the black flowers."
Lucen stared.
A floorboard creaked outside.
He froze.
Someone was in the hallway.
Breathing.
Too slow. Too deliberate.
Then—
A knock.
Once.
Twice.
Silence.
Lucen held his breath.
The knock came again. Closer.
Not on the door.
On the wall.
As if something were tapping its way toward him.
He didn't wait.
He shoved the map and note into his sleeve, slipped out the window, and dropped silently into the garden below.
The knocking didn't follow.
He ran. Fast. As fast as he once ran through the bloodied alleys of Gor'sekra.
He didn't look back.
His room—he needed his room.
He flung open the door and dropped to the floor, pulling out the old satchel he had buried beneath the boards weeks ago.
The compass.
He hadn't touched it in months.
But now…
Now he needed to find Jang Ho.
And run.
Run far away from this cursed palace, before it buried him too.