The carriage began to slow, the clatter of hooves shifting into the softer rhythm of a trot. Peering out the window, I spotted the palace gates ahead, already open. Two guards stood at either side, their gazes sharp and watchful as rain slid down their helmets. Beyond them, the palace loomed like a silent giant, its stone walls slick from the downpour.

The district around us was eerily quiet. Shops were shut tight, their signs swaying slightly in the rain. The streets were empty, not a single soul walking about. Only the faint glow of candlelight from behind windows hinted that people were still inside. A few curious faces peeked out from parted curtains, eyes tracking our approach. Just what I needed—more stares.

Across from me, the guard stirred, his head lifting from where it had rested against the wall. He yawned, rubbed his face, then squinted out the window. “Finally,” he muttered, blinking away sleep. “Thought we'd never get here.”

“Rain slowed us down,” I replied, leaning back against the creaking wall. “Could’ve walked faster than this.”

“Don’t think I’d want to, though,” he said, stretching his arms until his shoulders popped. He glanced at me, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “You excited, kid?”

“Sure,” I muttered, eyes still on the palace.

“Yeah, you sound real excited.” He snorted, tilting his head to the side to get a better look at me. “Honestly, you look like you’re about to get dragged to your own execution.”

“Pretty close to how it feels,” I said flatly.

“Get ready!” the coachman hollered from the front. “We’re nearly there, boys!”

The carriage rolled past the gates, the wheels splashing through shallow puddles. As it pulled to a stop near a stone fountain, the coachman hopped down, boots splashing in the waterlogged dirt. The guard shoved the door open and stuck a hand out, testing the rain with a grimace. His lips moved, probably cursing under his breath, before he gritted his teeth and jumped out, his cloak fluttering behind him.

“Don’t stand there like a log, kid,” he called back.

I followed, hopping down onto the slick ground. The cold rain hit me like needles, drenching me within seconds. My clothes clung to my skin, heavy and uncomfortable. I hurried after the guard, feet splashing through shallow puddles as we made our way toward the main entrance.

The guards stationed at the doors didn’t move an inch. They stood like statues, rain dripping off their armor. Their eyes stayed forward, faces hard as stone, scanning the courtyard for threats. If they noticed me, they didn’t show it. Must’ve been used to the rain.

We reached the entrance, stepping inside to the sound of water dripping off our soaked clothes. I ran a hand through my hair, slicking it back as droplets ran down my face. Everything I wore felt heavier than it should’ve, and I knew I must’ve looked as pitiful as I felt.

“Ah, hell,” the guard muttered, flicking water from his hands. “I hate Kinowa.”

“Hmm…”

“Anyway,” he continued, rubbing his neck as he eyed the staircase ahead. “Let’s head upst—”

A voice cut through the air behind us. “Oh, what is this?” It was loud, sharp, and full of disgust. “What a disgrace!”

I turned slowly, already knowing who it was before I saw him. The fat man from before—the one who delivered the Queen's invitation. His heavy frame moved faster than I thought possible. His face twisted in exaggerated outrage, his jowls quivering with each word.

He reached me in seconds, his hand clamping down on my shoulder with surprising force. I barely had time to react before he spun me halfway around, making me stumble.

“I told you to wear your best attire!” he barked, his round face inches from mine. His breath smelled like garlic. “Is this your best?” His eyes darted over me, from my rain-soaked cloak to the damp school uniform clinging to my frame. His lip curled like he’d seen something foul.

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“Didn’t have anything else,” I replied, voice flat as ever. “Sorry.”

“Ugh…” He dragged a hand down his face, fingers pressing into his cheeks. “What a mess.” He glanced around like he was looking for someone to blame for my existence. “Follow me. Now.” He snapped his fingers at me like I was a dog. “I’ll find you something decent to wear.”

“Right. Thanks.”

“Don’t be late,” the guard called from behind. He pulled off his gloves, wringing them out as he watched us. “You’ve got about ten minutes, kid.”

“Hmm.” I gave him a small nod, already being tugged along.

“Move, move, move!” the fat man said, gripping my arm and pulling me forward with all the urgency of a man herding cattle. His grip was firm, his steps quick for someone of his size. “Chop chop! No time to waste!”

I followed, boots squelching against the stone floor, my eyes half-lidded from sheer exhaustion. Dinner with the Queen. Somehow, being tossed back into a dungeon didn’t sound so bad anymore for some reason…

Moving toward the stairs, I figured we’d be heading up. Instead, we passed right by them and entered a small side room. The shift in atmosphere was immediate. It smelled faintly of fabric and dust, like an old tailor's workshop.

Mannequins stood scattered around the room, each one draped in a variety of garments—some simple, some embroidered with gold or silver thread. Their blank faces stared ahead, their stillness somehow unsettling. At the center of the room was a wide table, cluttered with swatches of fabric, scissors, and bits of loose thread. A thick bundle of cloth hung off the edge like it was too tired to stay in place. Beside the table sat a stone chair with needles and spools of thread resting on the seat, as if someone had just left it there in a hurry.

The only window in the room, located just behind the table, was obscured by a thick curtain of golden fabric. Its rich glow clashed with the rest of the room's muted grays and browns.

“Wait here,” the man ordered, jabbing a finger at a corner of the room. “I’ll find you something suitable.”

“Alright,” I said, trudging to the wall and leaning against it. The stone was cool against my back, and I let my head tilt slightly. “Thanks.”

He moved toward the table, fingers already rummaging through the mess of fabric. He hummed quietly to himself, lifting pieces of cloth to inspect them before tossing them aside in disappointment. His hands moved with the precision of someone used to picking only the finest materials.

I watched him in silence, my eyes half-lidded, my body still damp from the rain. My thoughts drifted, and before I realized it, I was thinking about what he’d said before—the way he spoke about Mox. His words circled my mind like an annoying song I couldn’t shake off.

I glanced at the ground, then slowly lifted my gaze back to him. The question was already at the tip of my tongue, and this time, I let it out.

“You don’t like noxiveras, do you?” I asked, my voice calm but direct.

His hands paused for a moment, gripping a deep blue cloth. He didn’t look at me right away.

“If I were to say yes to that,” he said, lifting the cloth to eye level for inspection, “that would make me a racist, wouldn’t it?” He gave the cloth a quick tug, checking its strength, before tossing it aside like it had failed him.

“Are you?” I asked, tilting my head slightly.

He snorted, a dry, humorless sound. “I’m a realist,” he replied, moving to another pile of fabric. “I’m royal. I do what the Queen tells me to do.”

“Hmm,” I grunted, crossing my arms. I let the silence hang for a moment, then shifted to a new approach. “When the elves took control of Nu’tar... Noxiveras didn’t help, did they?”

His hands slowed. He didn’t answer right away. He picked up a piece of fabric—a dark green one this time—and examined it under the light.

“No,” he finally said, his tone sharp and certain. “They sided with the elves.”

“Really?” I asked, sensing his lie.

His eyes flicked toward me, cold and steady. “Why would I lie?” he shot back, giving me a look that said he didn’t appreciate being questioned.

He held up another piece of fabric, this one a shade of deep maroon. His eyes lingered on it longer than the others.

“This’ll fit,” he muttered, nodding to himself. Then he turned to me, holding it up like he’d just found a hidden treasure. “Here. Wear this. I’ll find you some proper boots to match.”

I pushed off the wall, walking over to take the cloth from his hands. It was heavier than I expected, the fabric dense but smooth to the touch. No doubt, it was higher quality than anything I’d ever worn.

“Sure,” I said, giving it a once-over. “Better than what I’ve got, I guess.”

“Much better,” he muttered, already turning back toward the table to search for boots. His back was to me, but his voice still carried across the room. “Don’t drag your feet, boy. The Queen waits for no one.”

“Yeah,” I said, glancing at the golden curtain behind him. My fingers traced the fabric in my hands. Heavy, smooth, and far too nice for someone like me.

But I’d wear it anyway.