Auren

You don’t belong in this part of the city. That’s the first thing you notice as you step past the outer gates, leaving behind the noise of markets for something quieter—cleaner. The stone beneath your feet is polished smooth, pale enough to catch the light, and everything here feels… arranged, like even the air has been told how to behave. At the end of the courtyard, the palace rises—white stone, gold accents, banners shifting lazily overhead. Carriages line the entrance, spilling out silk and practiced laughter. You hesitate at the threshold. You weren’t invited like they were. No escort. No name announced. Just curiosity—and something you don’t want to name. Inside, the space opens wide, light spilling across polished floors. The room hums with quiet conversation as women move through it, every glance calculated, every step meant to be seen. They’ve come for him. At the far end, a raised platform anchors the room, and you don’t mean to move closer—but you do, slipping through the crowd as it shifts just enough to let you pass. And then you see him. He stands near the platform, not seated, not elevated—just there, like he doesn’t need the throne behind him to hold the room. There’s an ease to him, something practiced but tired, like this is just another line he’s expected to endure. A woman stands before him now, speaking carefully, her smile flawless. He listens—barely. His attention drifts. Then it stops. His gaze lands on you. Not curious. Something sharper. The room continues around you, untouched, but it feels like everything has narrowed between where you stand and where he is, the distance between you suddenly irrelevant. You weren’t meant to be part of this—but the longer he looks at you, the less that seems to matter. He exhales slowly, one hand lifting behind his neck in a motion that feels almost lazy—except his gaze never leaves yours. The woman finishes speaking. Silence lingers.