Not because it isn’t beautiful.
Because it is.
That is what makes it unbearable.
Her throat tightens as her eyes track a child no older than five, darting between marble columns with a ribbon clutched in her hand, her laughter bright and unrestrained. A mother calls after her, smiling, her arms laden with fresh fruit—ripe, vibrant, abundant.
Elyssara remembers what it is to be five.
Remembers hunger clawing at her insides so fiercely she could barely stand. Remembers her mother splitting scraps between them with shaking hands. Remembers her father teaching her which vendors to avoid, which ones might look the other way if they were quick enough.
All of it—just beyond this wall.
All of it—allowed.
No—designed.
A bitter, hollow laugh threatens to rise in her chest, but she swallows it down, her jaw tightening instead.
“This is what he kept from us,” she murmurs, not quite to anyone, not quite to herself.
Ronyn goes quiet beside her, and that alone says enough. Even he has no joke for this. Seren’s hands ball into fists at her sides, her eyes narrowing into angered slits.
Elyssara drags her gaze forward, forcing herself to keep moving, to not linger on the details that threaten to unravel her. Because she understands it now in a way she never could before.
This was not neglect. It was design.
A kingdom preserved at the cost of everything outside it. Protection for some. Sacrifice for the rest. And somewhere beyond these pristine streets, within the polished stone and gilded towers, sits the man who made that choice.
Her expression hardens, cold resolve settling into her bones.
Good intentions do not absolve devastation.And tonight—she will make him answer for it.
The people of The Barrier do not stop them. That, more than anything, unsettles Elyssara.
No alarm is raised. No weapons drawn. No frantic scrambling to contain the threat that has just walked through The Barrier like it belongs there. Guards line the outer streets, yes—but they stand down as Calira passes, their eyes fixed forward, their discipline absolute.
Expected.
Prepared.
Elyssara’s gaze sharpens.
“He already knows we’re here,” Seren murmurs under her breath.
“Of course he does,” Ronyn mutters. “Would be unusual if kings and queens didn’t know more than us. It’s our thing—not knowing anything about everything. Remember?”
But there is no humor in it this time. Only tension.
The streets widen as they approach the inner hub, the architecture growing grander, more deliberate. Columns rise high enough to swallow the sky, painted with murals etchedwith scenes of conquest and unity, of kings crowned and enemies brought to heel. Every inch of it tells a story.
Not of tyranny.
Of legacy.
Of a man who believed he was building something worth protecting.
The palace comes into view slowly, like it’s being revealed rather than approached.
