The carriage rolled through the iron gates of the Karmis estate as the afternoon sun began its slow descent toward the horizon. The fog had lifted, and for the first time in weeks, the sky was clear—pale blue streaked with thin clouds, the kind of sky that promised nothing and demanded nothing.
Sheila pressed her face to the window, watching the familiar grounds pass by. The oak tree at the center of the garden, its branches still bare.
I'm home, she thought. After everything, I'm home.
The carriage stopped before the main entrance. The door opened, and a footman helped her down, his hands gentle, his eyes bright with unshed tears.
"Welcome back, my lady," he said. "Welcome back."
---
The servants had gathered in the entrance hall.
They stood in a loose semicircle—maids in grey dresses, footmen in dark coats, the cook in her white apron, the stable master with his cap in his hands. Some of them were crying. Others were smiling. All of them looked at her as if she were a ghost returned from the dead.
Sheila felt her throat tighten.
"Lady Sheila," the cook said, stepping forward. She was a stout woman with grey hair and flour-dusted hands. "We prayed. Every day. Every night." She touched her forehead, then her heart—a gesture of devotion to Ignis, the Fire Source. "I prayed to Ignis to give you strength."
Beside her, a young maid crossed her arms over her chest and bowed her head—a prayer to Thalassa, the Water Source. "I asked the tides to carry you back to us," she whispered.
A footman pressed his palms together and closed his eyes—an offering to Tellus, the Earth Source. "I prayed for the ground to hold you steady," he said.
The stable master raised his hands to the sky—a supplication to Aetherius, the Air Source. "I asked the winds to bring you home."
Sheila looked at them—these people who served her household, who owed her family their livelihoods, who had chosen to pray in their own ways to their own Sources. They did not worship the same god. They did not share the same rituals. But they had all prayed for her.
"Thank you," she said. Her voice was small, barely a whisper. "Thank you all."
The cook nodded, wiping her eyes with her apron. The other servants murmured their own welcomes—soft words, some inaudible, some in languages Sheila did not recognize.
They all prayed for me, she thought. A girl they barely knew.
She felt tears prick at her eyes.
---
Duke Karmis appeared at her side, his hand on her shoulder.
"You should rest," he said. "The journey was long."
"I'm not tired, Grandfather."
"Then you should eat. The cook has prepared your favorite."
Sheila looked at the servants—at their wet eyes, their hopeful faces.
"I'll eat in the kitchen," she said. "With everyone."
The cook's face brightened. "My lady, the kitchen is not—"
"I don't care." Sheila smiled. "I've spent too long in hospital rooms. I want to be where the food is warm and the people are real."
The Duke nodded slowly. "As you wish."
---
The kitchen was warm, filled with the smell of roasting meat and baking bread. The servants gathered around the long wooden table, their usual hierarchy forgotten. Sheila sat among them, a bowl of soup before her, a chunk of bread in her hand.
The cook sat across from her, watching her eat.
"You've gotten thin, my lady."
"I've been through a lot."
"We know." The cook's voice was soft. "We heard what happened. The explosion. The hospital. The weeks you lay unconscious." She paused. "We were afraid, my lady. We were very afraid."
"I'm all right now."
"Thanks be to the Sources." The cook touched her forehead and heart again. "Whoever was listening."
Sheila ate her soup.
It was good.
---
The letter arrived the next morning.
Sheila found it on the breakfast tray, propped against the teapot, the envelope heavy with gold embossing. The paper was thick, expensive. The seal was pressed with the Aurelian crest—a flame rising from an anvil, the symbol of the royal house.
She broke the seal and unfolded the letter.
Lady Sheila Karmis,
By order of His Majesty, King George IV, you are requested to attend an audience at the Royal Fresteria Palace on the morning of the 15th. The purpose of this audience is to discuss matters pertaining to your health, your recovery, and your future role within the kingdom.
Carriage will be sent at nine.
By command of the Crown.
She read it twice. Then she set it down and looked at Duke Karmis, who was reading his own newspaper across the table.
"Grandfather," she said. "The King wants to see me."
The Duke lowered his paper. His face was unreadable.
"I know. I received a similar letter."
"What does he want?"
"I don't know. But we will find out together."
---
The Royal Fresteria Palace was smaller than the main palace, less ornate, tucked away in a quiet corner of the capital. It had been built as a retreat for the Queen—the late Queen, who had died before Sheila was born—and had been used rarely in the years since.
The carriage stopped before the entrance, and a footman helped her down.
The Duke was beside her, his hand on her elbow.
"I'm not going to fall, Grandfather."
"I know. But I like to be sure."
They climbed the steps, passed through the bronze doors, and were led by a servant through a series of corridors to a small reception room. The walls were paneled in dark wood, the windows draped in velvet, the floor covered in a thick carpet that muffled their footsteps.
The King was waiting by the window.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, his dark hair streaked with grey. He wore a simple suit—no medals, no crown, no symbols of his office. He looked, for a moment, like an ordinary man.
"Lady Karmis," he said, turning. "Duke Karmis. Thank you for coming."
The Duke bowed. Sheila curtsied.
"Please. Sit."
---
They sat on a velvet sofa, the King across from them in an armchair. A servant brought tea—dark, fragrant, steaming in delicate cups.
"I won't keep you long," the King said. "I know you've only just returned home. You need rest. You need time to heal."
"Thank you, Your Majesty."
"But there is something I wish to discuss." He set down his cup. "The people need to see you, Lady Karmis. They need to know that you are well. That you are strong. That the bombing did not break you."
"What do you suggest?"
"A banquet. Small, but public. A celebration of your recovery. An opportunity for the nobles and the commoners alike to see that the future queen is not afraid."
Sheila felt a chill run down her spine.
"Another banquet?"
"Not like the Annunciation. This will be smaller. More intimate. A dinner, perhaps, or an afternoon reception." The King smiled. "Nothing too strenuous. You've been through enough."
The Duke leaned forward. "And what is the purpose of this banquet, Your Majesty?"
The King's smile faded.
"The purpose, Duke Karmis, is to show the kingdom that the Crown stands strong. That we are not broken. That we will not be cowed by terrorists and heretics." He looked at Sheila. "Your presence will be a symbol, Lady Karmis. A symbol of hope. A symbol of resilience."
Sheila nodded slowly.
"I understand, Your Majesty."
"Good. The banquet will be held in three weeks. I will send details closer to the date." He stood. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have other matters to attend to."
---
The Duke and Sheila walked back through the corridors, their footsteps echoing on the marble floor.
"He seemed fine," Sheila said. "He didn't seem... unwell."
The Duke glanced at her. "What do you mean?"
"Prince Lumian said the King was paranoid. That he saw enemies everywhere. That he trusted no one." She shook her head. "He seemed perfectly normal to me."
The Duke was silent for a long moment.
"Perhaps the Prince sees something we do not. Or perhaps he sees what he wishes to see." He paused. "The King is a complicated man, child. He has ruled for decades. He has survived plots and conspiracies that would have broken lesser men. Whether he is paranoid or simply cautious..." He shrugged. "That is a matter of perspective."
"But why would Lumian say—"
"We should not speculate. Not here." The Duke touched her arm. "Come. Let us go home."
---
They reached the entrance hall. A servant was waiting by the door.
"Your Grace," the servant said, bowing. "Lady Karmis. Is there anything you require?"
"The Prince," Sheila said. "Where is he?"
The servant's eyes flickered. "His Highness is in the Royal Garden, my lady. He often goes there in the afternoons."
"Thank you."
She turned to the Duke. "I want to speak with him. Alone."
The Duke hesitated. Then he nodded.
"I'll wait in the carriage."
---
The Royal Garden was smaller than the one at the main palace, but more beautiful. Flowers bloomed in carefully arranged beds—roses, lilies, chrysanthemums, their colors bright against the grey stone walls. A fountain burbled in the center, its water clear and cold.
Prince Lumian sat on a bench beneath a bare oak tree, his hands clasped in his lap, his eyes fixed on the fountain. He did not look up when she approached.
Sheila stopped a few feet away.
"Lumian."
He looked up. His face was different—softer, younger, less like a mask and more like a boy. There was worry in his eyes, and something else. Something that looked like sadness.
"Lady Karmis," he said. "I didn't expect to see you here."
"I wanted to talk to you. About your father."
His face tightened. "What about him?"
"I saw him today. He seemed... fine. Normal. Not like the man you described."
Lumian was silent for a long moment.
"You saw what he wanted you to see."
"And you see something different?"
He looked at the fountain.
"I see a man who trusts no one. Who keeps his enemies close and his friends closer. Who smiles at you while measuring you for a coffin." He paused. "That's what I see."
"Is that what you believe, or what you know?"
Lumian turned to face her.
"It's what I've lived with every day of my life." His voice was low, controlled. "You've spent an hour with him. I've spent twelve years."
Sheila felt a chill run down her spine.
"Lumian—"
"Not here." He stood. "Not now. When you're ready to hear the truth—the real truth—come find me. But don't expect it to be easy."
He walked away, his footsteps soft on the gravel path.
Sheila stood alone by the fountain, the water burbling beside her, the flowers swaying in the breeze.
He believes what he said, she thought. Whether it's true or not... I don't know.
But I intend to find out.