Auren hadn't moved from the balcony since the music faded.
The Wazir's words still lingered—"You don't fit them. You fit things that haven't happened yet." He didn't like what that meant. He didn't like that it might be true.
The laughter and music had dulled to a hush. No more performance, no more ceremony—only the slow drag of chains and boots echoing through the marble chamber.
Auren leaned against the cold stone rail. His posture hadn't changed, but his eyes were sharper now, pinned to the torch-lit circle forming below. The nobles gathered near the platform as if drawn to a familiar ritual. A single figure was being led into the center.
A girl.
Her hair were thick, tangled, dark—matted in parts with dirt and dried blood. Her tunic, if it could be called that, was little more than a shredded military coat cinched tight at the waist, the sleeves torn at the elbow. Cuts lined her legs beneath grimy trousers, and her right eye was nearly swollen shut. The left was bright gold.
Still burning.
"She's not from the city," Auren said, quietly.
"No," the Wazir replied. "She's from a different country, where people still believe freedom means something."
She walked as if pain had made its home in her body a long time ago. Proud posture. Stiff walk. The defiance wasn't gone, it had just learned to hide behind silence.
The Marquis watched from the platform. Auren caught the glint of silver at his father's sleeve—formality, restraint, power. Valtan stood nearby, looking far too pleased with the spectacle.
"Citizens of House Veyr," the Marquis declared, "tonight we celebrate lineage, loyalty, and law. And to remind us of what we protect, we present the consequence of those who defy it."
The girl didn't look at the Marquis. She didn't even acknowledge the crowd.
She looked at Auren.
It wasn't a glance. It was a fixation—as if she knew him. As if something in her cracked open at the sight of him.
Auren straightened unconsciously. For a moment, he felt pity—sharp and unwanted. Then something beneath that. Something older. Unconsciously he extended his hand towards the direction of the girl.
Then it happened.
He didn't speak. He didn't move. But the space between them folded.
A spike of emotion hit him—cold, splintering pain. Her pain. Her fear. Her grief.
It lanced into him, stealing his breath. He gripped the railing hard, knuckles white, heartbeat suddenly loud in his ears.
Below, the girl staggered. Her body seized—like something invisible had punched through her. Her golden eye snapped back to him. Not in fear.
In recognition.
She collapsed. The guards rushed in to catch her. The crowd murmured, some recoiling, some whispering about curses or seizures.
The Wazir appeared beside him again, voice soft. "You didn't mean to, did you?"
Auren said nothing.
"She'll feel it forever now," the Wazir went on. "She'll wake up remembering being saved. She just won't know from where."
Auren kept staring at the girl as they dragged her away.
"What did I give her?" he asked.
The Wazir smiled faintly, almost reverently.
"Hope," he said. "Not yours. Hers. From a moment she hasn't lived yet."