We walk in silence.

  Not the comfortable quiet of shared understanding, nor the hostile stillness of enemies unwilling to speak. This silence is deliberate. Calculated. Each footfall on the garden path a word unspoken, each breath a sentence swallowed whole.

  Uncle Titus maintains a precise distance from me. Three feet. Not close enough to suggest intimacy. Not far enough to imply disinterest. His shadow falls across the path at an angle that somehow encompasses mine, as if even our silhouettes observe a hierarchy.

  The gardens have transformed since dawn. Morning light catches the qilin engravings in the stone, making them visible where they hid in shadow hours ago. Beneath gossamer canopies, meditation courtyards invite contemplation. The fountain flows in its impossible slowness, each droplet hanging like liquid crystal before finally surrendering to gravity.

  Beautiful. Serene. Empty of comfort.

  I focus on small details to anchor myself. The way Titus's platinum hair catches light. The rhythm of his footsteps, measured and even. How his hands rest at his sides, neither tense nor relaxed but held in perfect neutral.

  His double pupils see more than I can comprehend. Dimensions beyond my perception. Truths I cannot grasp. I feel their weight even when he is not looking at me directly.

  We round a corner. Pass beneath an archway carved with subtle symbols. The path winds deeper into the gardens, away from the Sacral Enclosure, away from the gathered scions and their whispers.

  Away from witnesses.

  The realization settles in my chest like a rough stone.

  Movement draws my eye. Figures orbit us at a distance, maintaining formation with practiced precision. Uncle Titus's Anathyrsi. His Sword Slaves.

  I count them without meaning to. One. Two. Three.

  Their sigils glow faintly in the morning light, burn-scars asymmetrical across exposed skin. Ugly. Powerful. Each mark unique, each body a canvas of pain given purpose. They move with enhanced awareness, eyes constantly scanning, bodies positioned to intercept threats from any angle.

  Four. Five.

  I study their movements. How they orbit Titus like moons around a planet, pulled by invisible forces. How they communicate through glances and subtle shifts of weight. How their enhanced senses create a perimeter of protection that extends beyond sight.

  Six.

  The count stops.

  Something is wrong.

  I review the formation again. Count once more to be certain. Six Sword Slaves where there should be seven.

  Bluter is still missing.

  The absence registers as wrongness before I can name it. A gap in the pattern. An orbit incomplete. I search for his distinctive features among the others: the scar that splits his left eyebrow, the particular angle of his jaw, the way he favors his right side when standing still.

  Not there. He is still gone.

  I think back to the last time I saw him. Six months ago, standing outside Titus's private chambers. He had looked... different. Tired. The sigils on his arms had burned brighter than usual, pulsing with each heartbeat. He caught me watching and his expression...

  "This will be your first Festival of Retrospection."

  Titus's voice cuts through my thoughts like a blade through silk.

  I blink. The memory of Bluter dissolves unfinished.

  "Are you excited?"

  The question hangs in the air between us. I turn it over in my mind, examining its angles. Is this genuine curiosity? A test? Does he expect enthusiasm or dread?

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  Should I be excited?

  I do not speak the thought aloud.

  The silence extends. One heartbeat. Two. Long enough to be noticeable but not quite long enough to be defiant.

  "That depends," Titus says, as if I had answered. As if he heard the question I kept locked behind my teeth. He pauses, lets the moment stretch. "On how much you want to see me bleed."

  I blink.

  Cannot form a response. Cannot process the casual way he speaks of his own suffering. The High-Exarch will cane him. Publicly. In front of the assembled citizens of Malkiel. And he asks if I am excited to witness it.

  "That much, huh."

  Titus bursts out laughing.

  The sound shatters the garden's careful serenity like glass under a hammer. Genuine. Unrestrained. His head tilts back slightly, shoulders shaking. The Sword Slaves do not react. They have heard this before.

  I stare at him. The disconnect between his laughter and the moment feels vast enough to drown in.

  He reads something in my expression that makes him laugh harder.

  Then, as suddenly as it began, the laughter fades. His expression shifts. Not quite serious. Not quite playful. Something between that I cannot name.

  "My children hate me." He says it as if commenting on the weather. Casual. Light. "Do you know why?"

  My throat tightens.

  "No," I say.

  The lie tastes like ash.

  A sinking feeling spreads through my stomach. Cold. Heavy. Because I do know. We both know. The answer sits between us, visible as the fountain, as real as the stone beneath our feet.

  But neither of us speaks it aloud.

  The silence that follows is different from before. Heavier. Complicit. We share knowledge we refuse to acknowledge. Truth we will not name.

  His double pupils study me. Measure. Assess.

  I hold his gaze and say nothing.

  Movement breaks the moment. A eunuch approaches from the direction of the palace, distinctive in muted gray robes. The Mark of Nullification shows dark against his wrist as he bows. His movements carry practiced deference, each gesture precise.

  He does not speak to Titus directly. Protocol forbids it.

  Instead, he moves to the nearest Sword Slave and whispers something too soft for me to hear. The Sword Slave's hand moves in response, fingers forming complex shapes. Not random gestures but language. Meaning compressed into motion.

  Titus reads it instantly.

  His expression changes. Subtle but definitive. The casual air evaporates like morning mist under a harsh sun.

  He sighs.

  His hand settles on my shoulder. Firm. Controlling. The grip is neither gentle nor cruel, merely absolute.

  "You will tell no one what you saw."

  The command lands like stone in still water. Ripples spread outward, disturbing everything.

  "I do not understand—"

  "You do not need to understand." His voice remains calm, but beneath it I hear iron. Unyielding. "You need only to obey. When the Exarchs come, and they will come, you will tell them the Veilstone showed you nothing of consequence. A test of worthiness. Shadows and light. Nothing more."

  He pauses. His fingers tighten slightly on my shoulder.

  "Not the Exarchs. Not your cousins." Another pause, weighted with meaning. "Not even Cyra."

  The mention of my sister's name lands heavier than the rest. A specific warning. A particular prohibition.

  My pulse quickens. Questions pile up behind my teeth, pressing against the gate I keep locked. Why does he care what I saw? What does he know about the vision? Why mention Cyra specifically?

  I swallow them all.

  "Do you understand?" Titus asks.

  "Yes."

  The word comes automatically. Obedience trained into bone.

  His hand drops from my shoulder. He turns without waiting for further acknowledgment. The Sword Slaves fall into formation around him instantly, moving as one coordinated unit. Six of them. Not seven.

  They walk away through the gardens, following the path deeper into House Azure's sprawling grounds. I watch them go. Watch the gap in their formation where Bluter should stand. Watch until they disappear around a bend in the path, swallowed by pale blue stone and morning light.

  Silence returns.

  I stand alone in the garden. The fountain continues its impossible flow. The qilin engravings watch from stone, patient and eternal.

  I replay Titus's words. Examine them from multiple angles. You will tell no one what you saw. As if he knows what I witnessed. As if my vision confirmed something he already suspected.

  Not even Cyra.

  That prohibition sits heaviest in my chest. My sister, who stood beside me in the Dularch-Temple. Who promised I was her brother whatever happened. And now I must lie to her by omission. Must lock away truth she might understand.

  The Inner Hell's gate trembles. I push it down. Lock it tighter.

  Questions without answers circle like carrion birds. But one thought cuts clearer than the rest:

  Titus would not care about my silence unless my vision threatened something. Unless what I saw in the Veilstone's depths carries weight beyond personal trial.

  Unless I witnessed something true.

  Movement draws my attention. Another eunuch approaches, this one different from the first. Older. His gray robes darker, almost charcoal. The Mark of Nullification on his neck rather than his wrist. He moves with the quiet authority of one who serves Grandmother directly.

  He stops at the precise distance protocol demands. Bows with measured grace.

  "Your grandmother requires your presence, young master."

  The words are formal. Expected. But their timing feels deliberate.

  I have been passed from one authority to another. From uncle to grandmother. Moved across the board like a Karesh game piece with no say in my placement.

  The eunuch waits. Patient. Immovable.

  I glance back at the path where Titus disappeared. The command still echoes in my thoughts. Tell no one.

  Then forward, toward where Grandmother waits. Another interrogation. Another test. Another cage.

  "Lead on," I say.

  The eunuch bows again and turns.

  I follow.