THE ILLUSIONIST OF ELDRALITH

THE SILENCE OF COURTS

Dawn crept through the high windows of the royal solar, pale and cold, painting the marble floors with light that felt more like intrusion than grace. The palace of Eldralith had always been beautiful in the way cages sometimes were—gilded, quiet, and suffocating. Princess Elara had grown up within its walls, surrounded by silk and ceremony, yet she had never learned to breathe easily here.

Now, the air itself seemed poisoned with fear.

She sat at the long council table, a presence both required and ignored. The ministers bickered, their voices droning over maps and ledgers. They spoke of food levies, troop numbers, tribute shipments to the Veyran border—all numbers and bargains, all calculations of surrender disguised as diplomacy.

Her father, King Aldren, sat at the table’s head, his crown askew under the weight of sleepless nights. He no longer argued. He listened and nodded, each motion a slow erosion of sovereignty.

Elara had stopped trying to catch his eye. There was no strength left in it.

Lord Verric, the High Minister, leaned forward, his voice a serpent’s whisper. “The people grow restless, Majesty. They whisper of this magician as though he were a savior. Such talk is dangerous. We must make an example—find him, silence him, and offer his ashes to Commander Veyrik as proof of our loyalty.”

Across from him, General Caelreth’s scarred hand curled into a fist. “And what loyalty does Veyrik show us? He sends demands, not pacts. He would burn this kingdom for kindling if we bend much lower.”

Verric sneered. “Bold words from a soldier who has not fought a battle in five winters.”

The general half rose, but Elara’s voice cut through the tension before her father could speak.

“Enough.”

The word was soft, but it carried. The council chamber fell silent.

She did not often speak in these meetings—royal daughters were ornaments here, not voices—but today she found herself unable to remain still.

“Elara,” her father murmured wearily, “this is not—”

“It is exactly the time,” she interrupted, rising. Her reflection in the polished table seemed almost foreign—tall, composed, though her hands trembled faintly. “Every man here speaks of survival, yet no one speaks of dignity. You would sell the kingdom’s pride for a week’s peace. But what will happen when that peace ends, and we are nothing but servants with crowns?”

The courtiers shifted, uncertain. Verric smirked. “Your Highness speaks with passion, but passion does not fill bellies or stop armies.”

“No,” Elara said, meeting his gaze evenly, “but cowardice feeds them well enough.”

Gasps rustled through the room.

King Aldren’s voice was low, pained. “Daughter…”

Elara turned to him, her eyes softening for a moment. “Father, when the people speak of this magician, they do not speak of rebellion—they speak of hope. Do not punish them for it. They are drowning. Let them have something to cling to, even if it is illusion.”

Her father looked away, his jaw tight. The chamber felt colder.

Verric rose, bowing mockingly. “If illusions are all we have left, then perhaps your Highness should take the throne herself. You seem quite ready to rule with dreams.”

Caelreth slammed his palm onto the table. “Enough! The princess speaks truth, whether you wish to hear it or not.”

The king finally stood. “Enough, all of you. The council is dismissed.”

The ministers bowed stiffly and departed, their whispers trailing like snakes through the hall.

Elara remained where she stood until the chamber emptied. Only when the heavy doors closed behind them did she allow the tension to leave her shoulders.

Her father sank back into his chair. “You should not provoke them, Elara.”

“I did not provoke,” she said quietly. “I reminded.”

He sighed. “Veyrik watches everything. Even words can be treason now.”

“Then let him choke on them,” she muttered before she could stop herself.

His eyes lifted sharply, but he did not scold her. He looked instead toward the high window where sunlight caught the motes of dust like golden ash. “You sound like your mother when she was young. She, too, thought fire could purify.”

Elara’s chest tightened. “And did it?”

He did not answer.

When she left the chamber, she walked not toward her quarters but downward, through the narrow servants’ corridors where courtiers never strayed. Her footsteps echoed softly off stone walls, her cloak brushing cobwebs that had gathered in the years since the palace began closing in on itself.

She needed air—space to think without the weight of crowns or duty pressing against her ribs.

The lower halls led to the old garden terraces, long abandoned since the Veyran occupation of the eastern wing. Once, these terraces had been her mother’s refuge—a riot of ivy and jasmine, fountains that caught the stars. Now they were overgrown and silent.

Elara knelt beside a cracked fountain where moss had claimed the marble nymphs. Her fingers traced the water’s still surface. For the first time that morning, she let the mask fall.

The council’s cowardice, her father’s defeat, Verric’s venomous sneers—it all tangled within her like thorned vines. But beneath it was something sharper.

The name the people whispered: the magician.

Kaelen.

She had not seen him, but the stories spread like wildfire: the illusionist who conjured flame from air, who defied soldiers and vanished in smoke. The man Veyrik demanded in chains. The man the people now called “the Flame of Eldralith.”

Elara did not believe in saviors. But she believed in symbols. And symbols could move nations.

A movement in the shadows broke her thoughts. She straightened, her hand instinctively going to the small knife she kept hidden in her sleeve.

“Peace, my lady,” a voice said, soft and amused.

A young woman stepped into the light—dark-haired, hooded, dressed in the muted garb of a palace attendant. But Elara recognized her at once. Dalia.

The magician’s companion.

Elara’s heart skipped once. “You have nerve, coming here.”

“Desperation makes us bold,” Dalia said evenly. “I came because the magician cannot. The Veyrans are closing the roads. There are eyes in every town. He sent me to see whether Eldralith’s crown intends to hand him over—or whether there’s still a spine left in your father’s court.”

Elara’s pulse quickened. “You’re asking for sanctuary.”

“I’m asking for time,” Dalia corrected. “If the king surrenders Kaelen, Veyrik will still come. He wants more than one man—he wants your throne.”

Elara studied her closely. There was no fear in Dalia’s eyes, only defiance. The kind that burned quietly, refusing to bow.

“What does he want, your magician?” she asked.

“To live free,” Dalia said simply. “But if he cannot, he will make sure others can.”

Elara turned her gaze toward the ruined fountain, the reflection of the sky trembling on its surface. “You think he can stand against Veyrik?”

“I think he already has,” Dalia said. “And I think you must decide whether you’ll let him stand alone.”

The silence stretched.

Finally, Elara said, “Tell him this—Eldralith is not blind. Nor are all of us broken. There are still those within these walls who remember what it means to fight, even if we must do so in whispers.”

Dalia nodded. “Then we understand each other.”

Elara rose. “Leave before the guards change. Take the north postern gate; it’s watched, but not closely. Tell your magician to keep moving. If he stays near the capital, he’ll die.”

Dalia’s mouth quirked into a faint smile. “You speak as though you care.”

“I care about my kingdom,” Elara said. “And about the cost of losing it.”

The woman’s smile deepened, almost approving. “Then perhaps we’re on the same side.”

When she vanished into the garden’s shadowed arches, Elara exhaled slowly. The weight of her words pressed against her ribs. She had just committed treason, though softly spoken, wrapped in the silk of discretion.

But something inside her no longer feared the word.

That night, as the palace slept, Elara stood before her writing desk. A single candle flickered beside her, its flame small yet fierce. She took up her quill and began to write—not to Veyrik, nor to her father, but to the stranger the world now named a rebel.

> To the one who walks unbound,

Eldralith stands on the edge of a blade. The court trembles, the king falters, and the people whisper your name as if it were prayer. Whether you wished it or not, you have become the echo of something greater.

Do not mistake their hope for burden; it is weapon and shield alike. If you mean to survive, do so wisely. If you mean to fight, know that not all within the palace serve the hawk.

The crown sees you. I see you. And the world is beginning to remember what cannot be chained.

— E.

She sealed the letter with her signet—not her royal seal, but her personal crest: a star entwined with a vine.

Outside, thunder rolled faintly beyond the mountains. The air smelled of rain and iron.

Elara held the letter over the candle flame for a moment, watching the wax drip like blood before handing it to her most trusted handmaiden.

“Give this to the night courier,” she said. “No guards, no markings. If anyone asks, it is a letter of condolence to the families in Caldre.”

The girl bowed and vanished into the corridors.

When Elara was finally alone, she turned to the window. The city stretched out below—rooftops, towers, the river cutting through like a blade. Somewhere out there, a fugitive illusionist carried a spark that could ignite the world.

And she, a princess trapped in her own gilded cage, had just fanned it into flame.

She rested her palms on the cold stone windowsill. In the distance, a storm was gathering—real, heavy, and inevitable.

For the first time, Elara did not dread it.

She welcomed it.