The city felt restless.
From the balcony of the eastern hall, I watched the fog curl low across the streets, veiling rooftops and alleys. Beneath that gray shroud, movement was different—hurried, fragmented, uneasy. The rhythm of obedience was faltering.
I listened. The air carried more than silence. Whispers drifted upward: of a failed rite, of a Bride gone missing, of chains that did not bind as tightly as they once had.
The attendants thought me absorbed in the view. I let them think so. Their shifting feet and half-swallowed words told me enough—they, too, had heard. Fear was a contagion, and the city was breathing it in.
Later, in the inner halls, a servant dared to meet my gaze. His eyes darted left and right before he leaned closer, bowing low as if to adjust the hem of my gown. His voice was a breath:
"You are not alone."
Then he was gone, scurrying into shadow, leaving only the echo of words he should never have spoken.
I did not turn, did not pause, did not betray the weight of what I'd heard. But the phrase lingered, sharper than iron, colder than chain. Not alone.
It was dangerous. It was reckless. And it was true.
In the gallery of portraits, the painted Brides watched as I passed, their smiles brittle, their names erased. The air seemed thicker there, as if the Veil itself pressed close to listen.
I let the silence settle around me like armor. If the city stirred, if others whispered of rebellion, then the storm was no longer only mine.
And storms, once gathered, could not be unmade.