Through the Veil of Whispers[BL]

I never expected the palace to shimmer. Not like this. Not with the kind of light that made the stone look like glass, or the halls smell of citrus blossoms and something warmerlike honey baked into old wood. When I woke this morning, I hadn't noticed anything different at first. The corridor outside my room was as quiet as usual, though two servants were sweeping the floors with quicker, almost anxious movements. I caught the faint hum of stringed instruments drifting from somewhere distant.

Then came the knock. Not the usual gentle tap. This was Sharp.

"Enter," I called, wiping the sleep from my eyes.

The door opened, and a young woman stepped in, not one I recognized. She bowed slightly, her silver-gray tunic glittering with threads that caught the light like moonlit frost.

"Sir Minjae," she said. "Your presence is requested in the dressing hall. Preparations for the Festival of Moons are underway."

"Festival?" I echoed.

Her smile was faint. "You'll see."

—

The dressing hall wasn't a hall, more like a gallery, marble floors polished to a mirror shine, arching ceilings painted with celestial scenes. The moon phases circled above in dark blues and silvers, constellations swirling toward the domed center.

There were attendants waiting, three of them. None spoke as I entered, but they gestured gently toward the center platform. I was used to feeling like a stranger here. But as they started to layer fabric around me, smoothing silks and fastening clasps with silent efficiency, I felt even more like a mannequin than a man.

Still…I couldn't deny it.

The outfit was beautiful.

It wasn't overly ornate, nothing like the stiff royal coats I'd glimpsed on the older noblemen but it had elegance. A deep sapphire robe, embroidered with waves of silver thread that shimmered when I moved. Underneath, a lighter tunic of sheer gray layered against dark blue pants tucked into soft leather boots. The robe was fastened with a belt crafted from braided silk cords, a small polished disc hanging from the side, a design I recognized from the murals around the palace: the dual moons of Elyndra. Then came the final touch, a silver shoulder clasp shaped like a crescent, cool against my skin.

I looked at myself in the mirror.

Not quite Elyndran. But not quite Earth anymore either.

—

The palace had transformed. Lanterns floated along the walkways like drifting stars. Silk banners streamed from the towers, dyed in rich shades of violet and pale gold. A light snowfall had begun early in the afternoon, soft flakes catching in the curves of the stone balconies and gathering like powdered sugar on the tiled roofs.

The Festival of Moons, I learned, was one of the oldest traditions in Aurenholt, celebrated once every turning of the twin moons when their orbits aligned in what the Elyndrans called Selvarin: the Binding Night. It was a time of reflection and renewal, of storytelling and secrets whispered beneath moonlight.

The outer courtyard usually stark and silent was now alive. Musicians lined the edges, their instruments unlike any I'd seen: fluted glass horns, harps strung with silver thread, drums carved with crescent etchings. Dancers moved between them, their flowing clothes catching the light as they spun.

There were tables laden with food, bowls of spice-dusted fruit, roast meats basted in honeyed glaze, sweet buns shaped like moons, glazed with pale icing that glittered faintly under the lanterns.

And then there were the people.

Courtiers dressed in layered robes, woven with metallic threads that sparkled like starlight. Some wore half-masks shaped like moons or wolves. Others painted their skin in swirling constellations. The air was filled with laughter, music, the clink of goblets, and beneath it all a sense of suspended reality. It didn't feel real. And for a moment, I didn't know where I belonged.

Then I saw him.

Prince Eryndor stood at the far edge of the main courtyard, half-shadowed beneath a sweeping archway, speaking to a noble in low tones. But even from across the space, he stood out. His outfit was stark, regal, and striking. Midnight black, shot through with silver embroidery that ran along the high collar and down his sleeves in the shape of interlocking runes. His robe, long and split at the sides, moved when he turned. The sash at his waist bore the sigil of the royal house, a winged stag beneath two crescent moons. A silver circlet rested on his brow, subtle but unmistakable. And yet, it wasn't the clothes.

It was him.

The way he carried them. People noticed him, even when he said nothing.

Our eyes met just for a heartbeat. And then he looked away.

—

"Try the honey citrus tarts," came a voice at my side. I blinked and turned. A young woman offered me a small plate, her amber eyes amused.

"You've been standing like a statue for five minutes," she said. "Don't worry. No one bites unless invited."

I gave a small laugh. "Thanks. Still adjusting."

"You and half the court. This is the first public festival since the Frost Recession." She offered a tart. "I'm Aiven, by the way. Scholar of Seers' Lore."

"Minjae."

"I know." She winked. "Your arrival's made quite the ripple."

I took the tart. It melted on my tongue, citrus, honey, with a dash of spice. Aiven chatted easily, pointing out nobles, explaining festival rituals. The fire dancers would come at twilight, she said. There would be a storytelling circle by the statue of the first king. At midnight, a symbolic lantern would be carried to the Moonpool and released. A ritual meant to carry intentions to the stars.

I listened, nodded, asked a few polite questions but my gaze kept drifting back to Eryndor. He hadn't moved much. Still speaking to nobles, still calm, distant, collected. His expression didn't change, not even once. But I noticed the way his eyes sometimes flicked toward the edges of the crowd.

Watching.

—

When the moon rose fully above the eastern dome pale and vast like a polished coin, the crowd grew quiet. A hush fell as a procession of masked dancers entered the courtyard, forming a slow, swirling pattern beneath the moonlight. Their robes were made of sheer silver and violet layers that reflected the moons like water.

The music changed, lower, more haunting. And then the storyteller came forward. A robed figure, face veiled in white silk, holding a staff topped with a dual-moon emblem. She began to speak not in Elyndran, but in some older, more melodic tongue. The crowd bowed their heads, listening.

I didn't understand the words. But I felt them. Like ripples over still water, pulling at something deep inside me. I stood still, breath shallow. And once again, I felt fire at the edges of my mind.

The scroll. The tower.

"The crown will fall in silence if the spark is lost".

I squeezed my eyes shut. When I opened them again, Eryndor was gone from the archway and standing directly in front of me.

I froze.

He said nothing at first just studied me, as if trying to unravel something not quite visible.

"Enjoying the festival?" he asked finally.

"I… yeah," I managed. "It's beautiful."

"It's distraction," he said coolly. "Every court needs one now and then."

I frowned. "You don't believe in its purpose?"

He remained silent.

"And dreams?"

His jaw tightened. "Dreams," he said, "can seduce the foolish into believing they matter."

We stood in silence for a moment, the crowd swirling around us in color and laughter. Then he added, softer, "But sometimes they carry truth."

He didn't wait for my response. Just turned and disappeared into the crowd. And I stood there, unsure what he meant.

The silence he left behind wrapped around me like fog. I stared after him, his dark figure already blending with the stream of silver and violet robes. The space between us felt heavier than the chill in the air, and I didn't know if it was from his words… or the look in his eyes.

"Interesting choice of company," Aiven said, suddenly appearing again beside me with two cups of something steaming and sweet-smelling. I took one, glad for the distraction. "Didn't know I had a choice."

She smirked. "You always do. But very few dare speak to the Prince directly"

"I didn't, he came to me."

"That's rarer still."

I took a sip. The drink was warm, spiced with something like cinnamon and crushed berries. It calmed the tremor in my fingers. Above us, the moons now stood perfectly aligned, glowing like twin sentinels. A hush fell once more. Then a bell rang low, resonant, and echoed by three others in the distance.

"It's time," Aiven said. "Come on. You should see this."

The Moonpool sat beyond the lower gardens, past a winding path flanked by silver-leafed trees. Dozens of lanterns floated on the water already glowing softly, their reflections like stars caught on liquid glass. Ministers and nobles gathered in quiet reverence. Each person carried a single paper lantern, shaped like a lotus or a crescent, scrawled with ink with their wish.

I hadn't made one. But Aiven handed me a blank parchment. "Quick. Just…write what weighs heaviest tonight."

I hesitated. The brush in my fingers felt foreign. But I dipped it into the inkpot she held out, and slowly, in shaky strokes, I wrote:

"I don't know who I'm meant to be anymore."

She helped me tuck it inside the lantern and seal it. Then we stepped to the edge.

One by one, people lowered theirs into the water. Some whispered over them. Some cried. When I placed mine down, the water was colder than I expected. It stung, and then I let go. The lantern floated away drifting gently to join the others.

Across the water, another lantern bobbed into view. I squinted. The design on it was a sharp, elegant script, minimal and bold. Royal. I didn't need to ask who had written it.

Prince Eryndor stood at the far side of the Moonpool, silent and alone. Our gazes met again. No words passed between us. But in the reflection, our lanterns drifted close. Almost touching.

—

Later that night, the festival quieted. Some returned to their quarters. Others remained in quiet clusters under archways and hanging lights. I wandered back slowly, unsure if I wanted to sleep. The visions had been growing sharp flashes in the corners of my mind, like fire flickering just out of reach. In the stillness of the corridor near the east tower, I passed a figure I hadn't seen before. A boy no more than ten sitting cross-legged on the cold marble, drawing in chalk.

"What are you drawing?" I asked quietly.

He looked up and smiled. His eyes were silver. "The end."

I froze. "The end of what?"

" The fall. The prophecy."

Suddenly cold I asked "Who are you?"

But he was gone. The chalk lines remained. Two moons, a crack between them…and a flame rising from the middle. My heart thundered. And far above, in the dark sky…one of the moons flickered.

Just for a second. But I saw it. And I wasn't the only one.

—