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“No.” I force stability back into the flow. “They will return.”

But the doubt lingers, feeding on my exhaustion. I laid my sister to rest, then lost my twin a handful of moons ago. I’ve always been the quiet one, the twin who supported rather than led as Elionn set off on his adventures.

What if fate’s cruel joke is to crown me king through their loss rather than my ascension? The thought turns my stomach, bitter bile rising as I imagine the cost.

Silver surges in response to my distress with punishing force. White-hot pain consumes my vision. I bite my lip until I taste fresh blood, using the sting of pain to bring me back to my purpose here.

This is what I was born for, what I trained alongside Elionn and Lunaria to do since we first showed signs of magic. Guard the roots while others tend the branches. Maintain the foundation while Theron builds alliances. Stay behind while others venture forth.

But theory never prepared me for this crushing solitude, this bone-deep awareness that I alone stand between order and chaos.

If I falter, the sithe falters.

If I break, the sithe breaks.

Amalia commanded me to hold, and I will not fail.

The magic stabilizes, settling into a rhythm I can maintain without conscious direction. It still burns, still demands more than I want to give, but the immediate crisis passes.

The court accepts me, for now, as a worthy caretaker.

As the magic finally quiets enough to let me breathe without agony, I sag with relief. My muscles scream in protest as I struggle upright, legs nearly folding beneath me after hours of kneeling on marble.

Blood crusts around my nostrils and lips, crumbling beneath my shaking hands as I wipe my face. The anchor stones still glow with steady Silver light, content for the moment with what I’ve given them, but the respite won’t last.

I stagger toward the doors, each step by strength of will alone.

The moment I cross the threshold, the chaos of the spire rushes in to greet me. The Silver Sithe may have settled, its magic quiet within the stones, but its people have not.

Servants cluster in anxious knots, whispering prayers to ancestors who have ceased to answer. Guards argue in overlapping shouts as they try to reassign posts disrupted by the magical upheaval.

“Stay calm!” a councilor shouts, but no one listens.

As I emerge from the depths of the spire, a hush ripples outward from those gathered.

“Prince Caelan,” someone gasps, stepping forward. “Are we secure? Has the sithe stabilized? Should we call for healers? Should we⁠—”

I do not have the strength for reassurances. Standing takes nearly everything I have left.

“I must rest,” I manage, throat raw from hours of holding back a tide of Silver magic. “Prepare rooms. The outer borders are failing. We may have refugees before nightfall.”

Fear strips away their restraint, and they refuse to let me simply walk past. Hands reach out, not touching but near enough that the air vibrates with their need. Too many questions crash together. Too much burning expectation.

“Your Highness, the wards⁠—”

“The tremors⁠—”

“Is the King returning⁠—”

“How much territory have we lost⁠—”

I push forward, forcing myself between them. The movement is clumsy, far less graceful than a prince should be, but I cannot stop. If I stay, their terror will drag me under.

My vision blurs. The walls tilt. A guard tries to steady me, but the moment his hand brushes my arm, the sithe’s magic flares in warning, reacting to my frayed control.

I wrench away before I hurt him.

“Stand aside,” I command, the words biting with enough authority that the nearest cluster recoils, granting me a narrow path.