THE PALACE OF GLASS

Lyra's first day as a "bodyguard" was mostly about not gawking like a tourist.

The palace was enormous. She'd known that intellectually — she'd studied blueprints, memorized layouts, planned infiltration routes. But knowing something and experiencing it were different things. The reality of the palace hit her like a physical force: the sheer scale of the place, the wealth displayed so casually it stopped being impressive and became absurd.

Golden chandeliers hung from ceilings painted with scenes from Veyran history — the Thread-Weaver creating the first bonds, the old kings establishing the realm, the war that had nearly destroyed everything. Marble floors reflected her own suspicious expression back at her. Servants moved through corridors with the smooth efficiency of people who'd never known hunger.

Kaelen walked beside her, close enough that the Crimson Thread's effects were manageable — apparently, distance amplified the emotional sharing, while proximity made it more like background noise. She felt his calm through the bond, his practiced ease in these surroundings, and tried to absorb some of it.

"This way," he said, guiding her toward a wing she'd never seen on any blueprint. "Your quarters. Near mine, but separate."

The room he showed her was small by palace standards — just a bedroom and a private washroom — but luxurious by any other measure. A real bed with clean sheets. A window that actually looked out on the garden. A desk, a wardrobe, even a bookshelf with volumes she suspected he'd chosen personally.

"It's temporary," he said, watching her reaction through the Thread. "Until we understand the situation better."

"It's fine." She kept her voice neutral. "Better than my room in the Ashes."