The palace was alive with music.
Beneath lanterns strung like stars, courtiers danced and spun in silks, their laughter rising into the twilight. It was the Night of Moonless Leaves—a celebration older than the throne itself, a night when all shadows were honored and all fears were masked behind revelry.
And it was the perfect night to vanish.
Elara stood in the shadows of the old apothecary tower, her cloak pulled tight, her pulse loud in her ears. Her hands trembled slightly as she held the vial Jeon-Myeong had given her — a translucent liquid that shimmered like oil and fog. The "Shadow Severance," he called it. A brew of root and time-moss, laced with crushed moonflower.
"Drink only when the gates are in sight," he had warned. "It bends light. But only for the length of a breath in a storm."
Beside the vial was the map.
Hand-drawn. Ancient. The ink still smelled of sulfur and ash. It showed every forgotten hallway, every drainage canal, every secret gate long buried by stone and silence. It had taken Jeon-Myeong years to complete, and only now did he dare to use it.
"Tonight," he had whispered, eyes fever-bright, "the palace dreams. No one watches the shadows when they dance."
Elara tucked the map inside her sleeve and pressed her back against the cool wall.
One chance.
She moved.
⸻
She slipped through the servant passages first, the ones that wound behind the kitchens and under the wine cellars. They were narrow and dust-choked, filled with old spider silk and the faint scent of vinegar and lavender. Once, she heard voices—two cooks arguing about plum wine—and flattened herself against the wall until they passed.
Her feet moved quickly, silently. Every step had been practiced a hundred times in her mind.
She passed under the Hall of Painted Blossoms, where nobles laughed and musicians played, and up through a forgotten archway into the aqueduct tunnels. Water rushed quietly to her right, black and glistening.
The eastern gate wasn't far.
Elara's heart pounded harder. The closer she got, the more the world around her felt unreal. Like she was walking through a dream made of memory.
Every corridor whispered names.
Every door felt like a mouth about to open.
⸻
At the fork in the tunnels, she stopped and pulled out the map. Jeon-Myeong had circled the location in red ink: Stone Gate of Ashen Vines. It was hidden in the roots of the ancient wall — the same wall the King had reinforced with new stone, fearing the rot of the old Sylara foundation.
She found it.
Almost missed it.
A section of moss-covered wall where the bricks dipped unnaturally, as if pressed inward by time. She placed her hand on the indentation — and felt it warm beneath her skin.
The stone shifted.
A narrow opening creaked open, just wide enough for her to slip through.
Beyond it was moonless dark.
⸻
She was almost free.
But the guards were near.
From the other side of the tunnel, she heard footsteps and clinking metal — two men speaking in low tones about stolen wine and the charms of palace maids.
Elara's fingers fumbled for the vial.
She uncorked it with her teeth and drank.
The taste was bitter, like burnt mint and old firewood.
The world warped.
Her skin buzzed. The lanterns dimmed around her. A strange veil seemed to pass between her and the world — not full invisibility, but distortion. Her body blurred at the edges, like heat haze on summer stone.
She ran.
Past the guards — they turned slightly, as if sensing a shift in the air, but said nothing.
Through the archway.
Over the mossy stones.
To the outside gate.
Her breath caught in her throat as she saw it — the forest beyond. Dark and endless. Alive.
She reached for the final lever.
And froze.
Someone stood there.
A figure cloaked in silver-gray, face obscured, sword at his side.
Elara's heart thudded violently.
Jae-Hwa?
No.
Too tall. Too still.
"Going somewhere?" the figure said softly.
Elara didn't speak.
She gripped the last vial in her belt — smoke powder, Jeon-Myeong's last gift.
The figure stepped closer. A flick of moonlight revealed part of his face — not Jae-Hwa, but Han'Yoon, the eldest prince. The one who rarely spoke. The one with the sharp, suspicious eyes.
"I thought I smelled stormroot," he murmured. "Only Jeon-Myeong uses it."
He looked directly at her.
"I see you, Elara."
She threw the vial.
Smoke erupted, thick and choking.
And she ran.
⸻
Branches whipped her face. Roots clawed at her feet.
The forest welcomed her like a lover in pain — rough and wild. The moonless sky stretched above her like a wound, and still she ran.
Behind her, no one followed.
Not yet.
She didn't stop until the forest swallowed the palace lights.
Then she collapsed to her knees.
Her lungs burned. Her hands bled. The glow on her wrist pulsed rapidly — not in fear, but in rhythm. In direction.
Toward the East.
Toward the Summit.
Toward her mother.
She whispered, "I made it."
And from the silence came a whisper in return.
"You are not alone."
⸻
Far behind, in the palace, Prince Han'Yoon stood beside the gate, watching the last tendrils of smoke fade.
His sword remained sheathed.
He turned and walked back toward the palace, where the King stood waiting beneath a throne of stolen stars.
"She's gone," he said.
The King did not speak.
But his hand clenched.
And the Cheonhwa pulsed red.