Chapter 38
Castle in the Clouds
MAX
Sun knights flank us in rigid silence as we march toward the Solar Cliffs through a blur of rain. The round bit they forced into my mouth pulls painfully at the corners of my lips, and my nerves are worn so thin I can barely feel my bound hands anymore.
E’s footprints appear in puddles every few seconds, proof he’s still close, but I’m boxed in on all sides. The soldiers keep enough distance between us to ensure he can’t get near me without being noticed. The bluff he pulled in the forest bought us passage, but not their trust.
After about an hour of walking, the thick black-and-gray storm clouds part overhead, and my breath catches around the gag.
The Solar Cliffs form a solid ivory wall in front of us, curving in a vast three-quarter circle around the valley.
Only the lower ridges directly ahead provide a way through, as though some god split a mountain open and polished the wound smooth.
The summit disappears into the clouds, its true height impossible to gauge.
The stone looks pristine and luminous beneath the rain—not chalky or rough like ordinary rock, but dense and gleaming as marble or quartz, its surface streaked here and there with faint veins of honey.
Guard towers crown the lower ridges, and watchful banners snap violently in the wind.
The Sun Court knights march me straight toward the closest checkpoint, past armed sentries who barely spare me a glance. The route upward alternates between broad terraces and sweeping staircases, each step perfectly chiseled despite centuries of weather.
Rainwater streams around us in ribbons, making the entire mountainside gleam silver and gold.
We climb one flight of stairs, then another, and another, until my thighs ache and my jaw throbs around the gag.
At last, the knights herd us toward a circular platform inset into one of the upper terraces.
An enormous golden disk lies at its center, engraved with the pattern of a sun licked by curling clouds.
A tall, round post rises from the middle of it.
Beyond the platform, a series of identical towering posts climbs the mountainside at regular intervals, stretching toward the heavens.
The knights guide us onto the gleaming disk, and one of them presses a hand against the base of the central post.
A flash of sunlight streams down from above, connecting the posts and blinding me for a moment.
My stomach lurches as the world dissolves into sparks, and when I manage to open my eyes again, blinking past the imprint of sunshine burned into my retinas, we’re standing on an identical platform high above the clouds.
The sudden altitude makes my ears pop painfully. I swallow against the pressure, fighting a wave of dizziness as the thinner air scrapes my lungs.
Below us stretches an endless sea of brilliant white clouds, and above stands the Sun Court castle.
Stone walls rise in tiers from the cliffs, broken by dozens of towers capped with golden domes. Covered bridges span the gaps between different sections of the palace. Long balconies and battlements adorn the upper levels, statues of winged figures standing at regular intervals along the walls.
The scale is overwhelming.
This place was built to impress. To dominate. To make visitors feel small the moment they lay eyes on it.
But it isn't only a castle. It's a city.
The lower terraces are crowded with homes, shops, gardens, and winding streets filled with people moving about their day. The higher we climb, the fewer people there are.
By the time we're escorted across the upper ramparts, my heart is pounding so hard it nearly drowns out the roar of the wind.
A second group of guards waits near the entrance to the upper citadel.
“I need an audience with Sir Daros,” the squadron leader announces.
One of the stationed soldiers frowns, breaking formation. “I’ll be thrown in the brig if I disturb the Lord Commander for no reason.”
The two men lean in and exchange a few hurried words. The stationed guard's expression changes almost immediately, his eyes widening.
“Come with me. You, the prisoner...” His gaze bounces from my bound hands to the space where my ghost is standing, E’s wet boots still leaving prints on the stone. “...and the Prince of Light.”
We're ushered inside a white structure with no roof, and the wind stops abruptly.
The chill of altitude is quickly replaced by warm sunlight. Shiny marble halls stretch before us, and the scents of citrus, polished stone, and something floral I can't name fill my nostrils.
Far above, enormous crystal chandeliers hang from bronze cables strung between the open supports, catching the light and scattering fragments of color across the floor.
We’re guided up a flight of stairs and into a room lined with tall windows overlooking the clouds. Inside, a broad-shouldered male wearing an immaculate gold-and-white uniform sits behind a desk.
He rises swiftly as we enter. “To what do I owe this rather inconvenient interruption?”
Sir Davos is older than the others, with streaks of silver threaded through his short, ashy-blond hair. He has the hard, battle-worn build of a general, his face made of stern lines that suggest he rarely smiles—if ever.
He takes one look at the empty space beside me and goes pale.
Then, to my utter shock, he bends the knee.
“My prince.” He’s visibly rattled, his eyes flicking briefly to me as he stands. “My apologies. I wasn’t informed of your return. Let me take care of the prisoner—”
“She’s not a prisoner,” E cuts in with enough bite to stiffen my spine. “She’s my guest.”
The captain hesitates only a fraction of a second. “Of course.”
He steps forward and cuts the bindings from my wrists with the dagger sheathed at his waist.
The pressure vanishes so suddenly that my arms feel weightless. Then the pain comes roaring back in a rush of hot needles as circulation returns to my numb fingers. Angry welts circle my wrists where the bindings bit deep into my skin.
The leather gag is unbuckled next, and I swallow against the soreness.
“My apologies,” Sir Davos repeats, glaring at the squadron leader. “Why was I not notified of our prince’s return immediately?”
“We weren’t certain it was really him, sir.”
“You weren’t certain?” the captain snaps, fury flashing across his weathered face. “You can’t recognize the crown prince’s bite of power?”
The younger officer visibly wilts.
I rub the red imprints on my wrists, feeling faint. It was one thing to suspect E was a prince of Faerie. It’s an entirely different feeling to hear it confirmed.
Sir Davos exhales through his nose, visibly forcing himself back under control, then gestures toward the open path behind him
“Welcome home, my prince. His Majesty should return before sundown.” Sir Davos says. “I’ll alert the staff of your arrival.”
The guards remain in the room as we exit, my stomach fluttering.
“Where are we going?” E whispers.
I elbow his side but keep my face serene. “Act like you know.”
We cross an elevated bridge, and urgency ripples through the posted guards below as word of E’s return begins to spread.
E laces our fingers. “Now what?”
I squeeze his hand and guide him along. “Now, we go and meet your father.”
He pauses, tugging on my arm. “I’m still not sure they’re right about me. It’s so strange.”
“You heard them. You live here.”
I hurry him along, weary of what could happen if they changed their minds.
“Yet I spent decades in the new world, alone and discarded… It doesn’t add up.”
“Their leader wouldn’t have bent the knee if you were just good at bluffing. It’s simple enough to understand,” I say, a little too defensive, trying to mask how freaked out I feel, and failing miserably.
His jaw ticks. “You think this” —his free hand grazes my shoulder, then drops— “feels simple?”
I swallow hard.
No, it doesn’t. Not when every new revelation digs a bigger trench between us.
Out on the terrace, slender white columns support long trellised walkways draped in climbing vines, their leaves dark and lush against the white stone. It’s not a single balcony but a network of bridges, terraces, and elevated gardens leading toward the center.
There are no riotous flower beds, no bursts of color softening the austerity. Ancient bonsai trees sit in carved stone planters, their trunks twisted into deliberate forms, their canopies clipped into graceful silhouettes.
I've always loved how plants claim space without apology. Roots invade stones and soil alike. Vines climb whatever stands in their way. Leaves reach for every scrap of light they can find.
Give them soil, water, and a little care, and plants thrive.
Here, everything feels smothered. Nothing is allowed to dig too deep or spread too far.
There’s no wild roots, no chaos, and no decay.
Every branch is trimmed just so, and every fallen leaf has been meticulously removed.
So much perfection makes my core itch. I crave the mess of my gardens, the stubbornness, the quiet rebellion of green things that refuse to stay where they’re told.
This garden is holding its breath.
A gigantic hawthorn tree stands in the middle of the uppermost terrace, unquestioned, while everything else is kept small and secondary. It’s not beautiful in the way I’d imagined. Pristine and intimidating, yes, but not welcoming.
At the base of the hawthorn tree, a perfect ring of water circles the white trunk in a forceful, gushing current. The churning water streams in a straight line beyond it before plummeting down the sheer cliff in a powerful waterfall.
At this height, the cliffs should howl. The drop is endless, the kind of void that should pull the air into motion and send it tearing through the gardens, but nothing moves.
Not my hair. Not even the golden leaves of the Sun Court’s sacred tree.
The waterfall should be thunderous too, given the way it spills over the edge of the cliffs, vanishing into a sea of mist below. And yet, its roar feels…contained, as though sound itself has been tamed to suit this place.