48. Chapter 48
MAXX
The trick to being invisible wasn't actually being invisible.
It was being forgettable.
I'd learned that lesson years ago, running cons in the border towns before the rebellion scooped me up and gave my talents a purpose.
You didn't want to disappear—people noticed absences.
You wanted to be so thoroughly unremarkable that eyes slid right past you, memories failed to form, and guards forgot your face the moment you turned a corner.
Today, I was a kitchen servant named Pim.
Pim had a weak chin, forgettable watery eyes, and a slight hunch that made him look perpetually apologetic.
Pim had been working in the palace for three years and had never once done anything interesting.
Pim was the kind of person you sent to fetch wine because you couldn't remember if you'd already asked someone else.
I loved being Pim.
The kitchens were chaos.
Steam billowed from massive copper pots.
Fae in flour-dusted aprons rushed between prep stations, shouting orders, cursing in at least four regional dialects.
The head cook—a terrifying female with arms like ham hocks and a voice that could curdle milk—orchestrated the madness with the precision of a battlefield commander.
I grabbed an empty tray and waded in.
"You—Pim!" A junior cook shoved a basket of bread rolls at me. "Table twelve needs these yesterday. Move your ass."
"Yes, absolutely, right away, so sorry—" I ducked my head and scurried toward the servant's corridor, bread rolls in hand, ears wide open.
And the trick to reconnaissance? It wasn't asking questions. It was being in the right place when other people answered them.
The first useful thing I heard came from two guards loitering near the wine cellar.
I slowed my pace, pretending to adjust my grip on the bread basket. Forgettable Pim, struggling with basic motor functions. Nothing to see here.
"—network's almost finished, then?" the first guard was asking. Tall, bored, picking at his fingernails.
"Almost." The second one scratched his jaw. "Iron rods deployed to all sink areas. Should be complete within two days."
"About time. The mages have been insufferable about the timeline."
"You know how they get. 'The alignments must be precise, the anchoring must be stable—'" He affected a nasal whine. "'—or the whole thing collapses.'"
They both snorted.
I filed that away and kept walking. Iron rods. Sink areas. Network.
What the hell was a sink area?
The second useful thing came from the most obnoxious source possible.
Lord Fenwick of the Amber Coast had arrived that morning for the wedding festivities, and he had opinions. Loud ones. To anyone within earshot. Whether they wanted to hear them or not.
I found him in the lesser dining hall, holding court over a plate of honeyed figs while three servants stood frozen in varying states of desperation. I recognized the look—the "please let me leave but he won't stop talking" expression that was universal across all social classes.
I grabbed a pitcher of wine and swooped in.
"More wine, my lord?" I kept my voice meek. Servile. The kind of voice that invited powerful people to treat you like furniture.
"Ah, yes, finally—someone competent." Lord Fenwick held out his goblet without looking at me. "I was just telling these... delightful servants about my journey. Three weeks on the road, can you imagine? The conditions were absolutely barbaric."
"Dreadful, my lord." I poured slowly. Very slowly.
"The Veil sickness is spreading like wildfire out there. Whole villages abandoned. Crops rotting in the fields." He shuddered dramatically. "I saw a cow with six legs. Six. It was still alive, poor thing. Just standing there, trying to figure out which direction to walk."
The servants exchanged looks of barely concealed horror.
"But I'm sure things are better here," Fenwick continued, waving his goblet.
"The King's miracle, and all that. I saw the announcement—very impressive.
Though I must say, the roads leading to the capital were just as blighted as everywhere else.
You'd think the healing would spread a bit further, wouldn't you? "
So the sickness isn't decreasing outside the miracle sites.
I topped off his wine with a sympathetic murmur.
"One would think, my lord."
"Ah, well." He drained half the goblet in one swallow. "I suppose these things take time. Now, let me tell you about the inn I stayed at in Thornfield—absolutely infested with pixies. Couldn't sleep a wink..."
I stood there for another fifteen minutes, nodding at appropriate intervals, while Lord Fenwick described in excruciating detail every minor inconvenience of his journey. That fae could talk paint off walls.
But buried in the avalanche of complaints were gems: the sickness was worse in the eastern territories. The border towns were evacuating. And nobody outside the capital believed the King's miracle was doing a damn thing to help.
Not Amaria, I thought. It was never Amaria.
The third useful thing came from flirting.
Look, I'm not proud. Well, actually, I'm very proud. I'm exceptional at flirting. It's practically a public service.
The target was a palace clerk—pretty, harried, drowning in paperwork outside the King's council chamber. Exactly the kind of person who knew everything and was desperate for someone to notice they existed.
"Long day?" I leaned against the doorframe, Pim's weak chin somehow working in my favor. Vulnerability was attractive. Who knew.
She looked up, startled. "What? Oh. Yes. Endless, actually. The wedding preparations are—" She gestured at the mountain of scrolls on her desk. "Everyone wants everything yesterday."
"Sounds exhausting." I let my voice soften. "I don't know how you do it. Keeping track of all that."
A flush crept up her cheeks. "It's not so bad. Mostly logistics. Guest lists, seating arrangements, ceremonial requirements..."
"Ceremonial requirements?"
"The binding ritual." She lowered her voice conspiratorially, clearly delighted to have an audience.
"Very specific instructions from the High Alchemist. Something about 'grounding anchors' and 'void-iron placement.
' I don't pretend to understand it, but apparently the entire thing falls apart if the rods aren't positioned correctly. "
Void-iron. The same rods from the healing ceremony.
"That sounds incredibly important," I said, leaning closer. "You must be very trusted, handling something like that."
She practically glowed. "Well, I don't like to brag, but—"
A door slammed somewhere down the corridor. She jumped, suddenly remembering herself.
"I should—I have to get back to work."
"Of course." I straightened, giving her my best self-deprecating smile. "Thank you for... well, for not ignoring me. Most people do."
Her expression softened. "You seem nice. For a kitchen boy."
If only you knew.
I made my way back to the guest wing as the sun dipped below the palace walls.
My mind was racing, sorting through the fragments I'd collected: void-iron networks being deployed to "sink areas." Veil sickness raging outside the capital. Grounding anchors for the binding ritual.
None of it made sense yet. But it would.
It always did.
I turned the final corner, already rehearsing my report in my head, already imagining Amaria's face when I told her she wasn't the villain she thought she was.
Good news, fearless leader. The world's still falling apart, but at least it's not your fault.
She'd probably hit me.
Worth it.
MAXX
I took the servants' stairs two at a time, my mind still buzzing with everything I'd gathered.
Amaria was going to lose her mind. In the good way. The "finally something to fight" way, instead of the "I'm the monster destroying everything" spiral she'd been trapped in for days.
I rounded the corner to the guest wing, already composing my opening line—something dramatic, something that would make her roll her eyes before she demanded details—
Serenya's door was open.
Swinging gently in the draft from the corridor windows.
I stopped.
The room beyond was empty. The Codex sat abandoned on the window seat, pages ruffling in the breeze. A cup of tea had gone cold on the side table. No Serenya. No guards. No sign of where she'd gone.
Shit.
Her trail wasn't hard to find.
Slippers scuffed against stone. A handprint on the wall where she'd steadied herself and the ink left smudges. The small, uncertain steps of someone walking through a dream.
She'd been doing this more often lately—the wandering. The blank moments where she'd stop mid-sentence, her eyes going distant, her hand reaching for something none of us could see. We'd been taking turns watching her, making sure she didn't drift too far.
But I'd been gone for hours. And Amaria had her own guards. And Dreadscale—
Where the hell was Dreadscale?
The trail led down the main corridor. Past the approved boundaries. Past the velvet rope that marked the edge of our velvet prison.
Into the King's private wing.
No. No, no, no—
I broke into a run.
I heard them before I saw them.
"State your business, shadow-rat."
The voice was clipped. The kind of voice that had never asked a question it didn't already know the answer to.
I rounded the corner and my heart stopped.
Serenya stood in the middle of the corridor, her white nightgown ghostly against the dark stone walls. She looked lost. Confused. Her eyes were fixed on a phantom point past the guard's shoulder—a door, maybe, or a window, or nothing at all.
The guard had her arm.
Not gently. His gauntleted fingers dug into her bicep hard enough to bruise, and his other hand rested on his sword hilt. Royal Guard. Not a regular soldier—one of the elite. The kind who answered directly to the King and asked forgiveness never.
"I said state your business." He shook her, and she swayed like a reed in the wind. "You're in a restricted area. How did you get past the checkpoints?"
Serenya blinked at him. Slow. Dreamy.
"I was looking for the library," she said. Her voice was distant. Soft. "The one with the silver doors. I remember it from... from before."
"There's no library here." The guard's grip tightened. "You're lying. Who sent you? What are you looking for?"
"The books," she murmured. "The books know things. They whisper when no one's listening."
The guard's expression hardened. His sword slid an inch from its sheath.
He's going to kill her.
I leapt forward.
"My sincerest apologies!"
I slid between them, breaking the guard's grip with a clumsy stumble that looked accidental and wasn't. My body blocked Serenya from his reach, my hands raised in surrender, my face arranged into the most pathetic expression Pim could muster.
"She's unwell," I babbled. "The sickness—you know how it is.
Affects the mind. She doesn't know where she is half the time.
I'm her attendant. I'm supposed to watch her, but she slipped out while I was—well, it doesn't matter, the point is she's harmless, completely harmless, wouldn't hurt a fly, couldn't find her way out of a paper bag—"
"Who are you?" The guard's hand hadn't left his sword.
"Pim. From the kitchens. Well, temporarily reassigned to medical assistance. There's a shortage of staff, you know, and someone has to make sure the sick ones don't wander into—" I gestured vaguely at the corridor. "Important places."
The guard's eyes narrowed. "She crossed three checkpoints."
"She's very determined when she's confused.
It's a gift, really. Terrible for everyone involved, but impressive in its own way.
" I was already pulling Serenya backward, one hand gentle on her arm, guiding her toward the corridor we'd come from.
"I'll contain her. Won't happen again. You have my word—not that my word means much, I'm just Pim, but still—"
"If I see her in this wing again—"
"You won't. Absolutely won't. I'll tie her to the bed if I have to. Not in a weird way. In a medical way. A preventative way—"
"Go."
I went.
We made it around the corner before my legs gave out from fear.
I pulled Serenya into an alcove, pressing us both against the cold stone, my heart hammering so hard I could feel it in my teeth. We were seconds away. Seconds. His sword had been halfway out of the sheath. One more moment of hesitation and she'd be bleeding out on the King's pristine marble.
"Serenya." I gripped her shoulders, forcing her to look at me. "Serenya, you can't just walk out like that. You can't wander into restricted areas. They will kill you. Do you understand?"
She looked at my hands on her shoulders.
She looked at my face.
"Who are you?"
I went still. The adrenaline died instantly, replaced by dread that spread through my limbs like frost.
"Serenya." My voice cracked. "It's me. It's Maxx."
She tilted her head. Studied me with polite confusion, like I was a stranger asking for directions.
"Maxx," she repeated. Testing the name. Finding nothing. "I'm sorry. Should I know you?"
No.
The word screamed through my skull.
No, no, no—not her, not now, not like this—
But her eyes were empty. Blank. The girl who'd memorized every book in the rebel archives, who'd laughed at my jokes and called me an idiot and trusted me to watch her back—
Gone.
I swallowed the scream. Swallowed the grief. Buried it all beneath the costume I'd worn for years, the one that smiled when everything was falling apart.
"I'm the one who isn't leaving," I said quietly.
I took her hand.
"Come on."
We were halfway back to the guest wing when I heard footsteps. Heavy. Measured. Coming fast.
Dreadscale rounded the corner and stopped dead.
His eyes went to Serenya first. Then to my hand holding hers. Then to her face—the blankness in it, the polite confusion of a female being led by a stranger she couldn't place.
He understood instantly. Dread moved through him too, swift and unmistakable.
"How long?" he demanded.
"Minutes. I don't know. She was in the King's wing when I found her."
He didn't ask anything else. Just fell into step on her other side—close enough that his arm brushed hers with every stride. She glanced up at him, curious, unafraid. Like a bird considering whether to land on an outstretched hand.
"Hello," she said politely.
Dreadscale's eyes closed. Just for a second. When they opened, whatever had broken behind them was already buried.
"Hello, Starlight," he said quietly and kept walking.