She returned the next morning.
Not as a guest. Not as a spy. Simply... as a scholar.
Thalric had chosen the north balcony for breakfast—more for the wind than the view. The lemon scones were undercooked. The tea too floral. His cane rested beside his chair, and he had wrapped a blanket around his shoulders not because he needed it, but because it made the staff more uncomfortable when he appeared fragile.
The girl appeared before the steward could introduce her.
She was slight, all elbows and angles beneath a charcoal cloak, the hem frayed from real travel. Her hair was pinned half-heartedly, and the notebook in her hand was not for show—its margins were full of tiny, slanted words and constellations drawn beside names.
She bowed awkwardly, as if remembering to do so a moment too late.
"Prince Percival," she said. "I didn't mean to intrude."
Thalric sipped his tea before speaking. "You already have."
She flushed, but did not retreat. "Apologies. I was told by the estate librarian you were inquiring about royal cadet lineages, particularly the Third March."
"I asked about histories," he corrected. "Not gossip."
"Ah. Then you're in luck." She stepped forward, carefully retrieving a bundle of parchment from under her arm. "The gossip was more accurate."
That made him raise an eyebrow.
She hesitated—just long enough for him to register it wasn't nervousness, but self-editing. She was deciding how much trouble she was willing to walk into.
"I was sent from the royal archives three months ago," she said. "As part of a patronage agreement. Historical sorting. Document preservation. I know what people here do not want to remember."
"Do you also know how to start conversations properly?" he asked.
That made her grin—just barely. "Yes, Your Highness. Forgive me. My name is Solen. Apprentice archivist. Minor historian. Failed violinist."
Thalric gestured to the seat opposite him.
She took it.
Rain threatened the horizon, but for the moment the mist clung like lace across the gardens. No one else lingered nearby.
He studied her posture. Slight tremor in her fingers. Not fear—anticipation. She had something to offer. Not fame, not answers. Proof of thought.
"I saw you writing yesterday," he said at last.
"You looked like someone being performed," she replied. "And I thought… if someone's going to wear a script, I should try to find the original draft."
He didn't smile.
But he leaned forward.
Solen reached into her coat and unfolded one of the parchments. It was a map—annotated, drawn by hand. Four of the cities were circled, marked with notes in Elder Common. One note read: "Structures erased from public record, 87th Accord."
"You know this language," he said.
"No. But I saw it once carved into a reliquary glass. The same one now listed in the House Worthing manifest as missing. Along with forty-three other artifacts marked 'spiritually non-viable.'"
That pricked something sharp at the back of his throat.
"You're not here to curate records."
"No," she said quietly. "I'm here to find what they've decided not to remember. And when I saw you on the dais yesterday…"
He let the sentence hang.
She didn't finish it.
Instead, Solen offered one final slip of parchment. A name was scrawled there. Not hers. Not his.
But his.
Thalric of Veymar. Mage-Sovereign. Accord-breaker. Vanished.
She didn't ask. She didn't accuse.
She just placed it on the table and waited.
He stared at it for a long time.
Then folded the paper.
And said, without blinking: "If you speak of this again, I will see you removed."
Solen nodded. As if she expected it.
Then stood.
"Understood," she said. "But I'll keep collecting. You look like someone who wants to forget just long enough to remember better."
Then she left.
Not dismissed.
Just... finished.
And Thalric sat alone, the tea now cold, the wind curling around the slip of paper he had not burned.
Not yet.