The Dawnstar slipped through the noon light like a knife through silk.

  Will stood at the bow with one hand on the rail, watching Belhaven sharpen out of the haze ahead. White terraces stepped down toward the harbor, rooftops catching the hard, clear light. The sea between here and there lay calm and glassy, broken only by the ship’s wake and the distant wings of gulls.

  Although it had taken two days to reach Blackwater, the system had decided the return was only a half-day’s trip back. Convenient, he thought. He wondered if there was something urgent waiting for him at the end of the journey.?

  Behind the quiet, his body still remembered the heat of the past night on the fortress wall followed by the passion of Zane’s chambers.

  He could feel it in flashes more than thoughts: Zane’s hands braced beside his head on rough stone, the scrape of stubble against his jaw, the way the pirate prince had laughed under his breath afterward like he couldn’t quite believe any of it was real.

  The ruined wall had been cold behind Will’s shoulders. Zane had been anything but.

  Brat floated at the rail to his right, elbows propped on nothing, chin in his hands as he studied the water with a deliberately idle air.

  “You’re very hydrated this morning,” Brat announced. “Heart rate spike between midnight and three, then a long, smug-looking plateau. REM cycles all over the place. And your skin looks great, honestly. You’ve got some color in your cheeks.”

  Will raised a wry eyebrow. “Reading my logs again?”

  “Monitoring,” Brat said primly. “The system cares deeply about your overall well-being. And so, as its most charming interface, do I. Verdict? Last night was excellent for cardiac health.”

  Will’s mouth twitched, trying not to smile. “Some things don’t need commentary.”

  “Incorrect,” Brat said. “You finally have an actual emotionally intimate scenario with someone who isn’t a pre-scripted flirt loop and your metabolism and neural patterns all sing in happy harmony. That is relevant data.”

  “Do not put Zane in your notes.”

  Brat snorted. “Relax, princeling. Even I know when a variable’s off-limits.”

  Will let out a soft laugh, feeling the salt air cool his face.

  This morning’s dawn had come too soon, but he had not been surprised to find Zane already awake when the first gray light touched the fort’s broken stone. The man seemed tuned to the sea’s hours, as if tide and wind conspired to rouse him first.

  They had stood together on the battlements outside Zane’s bedroom, the Dawnstar a dark line against the brightening horizon.

  “What will you do now?” Will had asked, quiet in the half-light.

  Zane had considered the question longer than Will expected. Then he’d smiled, that slanting, unrepentant thing that always made Will’s chest feel a touch too tight.

  “Rediscover my world,” he had said. “I have all these politely gray memories, you see. Halls I’ve walked, ports I’ve visited, faces I know in outline and nothing more. I think it’s time I painted them in properly. The Narrow Sea is full of people who swear they’ve met me. I’d like to meet them back.”

  “And if I need you?” Will had asked, almost hesitantly.

  Zane’s hand had found the back of his neck, thumb grazing the spot where his hairline met skin. “The docks know my name,” he’d said. “Any sea captain who docks in Belhaven can get word to me. You ask, and I’ll find my way back to your side.”

  Now, aboard the Dawnstar with the city growing clearer ahead, Will held that promise like something small and bright in his heart.

  Zane hadn’t just felt real; he had behaved like something outside the script—more than Thane’s semi-autonomous routines, more than a clever questline. Zane had looked into a world made of code and seen past it; he had known he was written, and still, he had begun to write himself.

  Will had not told Brat that part.

  Some truths felt too sharp to hand back to the same system that had built the stage.?

  “Are you going to tell me,” Brat asked lightly, “why our favorite pirate prince now has flagging more like a free-agent process than the usual hometown fixtures? Thane and Florian are semi-autonomous, sure, but this is closer to the way certain suspicious mages and high-level quest anchors refuse to stay in their lane.”

  Will glanced at him. “He’s always been a core part of the Shadow path, hasn’t he?”

  “Sure.” Brat wiggled his fingers. “Core NPC, decentralized AI routines, all that fun. But when you went to sleep last night, I took a closer look at his script. Zane isn’t reading like a game element anymore—he’s reading almost like you. His thread has been pulling power from outside Haven since we first met him in the dungeon. Which again, should be impossible.”

  Will looked back to the harbor and let his thumb find the small cuff at his left ear, the one Zane had gifted him. The metal hummed faintly against his skin, a ghost of vibration that felt almost like a pulse answering his own.

  Waves broke in slow white lines along the curve of the bay.

  “You said yourself this shard isn’t as sealed as Adrian thought,” he said. “Maybe Zane was always going to… wake more, once I walked far enough down his branch.”

  Brat made a noncommittal sound, somewhere between a hum and a huff. “Maybe,” he allowed. “Or maybe something else is hitching rides on your relationships. But you’re not in the mood for that lecture before lunch, and lucky you, I come bearing better news.”

  Will arched a brow. “Better than your hypotheses about my love life and system breaches?”

  “Much.” Brat straightened in the air, expression sharpening. “I’ve made real progress on the Keys—significant defragmentation since the Crypt. It turns out your little escapades are excellent catalysts for data-mining.”

  “Glad my near-death experiences are useful to someone.”

  “Two someones,” Brat said. “You want out. I want my architecture not to fall apart. Altruism and self-interest, hand in hand.”

  He clasped his small hands together to demonstrate. “Point is, we’re finally close to taking a proper shot at the comms lock.”

  Will’s attention focused. “I thought due to the comms system's seal that the only way through would be to brute?force a connection, with the system hitting back hard if you tried. Are they still that locked down, or do the Keys give you another way in?”

  “They’re still locked,” Brat said. “During the day, anyway.” His gaze flicked to the water, tracking the way light broke across it. “At night, things are softer. The Dreamer Prince protocol runs hot while you sleep. I’ve been skimming its edge for a while now—just enough to map where it brushes against the outer interface.”

  Will’s throat worked. “You can reach the outside world through my dreams?”

  “I can try,” Brat corrected. “I don’t have the full source code on this, but I’ve seen enough logs to know the Dreamer protocol kicks in when you’re close to breaking. It catches you if you fall too hard and shunts the overload into… dreams. Symbols. Whatever Edras and his boss think will keep you from fracturing.”

  “And those dreams sit right up against the same horizon the first uplink used to reach you. Adrian riding your dream to talk to you?” He flicked a finger. “That wasn’t a one-off hack. He pushed through on a channel the system was already maintaining for you.”

  Will remembered the forest of code-leaves and light, the way Adrian’s voice had threaded into that impossible space where Gareth had also reached him. A thin chill slid down his spine despite the morning warmth.

  “And you think you can send something out,” he said slowly, “if we use that protocol from our side.”

  “I think,” Brat said, “that if we time it right, we can throw a very loud rock at the outer wall and see who flinches. A ping, not a tunnel. We’re nowhere near sustained communication. But a signal? A single packet? That’s starting to look possible.”

  His mouth quirked. “I know you’re familiar with the concept of reckless first attempts.”

  Will said nothing for a moment. The water hissed gently along the Dawnstar’s hull. Far ahead, tiny figures moved on the docks.

  “And technically,” Brat added, “night is when the system expects your mind to be most unstructured. I can borrow more processing then without tripping as many alarms. In daylight, everything’s keyed to your conscious tasks. Too much tampering and I get flagged.”

  “But at night,” Will said, remembering Gareth’s glitched outline, “Gareth can get in.”

  Brat flinched, just slightly. “That risk doesn’t go away if we do nothing,” he said. “If anything, it grows. He’s already used your dream-space twice as an access point. The Keys are giving us leverage right now. We should use it while we have it.”

  Will watched Belhaven swell larger ahead, each terrace and street resolving into sharper detail.

  The palace rose above the city like a promise or a threat. Somewhere behind those walls, the places where his reality had already begun to fray waited for him—the library where Edras had broken script, the training room where the multiclass anomaly had first flared, and the bed he’d have to lie down in tonight if they were going to try and punch a signal through the dark.

  The Dawnstar began to angle toward the familiar curve of the private royal slip. Lines of soldiers waited in dress blues along the stone. Banners snapped in the rising breeze, Valcairn’s silver falcon bright against blue.

  “Tonight,” Will said.

  “Tonight,” Brat echoed. “While you sleep. I’ll nudge you into the right layer and hold as steady as I can. You may feel… odd. Pressure. Discontinuity. Don’t fight it if you can help it. Resistance reads as distress, and distress is exactly what we don’t want to broadcast.”

  Will let out a breath that was almost a laugh. ‘You’re asking me to stay calm while you start prying at the walls in my head.”

  Brat grinned crookedly. “Luckily, you’ve been practicing living through impossible situations. Dream intrusions. Shadowy villains. Handsome, brooding pirates who make certain princes forget themselves for an evening.”

  Color prickled at the back of Will’s neck. “You’re not going to let that go, are you?”

  “Absolutely not,” Brat said. “Your emotional breakthroughs are the highlight of my existence.”

  Will snorted and, without thinking, reached out to shove Brat’s shoulder.

  His hand connected.

  Not the usual weightless slip through light—actual contact, a brief, solid resistance under his palm before Brat jerked back. Both of them froze.

  Brat stared at him, eyes gone very wide. “What the hell was that?”

  “I was going to ask you,” Will said, fingers tingling. “You’re the one made of code.”

  “Rude,” Brat muttered, but his voice was thin. “Do it again.”

  Will reached out a second time.

  His hand passed through Brat’s shoulder as if through mist, the way it always had.

  Brat exhaled a breath he didn’t need and started flicking through invisible screens, gestures sharp and fast. “Nothing in your haptics profile changed. No new plugins, no stealth patch.”

  His mouth pressed into a line. “Edras already rewrote part of my backend in Lirane, and now the second Key fragment might be doing more than just giving me new menus. Root?level bleed. I’m going to have to dig into this.”

  Before Will could respond, the Dawnstar’s hull kissed the stone with a soft, final bump.

  Ropes flew as the crew moved into the familiar docking rhythm, calls to the dockhands cutting clean through the morning air.

  The captain strode up from the quarterdeck, boots ringing on the planks. “Your Highness,” he called, inclining his head. “Home port reached. Belhaven welcomes you back.”

  Brat smoothed his expression, the moment folding away as neatly as any dismissed prompt. “And speaking of scripts,” he said under his breath, nodding toward the slip, “Lord Derran appears to have spawned early. He looks thrilled. That’s never a good sign.”

  Will followed his gaze.

  The Royal Chamberlain stood waiting at the gangplank’s end, posture immaculate, hands folded over a scroll. Behind him, a young page in palace livery shifted from foot to foot.

  Belhaven waited.

  Whatever had yanked the trip into a half?day was clearly ready for him. The world he’d been given was already arranging its pieces for the next move.

  The gangplank dropped with a solid thud, and the familiar smell of Belhaven’s lower terraces rose to meet him—salt and tar, wet stone and distant smoke from the forges.

  Will descended at an easy pace, Brat at his side in a passable imitation of solemnity. Captain Taren bringing up the rear.

  The private royal slip was already a small stage: guards in polished mail flanking the path, harbor staff standing back in a respectful line, banners of Valcairn’s crest stirring in the morning breeze.?

  At the end of the gangplank waited Lord Derran.

  The chamberlain stood with his hands folded neatly over a rolled parchment, expression composed, powdered gray hair smoothed flawlessly back.

  Even from several paces away, Will could read the tight satisfaction in the angle of his shoulders.?

  “Your Highness,” Derran said as Will reached the stone. He bowed just enough to acknowledge rank, no more. “Welcome home.”

  “Thank you, Lord Derran.” Will let a relaxed smile find his face. “I trust Belhaven has not burned down in my absence.”

  “On the contrary, my prince,” Derran replied. “The city is in excellent order. Which is fortunate, as our duties have just… expanded.”

  Brat muttered under his breath, “Called it,” but Will kept his attention on Derran. “Expanded how?”

  Derran’s fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on the scroll. “News arrived from the capital at dawn,” he said. “The Festival of Tides begins shortly. His Majesty has elected to observe the celebration here, in Belhaven.”

  If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  A glint of something like pride—possessive, sharp—flickered in his eyes. “The King is on his way.”?

  For a moment, the docks fell away.

  A memory rose, bright and whole, as if pulled up from deep water: the same slip, more crowded, banners heavier in richer wind. He was younger—seventeen, maybe—standing a half-step in front of a taller man in deep blue-and-silver.

  King Galen’s hand rested on his shoulder, warm and firm. “Belhaven suits you, William,” his father said. “See that it remains worthy of the crown.”?

  The remembered weight of that hand carried a quiet approval. The scene gleamed: every flag crisp, every face distinct, every sound arranged just so.

  Will’s stomach turned at the perfection of it.

  “Your Highness?” Derran prompted, and the docks rushed back into place—the creak of lines, the slap of water, Brat’s small presence humming just at his periphery.

  Will drew a breath. “The King,” he said, as if nothing had snagged. “Do we have an arrival window?”

  “Three days we believe,” Derran said. “His Majesty’s carriage left the capital yesterday. I have already begun preliminary preparations, of course, but your guidance will be required.”

  A faint smile touched his mouth. “Belhaven must shine. The Festival is always significant, but with His Majesty in attendance, every aspect will reflect upon you as well.”

  Brat moved a little closer, voice a whisper. “Festival plus father plus visiting monarch. That’s not ominous at all.”

  Will kept his tone light. “Then we’ll make sure Belhaven shows him its best face,” he said. “We can discuss specifics once I’m back in the palace.”

  “Indeed.” Derran inclined his head, satisfied. “I have scheduled a planning council in the west solar this afternoon—High Priest Merov, Chef Alonna, and myself. If that suits, we will begin then.”?

  “It does,” Will said. There would be time to breathe between now and whatever performance Derran intended to script.

  “As always, Your Highness, your presence simplifies everything.” Derran stepped back, making a small gesture to clear a path up the private stairs. “Welcome home.”

  He turned to go, servants falling into motion with him, when the liveried figure at the edge of the crowd stepped forward and bowed deeply.

  “Your Highness,” the young man said, straightening. He wore the palace blue, but his boots were still dusted with road grit. “Forgive the interruption. I bear a message from the Royal Forge.”

  Will looked at the page and offered a quick, kind smile. “Benjin, isn’t it?”

  The boy’s face bloomed into a deep, sudden blush. He straightened his narrow shoulders, radiating a silent, trembling pride at being remembered, and managed an eager nod.

  Will’s attention sharpened. “From Bruna?”?

  “Yes, my prince.” The courier held out a small, thick envelope, the wax seal stamped with the familiar black anvil on gold mark of the Forge. “She bids that I deliver her respects, and that I convey her request for your presence at your earliest convenience.”?

  Will broke the seal with his thumb. Inside, on heavy parchment, Bruna’s hand had drawn only a few words: The upgrade is complete.

  His left wrist felt strangely light; he’d missed the familiar weight of the buckler there more than he wanted to admit.

  Brat peered unabashedly over his shoulder. “Buckler upgrade pickup time,” he said, pleased. “With any luck, that means fewer bruises for you and fewer error logs for me.”

  The courier shifted, clearly trying and failing not to look curious. Will folded the note and tucked it neatly into his belt. “Tell Forgemaster Bruna I’m on my way now,” Will said. “She’s earned a prince’s first stop.”

  The young man brightened at being given a task. “Yes, Your Highness.” He bowed again and trotted off up the dock toward the lower tier streets.

  For a moment, Will stood on the slip and let the currents of his day arrange themselves in his head: the forge and Bruna’s waiting anvil, then the afternoon council with Derran and the others, the shadow of a royal visit bearing down on Belhaven.

  And tonight, the dream?space where they would try to throw a rock at the walls of this world and see who answered.

  Brat floated to his side again, expression less flippant now. “Festival, father, buckler reforging, illicit communications protocol,” he said. “Busy schedule for a man who also needs eight hours of beauty sleep.”

  Will glanced toward the open water. “We could always get back on the boat and escape,” he said dryly.

  “Tempting,” Brat said. “But then who would smile politely at Derran and secretly plot treason against the comms lock?”?

  Will let out a breath that was almost a laugh and turned toward the lower tiers, where the white trails of the forges’ smoke already climbed toward the sky.

  “Come on,” he said. “If Bruna’s already done the hard work, the least I can do is go see what she’s made for me.”

  Brat spread his hands in a mock?grand gesture. “After you, Your Highness. And then let the great Festival of Stress begin.”

  By the time the west solar filled with late?afternoon light, Will had already stopped by the forge.

  Bruna Stonehollow had said little when he arrived.

  She’d simply reached for the Royal Buckler where it sat on a nearby bench, lifting the band to check the new inlay with a critical thumb. Once satisfied, she fastened it snug around his wrist with a firm nod—an upgraded braid of gold and silver shot through with a single, thin line of blue.

  Now, as he sat at the head of the long table, his thumb kept finding the cool, inactive curve of metal at his pulse, tracing the thin vein of blue crystal Bruna had set there—Aegis fragments sunk deep into the buckler’s heart. The braid of silver and gold felt heavier than it had before, a physical weight that anchored him even as the blue line seemed to shimmer with a light of its own under the palace lights.

  The west solar lay just off the Audience Chamber, a space Will had passed in the corridor but never actually entered.

  It opened toward the sea, its high windows throwing bands of gold across a long oak table scattered with scrolls, wax tablets, and an inlaid map of Belhaven—the harbor picked out in gleaming brass.

  Chef Alonna sat near the far end in her flour-dusted apron, arms folded; she flashed Will a quick, bright smile and a wink that was for him alone before schooling her expression.

  Lord Derran occupied the place to Will’s left, back straight, quill and ledger ready; opposite them, High Priest Merov of the Temple of the One rested both hands on his staff where it leaned against the table, white-and-blue robes pooling around his sandaled feet.

  A quiet scribe sat near the wall, ready to capture decisions.

  “Thank you for coming,” Will said, letting the prince’s easy confidence settle over his voice. “We have, it seems, a Festival and a King to prepare for.”

  Merov inclined his head, the thin silver chains in his hair chiming softly, each one tipped with a shard of blue?green crystal the color of the Narrow Sea. “The Festival of Tides is already in motion, Your Highness. The moon and the currents do not wait upon kings.”

  His voice held the gentleness of someone used to speaking in echoing halls. “At dawn on the first day, the festival launches with the Invocation of the Deep at the Temple. On the third day, we will all descend to the harbor for the official closing ceremony with the Procession of the Covenant. Offerings to the sea, blessings over the ships, and the recitation of the Covenant of Waters must all conclude before the turning of the tide.”

  Brat’s voice drifted from behind Will’s shoulder. “Second day is pure fun, by the way. No ceremony. Just a public holiday, lots of wine, buxom lasses… or in your case, strapping lads.”

  Ignorant of the heathenism going on around him, Merov continued his explanation as he tapped the brass harbor, finger outlining the route. “We will need clear passage from the temple steps to the main quay, room for the choir, the acolytes with the lanterns, and the King’s place of standing for the final benediction.”?

  Derran nodded once, already making notes. “The royal platform can be raised here.” He pointed to a broad stretch of stone overlooking the private slip.

  “His Majesty at center, with you, my prince, at his right hand as steward of Belhaven, and Prince?Marshal Elyas at his left as heir and commander of the royal host.”

  Merov’s gaze traced the line of the harbor. “Princess Elyra and the rest of the court to either side, guilds and dignitaries arranged by rank.”?

  “And the food,” Alonna added dryly, “unless you intend to let the King contemplate the tides on an empty stomach.” She slid a stack of lists across the table, the parchment edges whispering against the wood.

  “We’ll need three days of feasts across the terraces. Fish, obviously, and shellfish if the catch holds, plus bread, fruit, and enough wine that the citizenry don’t mutiny. Also staff. The palace kitchens can’t feed half of Belhaven alone, never mind the harbor.”?

  Will let their voices wash over him for a moment.

  Each word slotted perfectly into place, accompanied by a faint whisper of not-quite-memories: previous Festivals, his father on the harbor platform, the way the light caught the water when the benediction finished and the crowd cheered. The recollections gleamed just a little too cleanly, like scenes from a trailer spliced into his mind.?

  Brat leaned against a sunlit column just behind him. “Notice how every time someone says ‘His Majesty,’ your buffer coughs up another perfect montage?” he murmured. “Pre-rendered content. Very premium.”?

  Derran cleared his throat. “There is also the matter of the closing feast,” he said. “Historically, on the final afternoon of the Festival, the King and court have dined in the palace hall while the city holds its revels in the Town Square.” His pen tapped once against the margin. “After the last Festival, a suggestion was entered into the record that the Crown might, on occasion, take the final feast in the Square alongside the citizenry. The protocol office requires guidance as to whether this…innovation…is to be entertained.”

  He looked to Will. “For His Majesty’s visit, does Your Highness wish the royal table set in the hall as precedent dictates, or in the Square as the petitioners proposed?”

  “In the hall, the King eats properly and securely,” Derran added, almost as an afterthought. “In the Square, there is greater risk, greater chaos, and less control over who comes near the royal presence.”

  “And greater joy,” Alonna said, cutting in before Will could answer. “You’ve seen what happens when the Prince walks the Square on an ordinary market day, Lord Derran. They already sing about him over their cups. If their King sits down at a table they can see, beside the prince they claim as theirs, they’ll remember it for a generation.”

  Will felt heat touch his ears. “Alonna,” he murmured.

  She only lifted a brow. “You asked what serves Belhaven, my lord. Letting them see the man who wears the crown—and the prince who already walks their streets—will do more for loyalty than three nights of closed doors and spilled wine upstairs.”

  Derran’s mouth thinned, but he said nothing.

  Will looked down at the map, then toward the open windows where the sounds of the town and harbor drifted in together. “If security can be arranged,” he said slowly, “it seems right, at least once, to take the final feast in the Town Square. Let the city see its King, and be seen in return.”

  Derran exhaled through his nose. “Very well. The protocol office will begin drafting arrangements for a public final feast. The guard will need to treble its presence, and we will have to coordinate with the guilds and the Temple regarding space, lighting, and access.”

  His quill began to move again. “But if it is Your Highness’s preference, we will make it so.”

  They moved into details.

  Merov spoke of auspicious hour markers, the exact moment when the first lantern should touch the water.

  Alonna adjusted numbers, shifting provisions from a five-course banquet in the palace hall to expanded tables in the town square and along the mid-tier promenade “where people can breathe and hear the music.”

  Derran threaded it all together with timing blocks and names, his order of the day spreading across the ledger in tight, orderly lines.?

  Every so often, another “memory” surfaced in Will’s mind—a past Festival procession with his father on the high dais, Elyas in ceremonial armor at his shoulder, Elyra laughing with a wreath of sea-flowers in her hair, the exact rhythm of a speech he supposedly gave three years ago. Each recollection arrived fully formed, edges too smooth to have been lived.

  Brat’s voice brushed his ear. “That last one with Elyra and the wreath? New,” he said. “The system slotted it in when Derran wrote ‘Procession begins.’ NeuralSync’s doing a live content patch on your sense of nostalgia. No charge.”

  Will let none of that reach his face.

  “There is still the question of the principal address,” Derran said, glancing up from the ledger. “Do you wish your remarks delivered in the Town Square before the feast, or at the harbor platform during the rites? The order of procession will follow your choice.”

  “At the harbor,” Will said, grateful for something that at least sounded like it had always been true of him. “A welcome from Belhaven before my father speaks. Short. I don’t want people fainting in the sun because I like the sound of my own voice.”

  “Concise remarks will be drafted,” Derran replied. “A greeting from you as Lord of Belhaven, followed by His Majesty’s address and the High Priest’s final blessing. After which”—he nodded to Alonna—“the Town Square will host the public feast.”

  “And you,” Alonna added, pointing a flour-dusted finger at Will, “will remember to eat somewhere in that schedule, or I’ll have the kitchen boys drag you to a table and sit on you.”?

  Brat snorted softly. “Please let that be a side-quest.”

  At last, the scrolls were capped, the last adjustments agreed upon.

  Merov promised to “set the Temple in motion.” Alonna gathered her lists with the air of someone already mentally rearranging ovens and fishing boats. The scribe stepped forward to collect Derran’s ledger copies for distribution.?

  Derran closed his book with a soft thump. “We have much to accomplish over the next two days,” he said. “The Temple will coordinate the rites, and I will see to the city and security. Chef Alonna will command the feasts. For you, my prince—” His gaze sharpened. “This afternoon, a brief with the harbormaster and guard captains regarding final approaches, and this evening, time set aside to review any personal petitions you wish to raise with His Majesty.”

  “Of course,” Will said.

  Brat’s murmur was dry. “Festival, father, harbor security, illicit midnight rock-throwing at reality. Very restful.”

  Will rose as the others did. “Then let’s not waste the tide,” he said lightly. “Thank you. See to your parts; I’ll see to mine.”

  They bowed or nodded in turn and filed out, leaving the solar quiet but for the sea-wind pressing softly at the windows. For a moment, Will stood alone at the table, slowly stroking the smooth curve of the buckler’s bracelet. The world he’d been given was arranging its pieces with exquisite care.?

  “Tonight,” he said under his breath.

  Brat appeared at his side, expression sober for once. “Tonight,” he agreed. “Assuming the prince survives his calendar.”?

  [SOCIAL SYNC: +2.50]

  [CURRENT: 64.00]

  Will pushed open the double doors to his royal suite, the heavy panels swinging inward with a soft whisper of polished hinges.

  Evening had deepened over Belhaven, painting the open balcony doors in bruised purples and golds where the sea met sky, the air carrying a faint salt tang from outside.?

  Exhaustion pulled at his limbs—not the bone-deep weariness of battle, but something quieter, threaded with the ache of choices made and left behind.

  Zane’s parting touch lingered like a half-rendered memory: callused fingers curling against the small of his back at Blackwater’s dock, that rough promise murmured against his ear. Don’t go so far you forget the way back, princeling.?

  A private meal waited in the sitting room, laid out on the table by the balcony doors.

  Simple fare, but deliberate: grilled sea bass glazed in bright lemon and thyme, flaky white flesh steaming faintly; herb-crusted flatbread still warm from Alonna's ovens, dusted with sea salt; a decanter of spiced citrus wine, its deep amber glowing in the mage-lights.

  No grand spreads tonight. No ceremony. Just this: a meal for one, tying the threads of his fractured world together in quiet bites.

  He sank into the cushioned chair, the leather sighing under his weight, and poured a measure of wine. The first sip burned clean—clove and orange peel cutting through the bass's richness—like swallowing the Narrow Sea itself.?

  Brat materialized in the opposite chair without preamble, his small form perched on the seat, legs swinging idly. No grin tonight. His projection held steadier than usual, edges crisp as if he’d dialed down the theatrics to match the room’s hush.

  “Eat first,” he said, voice low, almost gentle. “Fuel the meat-space hardware. Neural threads burn hot, and you’re going to need your energy this evening.”

  Will snorted at the faux-technicality of it, but he didn't argue. He sat and reached for the tray, tearing a piece of flatbread and layering it with fish. The herbs burst sharp against his tongue, grounding him.

  His thoughts turned again to his erstwhile pirate companion.

  Had the system actually let Zane keep going, or did it only give him that freedom while Will was there and then snapped him back into a loop afterward?

  Was he out there filling in the gray memories he hadn’t walked through, or was he just an NPC going off script, real only as long as Will was looking at him??

  He pushed the half-empty plate aside after a time and then looked at Brat. “So what’s next?”

  “Tonight,” Brat said, eyes locking on his. “Between Edras’ little blessing and the two Keys, I’ve seen enough of the Dreamer Prince protocol that I think I can manipulate the part that brushes the outer interface and shove a signal through—one loud ping at the waking world, if anyone out there is paying attention.”?

  Will traced the wineglass rim, crystal singing faintly under his thumb. “One loud ping,” he said. “Not a jailbreak. Just…seeing if we can get anything through at all.”

  “Exactly,” Brat replied. “Right now, comms are hard-locked both ways. Adrian can’t reach in, you can’t reach out. I’m trying to slip a message through a gap the system isn’t watching—use the Dreamer band as a backdoor and see if it actually touches the waking world.”

  Will frowned. “And if it does?”

  “Then somebody out there gets a spike with your stamp on it,” Brat said. “Adrian, his team, whoever’s closest to the right console. They already know you’re alive; this gives them a live thread to grab. If it doesn’t land, we’re exactly where we were—just with fewer illusions about our options.”

  “And if it goes wrong?” Will asked.

  Brat’s mouth twitched, humorless.

  “Mild version? The system slaps the comms even harder. We lose this angle. Spicier version, we get a localized wobble—things stutter, maybe a mini-crash while it resets your environment. Worst case, Gareth notices the noise first and tries to ride it back into your head again.”

  Red-glitched eyes, that delayed, amused smile; Will’s fingers tightened on the stem before he made himself let go. “You can keep him out?”

  “I can try,” Brat said. “Edras gave me edges of the lockdown, and the Keys helped fill in some blanks. I can see where the defenses sit now. Doesn’t make us invisible, but it means we’re not kicking the wall at random.”

  Silence stretched, broken only by the faint hiss of the Narrow Sea beyond the open doors.

  Every hour here was another he didn’t have with the twins, another he stayed blind to whatever Adrian was facing outside. “Ok. Let’s do it,” Will said at last, jaw setting. “If there’s even a chance this reaches someone who can pull us out, we take it.”

  Brat’s expression sharpened—no theatrics, just a small, fierce nod. “Your call, Dreamer Prince.”

  Will tipped back the last of the wine and set the glass down with a soft click.

  He met Brat’s eyes and nodded once.

  The suite dimmed in anticipation as he crossed into the bedroom, mage-lights softening to a low glow.

  Cool, linen-scented air met his skin as he shed the day’s clothes and slipped into silk pajamas stitched with the royal crest over his heart.

  He eased onto the wide bed, sheets cool, mattress yielding around him.

  Brat hovered cross-legged to the left of the bed, small form steady in the air, gaze gone distant as he watched flows Will couldn’t see.

  No quips now—just an AI on vigil, waiting for the moment he could try to punch their signal through.

  Brat’s voice dropped. “You’ll fall asleep the way you always do,” he said. “I’ll spin up my end of the Dreamer band once you’re under and hitch us to the edge of the protocol.”

  “This will feel like some of the other dreams,” he went on, “the ones where you had visitors you didn’t ask for. Only difference this time is you’ll be able to hear me. We steer it together.”

  Will exhaled, letting the tightness bleed from his shoulders. He closed his eyes; his breathing slowed.

  The mage-lights dimmed to embers as the suite seemed to hold its breath, and the sound of the Narrow Sea filled the dark.