The Floating Garden of Thorns was always quietest before the wind turned.
It stretched out like a great white bloom atop the highest spire of Quinsley Citadel, drifting gently in the sky's cradle. Marble walkways arced like the fingers of a skeletal hand, cradling flowerbeds that changed color with the season's mood. Roses bred for beauty, not scent, grew in symmetrical lines. Statues of kings long dead watched eternally from between trimmed hedges, their eyes carved half-lidded as if in faint disapproval.
Prince Ezekiel Von Quinsley III sat on the edge of a fountain, feet not quite touching the ground, shoeless.
He was not supposed to be there, not really. His name hadn't been on the scrolls read aloud that morning by the High Chamberlain—the names of those expected at the garden banquet. But no one had told him not to come either. So he had.
And now he sat. Quiet. Invisible.
Across the garden, golden banners flapped in the windless air, stirred only by the ambient magic that kept the spire floating. Round tables gleamed under silver parasols. Laughter—thin, cold laughter—drifted from the highborn children around them. The older princes stood in a ring, tossing sweetfruit at a servant, commanding him to juggle or be whipped. One of the princesses, tall and glossy-eyed, practiced her spellcraft by making petals arrange themselves into her initials.
Ezekiel, meanwhile, watched a bee die in the water near his hand.
It struggled there, wings twitching, caught in the surface tension like a curse. He reached toward it. Not to save it. Just to understand why it kept moving even though it would not live.
"Still playing with bugs, Zeke?"
He turned slowly. Prince Velric—second in line to the throne, golden-haired, and cruel as a mirror—stood beside him. Behind him came three cousins, one with bread in hand, the other laughing before he'd said anything funny.
"I thought they'd barred your wing from public events," Velric said with a grin that didn't reach his eyes. "Maybe you flew down on that broom your mother rides around the concubine's quarters."
The laughter was automatic. Trained.
Ezekiel didn't flinch. Didn't speak. He watched the bee sink into the foam.
Velric stepped closer. "Are you deaf or just broken, Hollow Prince?"
That one stung. Not because it was cruel, but because it was used so often that it no longer felt like a lie.
Then: a voice like bells.
"Brother!"
A white blur collided with his side. Amelia. His sister, all of seven years old, hugged him around the ribs with enough force to knock the breath from a larger boy.
"I saved you a custard bun!" she whispered in triumph, pressing a warm, lumpy sweet into his hand.
Velric curled his lip. "You shouldn't touch him, girl. You might catch whatever sickness makes his face so blank."
Amelia stepped forward like a dagger drawn. "At least his face isn't rotting with pride and pig-fat."
A sharp breath. The servants froze. The cousins backed away, unsure whether to laugh or wait for punishment.
Velric's cheek twitched. "You'll regret—"
"Your Highness," came a soft voice from behind the hedge.
Their mother. Lady Saelin, the concubine no one dared call Queen, emerged holding a porcelain teacup that never seemed to spill. She looked like no other noblewoman: dark-haired, olive-skinned, her posture too fluid, her voice too smooth for court rigidity. Her dress was simple, but the shade of ink-blue silk made the gold-clad nobles look gaudy by comparison.
"Perhaps you were on your way to charm the Grand Alchemist's niece," she said to Velric, not looking up from her tea. "Or were you instead admiring insects with children?"
Velric's mouth opened, closed. Then he bowed stiffly and walked off, shoulders hot with insult.
Lady Saelin turned to Ezekiel, and her expression softened as she reached to brush a leaf from his hair. "Did you eat, my heart?"
He shook his head. She glanced at the bun in his lap. "Then eat. Your sister went through much peril to retrieve that."
Amelia beamed.
Lady Saelin's gaze lingered on Ezekiel. Then, with a trace of sadness: "Will you go with your cousins to the south cliffs today?"
He didn't speak. She didn't press.
Amelia whispered, "They said the wind down there makes your voice disappear."
Lady Saelin smiled. "How poetic. That must be why they go—so they can listen to themselves for once."
Ezekiel looked up at the sky.
Overhead, the clouds had parted just enough to reveal the massive floating sun-core at the center of the empire's chain. It glowed like a golden eye, lidless and watching. Somewhere beyond it, far below, was the surface of the world—The Fallen Earth. His tutors said it was barren. Others said it whispered.
Somewhere behind him, one of the noble boys shouted:
"Game of dares! We go to the fissure cave!"
Ezekiel didn't move.
But Amelia tugged his sleeve. "You'll go, won't you? I'll wait and tell Mama you're brave."
He looked to his mother.
She was already watching the sky.