The city did not greet us with noise.

  It greeted us with breath.

  Sunlight pooled along the white stone streets like spilled gold, warming the surface just enough to release the faint scent of limestone and moss. High above, living branches arched across the avenue, leaves shifting in a soft whisper as wind moved through them. The air carried the sweetness of baked honey and crushed pine needles underfoot.

  Faelyn stepped past the threshold of the gate and paused.

  For a moment, she simply closed her eyes.

  When she opened them again, she was smiling.

  “Do you ever notice,” she said, spinning once beneath the trees, “that it smells different out here?”

  “It smells like home,” I answered.

  She laughed softly at that and began walking, though “walking” was generous — she drifted forward as though drawn by invisible threads.

  We moved slowly down the main avenue. The buildings here were grown from pale wood and shaped stone, their balconies braided with flowering vines. Silk banners stirred lazily overhead, dyed in muted shades of silver and deep forest green.

  An elderly woman sat outside a narrow shop polishing carved moonstone pendants. She looked up as we passed.

  “Faelyn,” she greeted warmly.

  Faelyn stepped closer without hesitation. “Master Ilwen,” she replied. “Your hands still steadier than mine, I see.”

  The woman chuckled, holding up a pendant so it caught the light. “Steady hands come with centuries, child.”

  Faelyn leaned in, admiring the fine work. I remained just behind her shoulder, watching the reflection of the street in the stone’s smooth surface.

  The world felt… balanced.

  No one stared. No one knelt. They simply acknowledged her and returned to their work. A harp’s melody drifted from somewhere farther down the lane — soft, measured notes that folded easily into the sound of wind and distant conversation.

  We continued on.

  Children practiced archery in a clearing ahead, their small bows carved from flexible whitewood. One arrow struck the outer ring of a target with a dull thud.

  Faelyn stopped.

  She didn’t rush forward this time. She waited until the young archer lowered his bow and then approached at an easy pace.

  “May I?” she asked gently.

  The boy nodded, wide-eyed but not afraid.

  She adjusted his stance — subtle, careful movements — guiding his elbow a fraction higher.

  “Breathe,” she murmured.

  The next arrow struck closer to center.

  The boy grinned as though he’d conquered a kingdom.

  Faelyn laughed, bright and unrestrained.

  I watched her more than the street then.

  The way sunlight tangled itself in her hair. The way her shoulders loosened once she was beyond the watchful eyes of court. The way she spoke to children and elders alike without a hint of ceremony.

  The city did not feel ruled.

  It felt cared for.

  A breeze moved through the high branches, carrying the scent of pine and warm honey from a nearby bakery. Somewhere farther down the avenue, a harp shifted into a livelier tune, and a pair of young elves began dancing in the open space between stalls.

  Faelyn turned back toward me; cheeks faintly flushed from laughter.

  “See?” she said. “This is why I hate being cooped up in there.”

  I smiled despite myself. “You would last exactly one week without the castle.”

  She gasped in mock offense. “I would thrive.”

  She spun once beneath the trees again, arms briefly outstretched, and for that moment she looked less like an heir to a throne and more like someone who belonged entirely to the sunlight.

  We moved on at an easy pace, no rush pulling at us. Just the steady rhythm of footsteps on warm stone and the quiet understanding that the day was ours. I felt a sharp tug at my sleeve.

  “To the tavern,” Faelyn declared.

  Before I could object, she had already pulled me forward.

  The scent reached us before the doorway did — roasted root vegetables, fresh herb bread, and the faint bite of elvish wine aging in cedar barrels. Warm air drifted out from the open windows, carrying laughter and the low murmur of conversation.

  “You smell that?” Faelyn said, inhaling deeply. “That smells incredible.”

  We had barely reached the tavern entrance when the door swung open and an older elf stepped out, swaying slightly. His silver hair was pulled back loosely, and his eyes were just unfocused enough to betray a generous cup or two.

  He blinked at me.

  “…Elanil?” he slurred, squinting as though I might rearrange myself into someone else.

  Then his gaze shifted to Faelyn.

  “…Is that—”

  He hiccupped.

  And instantly straightened.

  “Princess Faelyn, m’lady,” he said, posture snapping into exaggerated formality. “My apologies for my… ah… enthusiastic display.”

  Faelyn stared at him for half a heartbeat — and then laughed.

  “As long as you’re enjoying yourself,” she said brightly.

  I covered my face with my hand.

  “Zera,” I muttered. “Really?”

  He grinned at me, completely unashamed.

  Faelyn gave me a playful pat on the back. “You have interesting friends.”

  “He is not my friend,” I replied automatically.

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  Zera snorted. “Liar.” I rolled my eyes at him. “And what about that time we hunted that boar together, hmm?”

  Zera stiffened slightly.

  Faelyn’s smile sharpened. “Oh? What about the boar?”

  I folded my arms. “You mean the one that knocked you flat on your back and sent you scrambling up a tree?”

  Zera coughed. “That is not how that happened.”

  “It charged you once,” I continued calmly. “You dropped your spear. Twice.”

  Faelyn gasped softly, clearly enjoying this far too much.

  “And who finished it?” I added.

  Zera glanced at her, then back at me. “There were… tactical repositioning’s involved.”

  “You were hanging from a branch,” I said.

  “I was gaining higher ground!”

  Faelyn burst into laughter.

  Zera cleared his throat and immediately straightened again. “M’lady, I assure you, it was a very large boar.”

  “Of course it was,” she said through a grin.

  I stepped forward before the story could grow legs of its own. “Inside. Now.”

  I gently steered Faelyn toward the tavern door.

  “Hey!” she protested between laughs. “I want to hear the part where he climbed the tree!”

  “There was no tree,” Zera called after us.

  “There was absolutely a tree,” I replied without looking back.

  Faelyn was still laughing as we stepped into the tavern’s warmth.

  “Elanil!” came the call from inside.

  Heads turned as we stepped fully into the tavern. Warm lamplight pooled across polished wood tables, and the air carried the scent of spiced wine and roasted root vegetables. Laughter rose and fell in easy waves.

  Sometimes I forget that I grew up here.

  That I trained here.

  That nearly every face in this room has a story that intersects with mine.

  Two elven swordsmen pushed back from a nearby table and approached with the easy swagger of men who had known me since I was shorter and far less composed.

  Ayen reached me first, throwing an arm over my shoulder. Ryo followed immediately, mirroring him on the other side.

  “How are you, you overachiever?” Ayen asked with a grin that showed far too many teeth.

  “Still guarding the royal family?” Ryo added. “Or have they promoted you to king yet?”

  Faelyn snorted beside me.

  “Ayen. Ryo.” I adjusted slightly under their weight. “I see you two are still as subtle as ever.”

  “As subtle?” Ayen scoffed. “We’re grace incarnate.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Ryo muttered. “You nearly spilled your drink walking over here.”

  I glanced at Faelyn. She was watching the exchange with obvious amusement, arms loosely folded, eyes bright.

  “Gentlemen,” she said lightly, “I assume he was just as insufferable during training?”

  They both answered at once.

  “Yes.”

  I exhaled. We made our way to the bar, the wood worn smooth by generations of hands. I took a stool, and Faelyn settled beside me without ceremony. Ayen and Ryo followed, claiming the seats to our right.

  The barkeep stepped forward, wiping his hands on a linen cloth. His hair had long since turned silver, though his posture was still straight.

  “Princess,” he greeted warmly. “Would you care for a drink?”

  “Why, of course, Master Norna,” Faelyn replied.

  There was no stiffness in her voice. No courtly mask. Just familiarity.

  It still struck me sometimes — how naturally she moved outside the castle walls. As though the title belonged somewhere else entirely.

  I glanced at her.

  She caught it immediately.

  “What?” she asked, folding her arms across her chest.

  “Nothing,” I said, tapping my fingers lightly against the bar. “If you want to see the whole city, we cannot spend the day here.”

  She narrowed her eyes slightly. “I know. Just one.”

  Ayen leaned back in his chair. “Come on, Elanil. You’ve barely sat down.”

  Ryo grinned. “I’ll pay. Then you’ve no excuse.”

  Master Norna set a silver chalice before Faelyn, the faint scent of spiced fruit rising from its surface.

  She looked at it for a moment — then shook her head gently.

  “No, he’s right,” she said. “If we’re going to roam the city, I’d rather keep a clear mind.”

  Ayen blinked. “You’re declining free wine?”

  “Remarkable,” Ryo added.

  Faelyn smiled faintly. “Another day.”

  “Fine, fine,” Ryo said, tapping the pommel of his sword with two fingers. “But later you’d better come by the sparring ring. Elanil and I have a score to settle.”

  “We’ll see,” I replied, rising from my stool.

  I extended my hand toward Faelyn out of habit.

  She looked at it — then, without warning, lifted the silver chalice and drained the last of its contents in a single smooth motion.

  I blinked.

  Ayen let out a low whistle. “Well done, Princess.”

  Ryo raised his cup in salute. “That’s the spirit.”

  I shook my head, though I couldn’t suppress the small laugh that escaped me.

  Faelyn placed the empty chalice back on the counter with quiet finality and finally took my hand.

  “I’ll hold you to that free wine next time I wander through,” she said with a smirk.

  “Yes, ma’am!” they answered in unison.

  Master Norna collected the chalice and gave her a knowing look before turning his attention back to the counter.

  As we stepped away, he cleared his throat lightly.

  “Elanil,” he said.

  I paused and stepped back toward him.

  He leaned forward just slightly, voice lowered but not secretive. “The living terraces are especially beautiful today. The blossoms opened this morning.”

  I followed his glance toward the far side of the city.

  “Thought the princess might enjoy that,” he added.

  I nodded once. “Thank you.”

  When I returned to Faelyn, she was already watching me with suspicion.

  “What was that about?”

  “Apparently,” I said, offering my arm again, “the trees have decided to outdo themselves today.”

  Her eyes brightened instantly.

  “Then what are we waiting for?”

  We stepped back into the street, the tavern door closing behind us with a dull thud. Warm lamplight gave way to open sunlight, and Faelyn barely slowed before turning toward the higher rise of the city.

  “The terraces,” she said, already moving.

  I followed.

  The stone path curved upward along the outer ridge, winding between pale buildings and slender trees whose roots had long ago intertwined with the city’s foundations. The air shifted as we climbed — cooler, lighter — carrying the faint sound of running water and the soft rustle of leaves above.

  Faelyn took the steps two at a time.

  “You’d think you’d never seen them before,” I said.

  “They bloom differently every time,” she shot back without looking at me.

  The terraces opened gradually, not all at once. First came the silverleaf shrubs lining the walkway, their blossoms pale and luminous in the afternoon light. Then the first tier revealed itself — a wide platform grown from stone and living root, bordered by low flowering vines.

  Elves were already scattered across the garden.

  Some walked slowly along the paths, hands clasped behind their backs. Others sat beneath the arched branches, speaking in low, unhurried tones. A pair of young musicians practiced near the central fountain, harp strings catching the sun with each movement of their fingers.

  A few heads turned as Faelyn stepped onto the terrace.

  Not startled.

  Not formal.

  Simply aware.

  An elderly couple inclined their heads in greeting.

  “Faelyn.”

  “Good afternoon,” she replied easily, slowing at last.

  A small boy paused near a flowering shrub, staring at her with wide eyes before offering an awkward bow. She smiled and returned it gently, easing his nerves without ceremony.

  Near the fountain, a young girl approached holding a small bundle of blossoms tied together with thin grass.

  “For you,” she said, barely above a whisper.

  Faelyn knelt at once, accepting the flowers with careful hands. “They’re beautiful,” she told her.

  The girl ran back to her parents glowing with pride.

  I lingered a step behind, watching the terrace breathe — petals drifting lazily across pale stone, water spilling in a steady rhythm, quiet laughter rising and fading like wind through leaves.

  Faelyn rose slowly, still holding the small bundle of blossoms. Before she could take another step, an older gardener approached — hands stained faintly green from tending the vines.

  “My lady,” he said softly, offering a shallow bow. “We set aside the eastern bed this season. The young saplings are yours to name, if you wish.”

  Faelyn blinked in surprise. “For me?”

  “For your future,” he replied simply.

  She looked genuinely taken aback — not by the gesture itself, but by the quiet sincerity behind it.

  A few others nearby had paused to listen. Not staring. Not crowding. Just waiting.

  Faelyn straightened slightly, cradling the flowers against her chest. “Then I will name them for those who planted them,” she said. “That seems more fitting.”

  A murmur of approval passed through the terrace — not loud, not dramatic — just warm.

  A small boy tugged at his father’s sleeve and whispered something I couldn’t hear. The father smiled and nodded toward Faelyn with unmistakable pride.

  I stood beside her and felt it then — not as spectacle, not as obligation — but as something steady.

  They did not bow because they had to.

  They stood taller because she was there.

  Faelyn glanced toward me, and for once there was no teasing in her expression. Only quiet understanding.

  Then, as naturally as the breeze moving through the silver leaves, the gardener returned to his work, and the terrace resumed its quiet rhythm. Music rose again near the fountain, harp strings shimmering in the afternoon light. Petals drifted lazily across the stone paths.

  Faelyn lingered only a moment longer, turning the small bundle of blossoms between her fingers.

  “Alright,” she said suddenly, that familiar spark returning to her eyes. “We are not spending the whole day up here.”

  She tucked the flowers carefully into the folds of her sash and turned toward the descending path on the far side of the terrace.

  “There’s still the lower market,” she continued, already moving. “And the bookbinders’ row. And I promised Master Telorin I would come see his new maps.”

  She walked with renewed energy, the sunlight catching along her hair as she stepped down the pale stone path.

  I followed close behind.

  A pair of young elves stepped aside to let us pass, offering quiet nods of respect. Faelyn returned them with a smile that needed no ceremony.

  From this height, the city stretched wide and bright — rooftops curving beneath living boughs, banners stirring gently in the wind, smoke from cookfires rising in thin, steady lines.

  Faelyn did not slow.

  She moved through it like she belonged to every street.

  And I kept pace at her shoulder, near enough to reach her if needed — far enough to let her feel unguarded.

  The day was not finished.

  Not even close.