Chapter 426: The Trace in the Air

The door at the end of the secluded palace gallery clicked as the key turned in its lock.

King Alderon stepped into the room first, his velvet-lined cloak brushing against the doorframe. He was followed closely by Harlond, his aide, whose sharp eyes immediately scanned every corner of the dark space before his posture relaxed even a fraction.

"I believe no one has ever been inside except me."

"Of course, Sire. By your order, no one is allowed in here, not even to clean it. I make sure of that."

"Good."

"I still maintain that Your Majesty should be resting in the solar before the evening delegates arrive," Harlond said quietly, his hand resting casually on the hilt of his sword. "The physicians were quite clear about your stamina."

"The physicians concern themselves with the body, Harlond," Alderon replied smoothly, his voice carrying a tired, cultured warmth as he stepped further into the gallery. "Painting concerns the mind. If I am forced to sit through another three hours of trade disputes without a brief reprieve, my head will split entirely."

Harlond sighed, bowing his head in resigned acceptance. Without needing to be asked, the aide crossed the floor toward the high arched windows. He reached up, grasping the thick velvet drapes, and pulled them back with a heavy swish.

Bright afternoon sunlight flooded the gallery, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air and stretching long, golden shapes across the scattered easels, paint jars, and stacks of canvases. Harlond stepped up to the tall glass panes and pushed the heavy wooden shutters open. A cool breeze swept into the room, instantly thinning the sharp smell of turpentine and linseed oil with the crisp scent of the garden flowers below.

Harlond checked the courtyard beneath the window, satisfied with the patrol guard’s positioning, before turning back to the King.

"I will remain outside the door, Sire," Harlond said quietly. "Call if you require anything."

"Thank you, Harlond," Alderon murmured.

With a low, respectful dip of his head, the aide backed out of the studio, pulling the door shut until the latch clicked firmly into place.

Left entirely alone in the quiet gallery, King Alderon let out a long, shuddering breath. The regal posture he maintained in front of the royal court softened, his shoulders dipping slightly with the heavy weight of his years and his health.

He walked slowly down the center of the room, his leather slippers making soft, rhythmic sounds against the floorboards. He passed by the vivid mountain landscapes, the hawking falcons, and the portraits of the young nobles, his eyes barely lingering on them.

He stopped near the shadowy rear alcove, standing right in front of a tall, heavy easel mounted near the back wall.

A thick, dark velvet cloth was draped over the canvas, covering it entirely from view.

Alderon reached out, his long, slender fingers catching the hem of the fabric. With a delicate, almost reverent slowness, he pulled the cloth down, letting it fold over his forearm.

The portrait beneath was revealed to the sunlight.

The woman in the crimson dress stared back at him from the canvas, her striking obsidian hair falling in soft waves over her regal shoulders, her deep red eyes painted with an unmistakable, haunting intensity.

Alderon stared at her likeness for a long, quiet moment. A faint, sad smile touched the corners of his lips, a rare, gentle expression that no member of his royal council had seen in decades.

"It has been far too long, Nerissa," Alderon whispered softly, his voice trembling just a fraction against the stillness of the room. He reached up, his thumb hovering barely an inch above the dried paint of her cheek, never quite touching the surface. "I should have picked up the brush months ago. My hand grows stiffer with every passing season."

He sighed, the quiet sorrow lingering in his chest as he looked at her face. "There is so much left to capture. So much I never got the chance to say."

He turned slightly toward his side table, intending to grab a clean palette and a fine horsehair brush resting near a ceramic jar. But as his hand reached out, his movement paused midway through the air.

Alderon’s brow furrowed.

He slowly lowered his hand, turning his head back toward the quiet studio.

Something felt... wrong.

It wasn’t a loud disturbance, nor was it a glaring mess. But as a man who spent countless hours in this exact room, every stand, table, and stack of canvas was etched into his memory with absolute clarity.

His sharp, intelligent eyes swept over the floor near the rear wall.

A tiny jar of dried hog-bristle brushes sitting on the edge of the low paint table was tilted slightly sideways, not knocked over, but shifted a fraction of an inch from where he usually kept it. On the hardwood floor near the tall bookshelf, two tiny flecks of grey stone dust lay scattered against the dark, polished grain of the wood.

Alderon stood perfectly still, his breath catching in his throat as his senses heightened.

He took three slow steps toward the rear wall, his gaze locking onto the massive, floor-to-ceiling wooden bookshelf.

The heavy shelf looked completely ordinary, stuffed with thick, decorative leather-bound books and carved wooden bookends. But as Alderon stepped closer, his eyes narrowed at the narrow seam where the wooden frame met the stone wall.

The gap wasn’t completely flush. It was barely open, just enough for a faint draft to slip through the stone mechanism behind it.

And beneath the faint, lingering smell of turpentine and garden roses floating through the open window... there was another scent in the air.

It was faint, almost entirely masked by the open breeze, but it was warm, distinct, and unmistakable.

Alderon’s hand slowly reached out, his fingers resting against the carved wooden edge of the bookshelf.

He pressed his palm firmly against the frame, testing the weight. The stone mechanism behind the wood felt warm to the touch, as if the heavy counter-weighted latch had been recently, forcibly engaged from the inside.

"Sire?"

Harlond’s voice knocked sharply against the outside of the main door, followed by two quick raps of his knuckles against the wood. "Is everything alright inside? I heard a shift in movement."

Alderon froze, his fingers lingering on the edge of the secret panel for two agonizing seconds.

"Your Majesty?" Harlond’s voice grew tighter, the sound of the brass door handle rattling from the corridor outside.

Alderon withdrew his hand from the bookshelf, taking a slow step back into the center of the room. He smoothed down the front of his royal tunic, forcing his expression into a cool, unreadable mask of absolute composure.

"I am fine, Harlond," Alderon called out, his voice smooth, steady, and entirely devoid of panic. "I merely mispaced a mixing jar. Do not enter."

The handle stopped rattling outside. "Understood, Sire."

Alderon slowly turned back toward the secret bookshelf, his eyes narrowing as he studied the hidden panel.

Someone was here.

Whoever it was, did they see his secret?