Chapter 38: Castle in the Clouds - The Shadow of a Vicious King

POV: MAX

Sun knights flank us in rigid silence as we march toward the Solar Cliffs through a blur of rain. The round bit they forced into my mouth pulls painfully at the corners of my lips, and my nerves are worn so thin I can barely feel my bound hands anymore.

E’s footprints appear in puddles every few seconds, proof he’s still close, but I’m boxed in on all sides. The soldiers keep enough distance between us to ensure he can’t get near me without being noticed. The bluff he pulled in the forest bought us passage, but not their trust.

After about an hour of walking, the thick black-and-gray storm clouds part overhead, and my breath catches around the gag.

The Solar Cliffs form a solid ivory wall in front of us, curving in a vast three-quarter circle around the valley. Only the lower ridges directly ahead provide a way through, as though some god split a mountain open and polished the wound smooth. The summit disappears into the clouds, its true height impossible to gauge.

The stone looks pristine and luminous beneath the rain—not chalky or rough like ordinary rock, but dense and gleaming as marble or quartz, its surface streaked here and there with faint veins of honey.

Guard towers crown the lower ridges, and watchful banners snap violently in the wind.

The Sun Court knights march me straight toward the closest checkpoint, past armed sentries who barely spare me a glance. The route upward alternates between broad terraces and sweeping staircases, each step perfectly chiseled despite centuries of weather.

Rainwater streams around us in ribbons, making the entire mountainside gleam silver and gold.

We climb one flight of stairs, then another, and another, until my thighs ache and my jaw throbs around the gag.

At last, the knights herd us toward a circular platform inset into one of the upper terraces. An enormous golden disk lies at its center, engraved with the pattern of a sun licked by curling clouds. A tall, round post rises from the middle of it. Beyond the platform, a series of identical towering posts climbs the mountainside at regular intervals, stretching toward the heavens.

The knights guide us onto the gleaming disk, and one of them presses a hand against the base of the central post.

A flash of sunlight streams down from above, connecting the posts and blinding me for a moment.

My stomach lurches as the world dissolves into sparks, and when I manage to open my eyes again, blinking past the imprint of sunshine burned into my retinas, we’re standing on an identical platform high above the clouds.

The sudden altitude makes my ears pop painfully. I swallow against the pressure, fighting a wave of dizziness as the thinner air scrapes my lungs.

Below us stretches an endless sea of brilliant white clouds, and above stands the Sun Court castle.

Stone walls rise in tiers from the cliffs, broken by dozens of towers capped with golden domes. Covered bridges span the gaps between different sections of the palace. Long balconies and battlements adorn the upper levels, statues of winged figures standing at regular intervals along the walls.

The scale is overwhelming.

This place was built to impress. To dominate. To make visitors feel small the moment they lay eyes on it.

But it isn't only a castle. It's a city.

The lower terraces are crowded with homes, shops, gardens, and winding streets filled with people moving about their day. The higher we climb, the fewer people there are.

By the time we're escorted across the upper ramparts, my heart is pounding so hard it nearly drowns out the roar of the wind.

A second group of guards waits near the entrance to the upper citadel.

“I need an audience with Sir Daros,” the squadron leader announces.

One of the stationed soldiers frowns, breaking formation. “I’ll be thrown in the brig if I disturb the Lord Commander for no reason.”

The two men lean in and exchange a few hurried words. The stationed guard's expression changes almost immediately, his eyes widening.

“Come with me. You, the prisoner...” His gaze bounces from my bound hands to the space where my ghost is standing, E’s wet boots still leaving prints on the stone. “...and the Prince of Light.”

We're ushered inside a white structure with no roof, and the wind stops abruptly.

The chill of altitude is quickly replaced by warm sunlight. Shiny marble halls stretch before us, and the scents of citrus, polished stone, and something floral I can't name fill my nostrils.

Far above, enormous crystal chandeliers hang from bronze cables strung between the open supports, catching the light and scattering fragments of color across the floor.

We’re guided up a flight of stairs and into a room lined with tall windows overlooking the clouds. Inside, a broad-shouldered male wearing an immaculate gold-and-white uniform sits behind a desk.

He rises swiftly as we enter. “To what do I owe this rather inconvenient interruption?”

Sir Davos is older than the others, with streaks of silver threaded through his short, ashy-blond hair. He has the hard, battle-worn build of a general, his face made of stern lines that suggest he rarely smiles—if ever.

He takes one look at the empty space beside me and goes pale.

Then, to my utter shock, he bends the knee.

“My prince.” He’s visibly rattled, his eyes flicking briefly to me as he stands. “My apologies. I wasn’t informed of your return. Let me take care of the prisoner⁠—”

“She’s not a prisoner,” E cuts in with enough bite to stiffen my spine. “She’s my guest.”

The captain hesitates only a fraction of a second. “Of course.”

He steps forward and cuts the bindings from my wrists with the dagger sheathed at his waist.

The pressure vanishes so suddenly that my arms feel weightless. Then the pain comes roaring back in a rush of hot needles as circulation returns to my numb fingers. Angry welts circle my wrists where the bindings bit deep into my skin.

The leather gag is unbuckled next, and I swallow against the soreness.

“My apologies,” Sir Davos repeats, glaring at the squadron leader. “Why was I not notified of our prince’s return immediately?”

“We weren’t certain it was really him, sir.”

“You weren’t certain?” the captain snaps, fury flashing across his weathered face. “You can’t recognize the crown prince’s bite of power?”

The younger officer visibly wilts.

I rub the red imprints on my wrists, feeling faint. It was one thing to suspect E was a prince of Faerie. It’s an entirely different feeling to hear it confirmed.

Sir Davos exhales through his nose, visibly forcing himself back under control, then gestures toward the open path behind him

“Welcome home, my prince. His Majesty should return before sundown.” Sir Davos says. “I’ll alert the staff of your arrival.”

The guards remain in the room as we exit, my stomach fluttering.

“Where are we going?” E whispers.

I elbow his side but keep my face serene. “Act like you know.”

We cross an elevated bridge, and urgency ripples through the posted guards below as word of E’s return begins to spread.

E laces our fingers. “Now what?”

I squeeze his hand and guide him along. “Now, we go and meet your father.”

He pauses, tugging on my arm. “I’m still not sure they’re right about me. It’s so strange.”

“You heard them. You live here.”

I hurry him along, weary of what could happen if they changed their minds.

“Yet I spent decades in the new world, alone and discarded… It doesn’t add up.”

“Their leader wouldn’t have bent the knee if you were just good at bluffing. It’s simple enough to understand,” I say, a little too defensive, trying to mask how freaked out I feel, and failing miserably.

His jaw ticks. “You think this” —his free hand grazes my shoulder, then drops— “feels simple?”

I swallow hard.

No, it doesn’t. Not when every new revelation digs a bigger trench between us.

Out on the terrace, slender white columns support long trellised walkways draped in climbing vines, their leaves dark and lush against the white stone. It’s not a single balcony but a network of bridges, terraces, and elevated gardens leading toward the center.

There are no riotous flower beds, no bursts of color softening the austerity. Ancient bonsai trees sit in carved stone planters, their trunks twisted into deliberate forms, their canopies clipped into graceful silhouettes.

I've always loved how plants claim space without apology. Roots invade stones and soil alike. Vines climb whatever stands in their way. Leaves reach for every scrap of light they can find.

Give them soil, water, and a little care, and plants thrive.

Here, everything feels smothered. Nothing is allowed to dig too deep or spread too far. There’s no wild roots, no chaos, and no decay. Every branch is trimmed just so, and every fallen leaf has been meticulously removed. So much perfection makes my core itch. I crave the mess of my gardens, the stubbornness, the quiet rebellion of green things that refuse to stay where they’re told.

This garden is holding its breath.

A gigantic hawthorn tree stands in the middle of the uppermost terrace, unquestioned, while everything else is kept small and secondary. It’s not beautiful in the way I’d imagined. Pristine and intimidating, yes, but not welcoming.

At the base of the hawthorn tree, a perfect ring of water circles the white trunk in a forceful, gushing current. The churning water streams in a straight line beyond it before plummeting down the sheer cliff in a powerful waterfall.

At this height, the cliffs should howl. The drop is endless, the kind of void that should pull the air into motion and send it tearing through the gardens, but nothing moves.

Not my hair. Not even the golden leaves of the Sun Court’s sacred tree.

The waterfall should be thunderous too, given the way it spills over the edge of the cliffs, vanishing into a sea of mist below. And yet, its roar feels…contained, as though sound itself has been tamed to suit this place.

My gaze drifts to its source, and I step closer.

The water rises from a perfect hole in the rock at the foot of the hawthorn, gallons and gallons of it spurting from the earth with impressive power and velocity.

I crouch slightly, studying the way it moves, impossibly clear.

What lies beneath this?

Not a trickle or a simple vein of water, but something vast.

An underground geyser, maybe. One that defies gravity and travels through stone the way blood moves through a body. Something ancient and otherworldly presses upward to feed the heart of this garden, and a strange shiver quakes me.

The man I’ve come to call my ghost is heir to all of this. To these cliffs, this light, this city above the clouds. To a kingdom that sits above the world and looks down on everything beneath it. I turn slowly, taking it all in.

What would it be like to grow up here? To wake each day in a place where nothing is allowed to falter, where even nature bends to expectation. To be raised with this view, this height, this constant reminder that you stand higher than everyone else.

E is the crown prince of the Sun Court.

I wonder if this place ever felt like home to him, or if it was just another kind of cage.

“We need to ask your father for help,” I murmur. “Before Lillivere gets too far with Nick.

“She won’t kill him—not until she petitions the king for your return. She’ll want to use him as leverage.”

I think he’s right and nod, but that’s a small relief. “If the King of Light sends soldiers after them now, we might still⁠—”

Stone meets the soles of my boots with a sharp, hollow echo as we round the trunk of the majestic tree, and I freeze. I know where the path curves, where the light breaks, where the ground dips ever so slightly near the edge. I’ve never stood here before, and yet I could map every inch of it with my eyes closed.

This is the cliff from my dreams.

I release E’s hand and examine the patch of stones overlooking the thickest clouds—the same ones that scorched my back so many nights before, where I hold so many memories I don’t fully own.

“Is everything alright?” E asks.

My trembling hand flies to the arch of my brow. “How could it be alright? You’re a prince, and Nick has been taken prisoner. Everything is a mess.”

“We’ll save him, Max.”

“What if we don’t?” I counter, the combination of fatigue, worry, and shock pushing all my buttons. “And what happens when your memories come back? What happens to me when you wake up one day and realize that you love someone else? That you still belong to her?”

He gathers my hands in his. “Then we deal with it together.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I have.”

I shake my head. “I’m not interested in a fling, in filling the gap while you figure yourself out.”

His voice shifts—darker, deeper. Possessive in a way that makes heat curl low in my stomach despite everything.

“You think you’re a fling?” he murmurs. “I’d die for you, Max.”

His hand closes around my wrist, firm enough to stop me from pulling away.

“I know exactly what I feel when I’m with you,” he adds.

My pulse stumbles.

“That’s not the same as knowing who you are.”

“No,” he agrees. “But it makes me sure of my love for you.”

A languid ache blazes through my gut.

His breath hits my cheeks, and he squeezes the nape of my neck. I know what comes next and lean into the kiss, closing my eyes and abandoning my principles.

He owns me with his kiss. The warmth of his lips disarms me as he angles me to him with his large hand, destroying my senses and grounding me in place.

My nails sink into his shoulders, pulling death closer, and for one reckless moment, I want to disappear in his arms and meld our souls together. Everything about him feels right, down to how wrong we are for each other.

He kisses me as though he's terrified I’m about to decide he's not worth the trouble. He doesn’t say it aloud, but his hungry tongue invades my mouth, over and over again, desperate.

It feels as though he’s fishing for reassurance, terrified to find evidence I've stopped loving him.

And the awful truth is that I'm doing the same thing, searching our connection for a certainty hidden in the cracks between kisses and broken breaths.

Looking for proof that I'm worth choosing.

“Ezra?” a voice shouts.

It shocks me out of my thoughts, and my stomach clenches.

I tear my mouth away as light, hurried footsteps resonate through the gardens. E growls, his hands digging into the flesh of my waist.

“Ezra!”

This time, the greeting somehow manages to sound both sultry and vulnerable.

My ghost reluctantly lets me go as a woman approaches, and my eyes widen, my legs turning to lead beneath me.

Fuck me.

The newcomer belongs to a fairytale I was never meant to step into.

Dark hair spills around her face, falling past her hips in thick, glossy waves. It clearly has never known a bad day or a pair of dull scissors.

A single white strand cuts through the darkness and traces the line of her cheek, like death itself tried to touch her and failed, leaving only that mark behind.

Her warm brown skin is flawless in a way that shouldn’t be possible. It makes me aware of every wrinkle, every scar, every hour I’ve lived.

The sharp angles of her face should feel severe but don’t. Her irises are a clear, unsettling gray, and her shimmering cat-eye makeup and golden eye shadow are artistic and striking without looking heavy.

This terrace was made for women like her, for Fae royals to lounge and leisure without a single worry. She moves with the kind of feminine grace I’ve never managed to master. A diaphanous gown drapes her curves, the fabric so light it looks as though someone stitched a piece of cloud into a dress and convinced it to stay in place.

A single thread of gold zigzagging across her shoulder and waist holds the masterpiece together.

She’s incredibly beautiful. The very princess I was afraid to find.

And then there’s her bite of power. Cold. Not the sharp bite of a strong winter gust, but the deep, creeping chill of something old embalmed in eternal ice.

When she deigns to look my way, that cold deepens, slipping under my skin. My pulse stutters. The same icy, hollow edge I’ve felt near deathbeds, in hospital corridors at three in the morning—when life holds still, and death decides who stays and who goes—encircles my heart.

The scent of endings clings to her, and a knot coils at the pit of my stomach.

With my half-done braid, the dirt and blood freckling my neck, and the clothes I’ve been traveling in, I’m nothing more than a sore spot in this idyllic scenery, barely a blip of a woman stitched together by half-assed genes. Compared to them, I am unfinished.

I throw my worst nightmare made flesh an awkward wave. “Hi, I’m Max.”

She clicks her tongue as though she’s already decided exactly where I fit in this disaster story—buried in the footnotes.

Her gray eyes fly past me, searching for my ghost. They skim my left side, then my right, darting to my front and back again, and I realize that even though she senses E is with me, she can’t pinpoint his exact location. Not the way I can.

That’s a slim silver lining, but I’ll take it.

I can’t summon the courage to speak, and E remains eerily silent, too.

The gorgeous Fae finally squints at the space he occupies, “Ezra Hermes Lightbringer, stop playing games. I’ve waited decades to see you again.”

Ezra Hermes Lightbringer.

The name hits almost as hard as it did when he used it earlier.

Her eyes flick to the ground, and her hands twist around each other. “I forgive you. For everything.”

Does that make her Willow? Does that make this impossibly beautiful woman the forlorn wife he left behind?

“I’m sorry. I don’t know who you are,” E—or rather Ezra—says.

He shifts closer, standing behind me like I’m the only shield and sword he needs to slay his past.

The woman’s face slowly wrinkles in a devastated frown.

“I should give you some privacy,” I say quickly.

“No, stay.” Ezra grabs my shoulders to keep me from leaving, and I know he’s scared shitless of what he doesn’t remember.

A boulder pulses in my throat. “Are you Willow?”

Her eyes flash with anger. “I’m Iris.”

Bittersweet relief floods me. She’s not his wife. Alleluia.

Iris prances forward with her head tilted to the side. “Ezra, please. I need to see you.”

“He can’t. He’s invisible. He-he doesn’t remember anything about his life,” I stammer.

Her mouth hangs agape. “Why?”

“We don’t know,” I answer.

The word we earns me a glacial stare as Iris eyes me up and down the way you consider a weed you plan to wrestle out of your garden.

“I’m sorry,” Ezra says softly. “It must be terrible for you.”

Iris falls to one of the stone seats surrounding the hawthorn, looking both sad, shocked, and incredibly annoyed. Tears well in her cloudy eyes, but she angles her face away to mask them.

“My memory was wiped away when I died,” Ezra adds regretfully. “And I don’t think it’s ever coming back.”

Her knuckles turn white around the edge of her seat, and she sneers as she wipes a fat tear from the corner of her eye. “I don’t know what happened to you, E,” she drawls, her voice breaking despite her best efforts, the sound heartbreakingly intimate.

It especially stings that she calls him E.

“I don’t know where you were the last fifty years, or why, but I know death,” she croaks. “I’ve lived death, breathed it in, and now, I rule over it. Hells, I’m still half-dead, burrowing into life against its will.”

The satisfied curl of her mouth clashes with the salty streaks running down her cheeks as she adds, “And you, my prince, are not dead.”