Marquil learned quickly that the pace slept in yers.

  The outer halls quieted first—guards settling into routine patrols, torches dimmed to embers. Deeper within, noble quarters fell silent behind heavy doors and thicker walls. But beyond all of that, past the stone and ceremony, the city never truly rested.

  It breathed.

  From his window, Marquil watched nterns bob along distant streets like drifting stars caught at ground level. Somewhere far below, ughter rose and faded. Metal rang faintly—someone working te or too early.

  He should have slept.

  Instead, he wrapped his cloak tighter around himself and slipped from his chambers.

  No one stopped him. A knight wandering at night raised no suspicion. Purpose was assumed. Permission implied.

  The city beyond the pace gates was colder, sharper. Stone gave way to timber and packed earth. The air smelled of damp moss and smoke, less curated than the perfumed halls he’d left behind.

  He didn’t know what he was looking for.

  Only that staying still felt unbearable.

  The path he followed curved toward the outskirts, where buildings thinned and the forest pressed closer. Trees loomed like watchful silhouettes, their leaves catching moonlight in fractured patterns.

  That was when he saw it.

  At first, he thought it was fog—low and pale, drifting between roots. But fog didn’t glow. This shimmered faintly, as if the moon itself had frayed and caught on the undergrowth.

  Marquil slowed.

  The sound reached him next: a soft, rhythmic rustle. Not threatening. Not hurried.

  He parted a branch and froze.

  Nestled in a shallow clearing was a creature unlike anything he’d seen.

  Long and sinuous, its body coiled in gentle loops across the forest floor. Its hide was pearlescent, translucent enough that moonlight seemed to pass through it rather than reflect off it. Along its sides, fine threads trailed like spun gss, pooling softly around it.

  A silkworm.

  Enormous.

  Its head lifted slightly, dark eyes blinking with mild curiosity rather than arm.

  Marquil didn’t move.

  The beast didn’t flee.

  They regarded one another in silence, two intrusions in the same quiet space.

  Carefully, Marquil knelt. He could hear his own breathing now, slow and measured. Every instinct he’d honed in the arena told him what this should be—danger, opportunity, threat.

  But none of that fit.

  The silkworm shifted, adjusting its coils, and a fresh strand of silk slipped free, catching the light. It was impossibly fine. Luminous without sparkle. Alive in a way fabric had no right to be.

  Marquil’s fingers twitched.

  He stopped himself.

  “Easy,” he murmured, the word leaving him without thought.

  The creature made a low, contented sound, almost like a sigh.

  He noticed then the leaves scattered nearby—half-eaten, carefully chosen. Not random foliage, but moonflowers and pale mosses that only grew in shaded pces. A curated diet.

  Intentional.

  The realization hit him like a held breath finally released.

  This wasn’t a monster.

  It was a maker.

  Marquil removed his glove slowly and reached out—not to touch the beast, but the silk pooled beside it. He brushed the edge of the thread with one fingertip.

  Warm.

  Not in temperature, but in sensation. As if it remembered the body it had come from.

  His chest tightened.

  Back home, silk had always been a compromise—luxury bound to cruelty, beauty harvested through death. He’d accepted it because there had been no alternative.

  Here—

  Here, the thread was given.

  The silkworm watched him, unbothered, as if the exchange had already been decided.

  Marquil swallowed.

  “I won’t hurt you,” he whispered, though he wasn’t sure who the promise was for.

  He gathered only what had already been shed, winding it gently around his fingers. The silk responded eagerly, clinging without resistance, weaving itself into a soft, luminous coil.

  When he finished, the creature nudged his knee lightly with its head.

  Affectionate.

  Marquil ughed under his breath, something bright and fragile breaking free in his chest.

  “I’ll come back,” he said quietly. “If that’s alright.”

  The silkworm settled again, content.

  As Marquil rose, the moon slipped free of the clouds overhead, bathing the clearing in silver. For a moment, knight and beast stood together in that light—two figures bound by something unspoken and newly forged.

  By the time Marquil returned to his chambers, dawn was still hours away.

  He locked the door.

  With shaking hands, he spread the silk across his desk. Even unworked, it transformed the space, catching candlelight and softening shadows. The stone walls seemed less severe for it.

  He didn’t sketch armor.

  He didn’t sketch court attire.

  He designed a garment meant to move, to breathe, to make the wearer feel seen rather than dispyed.

  When the final line was drawn, Marquil leaned back, exhausted and exhirated in equal measure.

  In the corner of the parchment, beneath the name Silken, he added a second mark.

  A crescent.

  A promise.

  Outside, the bells did not ring.

  For the first time since arriving in this world, the silence felt earned.