Veil of Ashes :Claimed by them

"By the infernal pits, please make her stop."

Vaelor raised a hand, expression unreadable as ever, and the maid who'd just finished her screeching assault on the ancient imperial ballad fled the room as if hellhounds were on her heels.

"That's seven," came Zairen's languid voice from beside him, laced with amused skepticism. "Seven crimes against music. Are we summoning demons or auditioning for a festival?"

Vaelor said nothing. His gaze remained fixed ahead, though his patience had thinned to a razor's edge.

Zairen studied him sideways, one elegant brow lifted. Vaelor was a man of discipline — steel on the surface, fire within — but even steel bent under nonsense like this.

And this? This was absurd.

A private entertainment hall—reserved for noble performances and elite gatherings—now repurposed into some deranged solo talent hunt.

Vaelor sat at the head of the room like a carved statue, brooding and composed. Zairen lounged beside him like a cat in a sunbeam, a bemused spectator to the madness unraveling.

Zairen still didn't know why they were here.

Not really.

He had arrived that morning, summoned cryptically to the south wing. When he'd entered and seen the makeshift curtain setup, the fidgeting line of palace maids, and Vaelor perched like judgment incarnate, he had immediately declared the entire thing ridiculous.

He hadn't been wrong.

Another maid stepped forward, eyes wide and limbs trembling. She gave a shaky curtsy and began to sing.

It was… horrific.

Zairen made a noise like he'd just bitten into something rotten. "Goddess above, is this some covert punishment from Father?"

Vaelor lifted a hand. "Stop. Next."

The maid bolted like a shot arrow.

Zairen leaned closer, eyes narrowed. "Be honest. Are you trying to weed out spies through sonic torture?"

Vaelor didn't blink. "No."

"Then what is this?" Zairen gestured vaguely at the terrified line of servants beyond the velvet curtain. "An opera for the damned?"

Vaelor didn't answer. He didn't intend to.

The truth clawed at his chest — that ethereal voice from days ago, still haunting the hollows of his mind. The voice that had soothed the inferno within him like a whispered miracle. It had slipped through the night like silk on flame, singing a song he didn't know but would never forget.

He had to find it. Her.

Even if he had to drag every soul in this cursed palace in front of him to do it.

The next girl was no better. She fumbled notes, her voice cracking halfway through a lullaby. Vaelor dismissed her with a cold, curt wave.

Zairen grinned, teeth white against his dark silk coat. "At this rate, we'll discover how many ways music can be used as a weapon."

Vaelor gave him a look.

"Don't give me that," Zairen said, crossing one leg over the other with dramatic flair. "You haven't told me why I'm here. Or why you're here. But whatever it is, I'm living for it."

Another maid entered. Zairen blinked.

She was old. Wrinkled like parchment, spine curved like a bow, and walking with the aid of a crooked cane.

"Are we auditioning for the afterlife now?" he whispered.

Even Vaelor looked mildly surprised.

The old woman bowed low, voice firm despite her age. "With your permission, Your Highnesses, I shall begin."

Vaelor nodded once. "Sing."

Her voice rang out—clear, strong, and unexpectedly melodious. The kind of sound that carried weight. Experience. A quiet beauty that silenced the snickering guards at the back.

Zairen's mouth opened slightly.

Vaelor didn't move, but he listened.

This wasn't the voice — the one that had wrapped around his cursed soul like balm — but it wasn't unpleasant. It had texture. Warmth.

When she finished, Vaelor asked, "Do you know the old bird hymn? The one about the dove that flies higher than storms?"

The old woman gave a gracious nod. "I do, Your Highness."

He gestured with a flick of his fingers. "Sing it."

Zairen leaned in as if watching a duel. His gaze flicked between the singer and his brother, lips twitching.

And then the old woman began the ballad.

Vaelor's heart clenched. The melody wove through the chamber—soft and wistful—but it didn't ignite the spark he was searching for. No tug in his chest. No phantom warmth curling through his ribs.

It wasn't her.

He sat back slowly, disappointment winding through his gut like a slow burn.

Still, talent was talent.

Without rising, he gestured toward one of the attendants at the side of the dais. "Compensate her," he said quietly.

The attendant moved immediately, placing a velvet pouch of coin in the old woman's weathered hand.

She gasped. "My prince—"

"You've earned it," Vaelor said, tone final.

She bowed again, eyes shining, and shuffled slowly back toward the curtain.

Zairen watched the scene like a man witnessing high treason.

"Vael," he said slowly, "I'm going to ask this with love, and only a little judgment—are you in love with a grandmother?"

Vaelor ignored him.

Zairen pressed a hand dramatically over his chest. "No? Because I swear to every cursed constellation, if you elope with a retired cook from the servants' quarters, I'm throwing myself from the palace roof."

Louis, who'd stood silently behind Vaelor all morning like a mountain in armor, coughed. Zairen's head whipped toward him.

"Was that a laugh? Louis! You do have emotions!"

Vaelor muttered something under his breath.

Zairen threw his arms out. "Fine. Fine! You don't want to tell me what this is about. I'll stay in my ignorant bliss. But you," he said, swiveling toward the cluster of curious attendants lingering behind them, "get out. All of you."

The startled staff froze.

"Except Louis," Zairen added. "The prince's eternal shadow can stay."

They scurried off in a flurry of robes and murmured apologies, disappearing behind the curtain.

Silence fell in the hall.

Vaelor pressed his fingers to his temples. His fire simmered, restless and agitated beneath his skin.

"She wasn't the one," he said finally, voice low.

"Clearly," Zairen said. "Though I must admit, she's now my second-favorite maid after the one who sang in hiccups."

"Zairen," Vaelor warned.

But his brother only smirked. "At least tell me what I'm watching for. You keep listening for something—and getting angrier every time you don't hear it."

Vaelor didn't answer. His gaze drifted to the curtain again, jaw tight.

Zairen followed the stare. "Whoever you are seraching for is not going to just walk through that curtain again, you know."

"I know."

Zairen tilted his head. "You sure you're not cursed with selective madness?"

"Possibly."

Zairen grinned. "Good. Just checking."

They sat in silence for a beat.

Zairen adjusted a ring on his finger, then sighed. "Well. Whenever you're ready to abandon this tragic choir experiment, I'll be here to document your descent into artistic despair."

Vaelor didn't respond.

Because somewhere, in the back of his mind, a melody still lingered.

A phantom lullaby.

And he would find the one who sang it.

Even if it meant enduring a thousand more disasters.