The Uninvited Guest

The castle's doors groaned open, and Hafa of the Fire Kingdom stepped into eternity.

"Welcome," droned the steward, a skeletal man whose voice suggested he'd rather be napping, "to the Court of the Timeless. You will address the king as 'Your Eternity.' You will not speak unless spoken to. You will—"

"—polish his boots and ... ?" Hafa interrupted, tossing her travel cloak at a suit of armor. It clattered to the floor. "Spare me the lecture. I've been gifted here like a trinket, not recruited as a scullery maid."

The steward blinked, his parchment-pale face twitching. No one interrupted here. Time, in Tucan's domain, was a religion—and irreverence was heresy.

Before he could retaliate, a cold laugh sliced through the hall.

"Fire-blooded indeed."

Hafa turned.

At the top of the staircase stood a young man, his posture lazy, his white hair unbound. He looked no older than her, but his eyes—gods, his eyes—were ancient. Blue, but not the bright cerulean of the sky. This was the blue of glaciers, of depths where light dared not linger. Tucan.

"Your Eternity," the steward croaked, bowing so low his nose brushed the floor.

Hafa didn't bow.

Tucan descended the stairs, each step deliberate. The air thickened, as if the seconds themselves held their breath. "You think yourself above service, princess?"

"I think," Hafa said, crossing her arms, "that if you wanted a servant, you should've stolen a peasant. Not a crown heir."

A flicker of surprise—or was it amusement?—crossed his face. "And what use is a crown heir to me?"

"Ask your treaties." She met his gaze, unflinching. "Or does eternity rot your memory too?"

The steward gasped. Tucan's expression iced over.

"Careful, Hafa of Fire," he murmured. "This castle has swallowed sharper tongues than yours."

"Good thing I brought spares."

For a heartbeat, silence. Then Tucan did something no one in the hall had ever witnessed.

He snorted.

It was a small, reluctant sound, but it sent the steward into a coughing fit. Tucan waved a hand, and the man scurried away, muttering about "unseemly disruptions."

"Follow," Tucan ordered, turning abruptly. "Your first lesson: in this castle, time obeys me. Be late, and you'll spend a century catching up."

Hafa rolled her eyes but trailed after him. As they climbed a spiral staircase, she glanced at a stained-glass window depicting Tucan's victory over the Fire King. The artist had given him a halo of light, a saint's serenity. The real man ahead of her radiated neither.

"Why do you keep them?" she asked suddenly.

"Keep what?"

"The heirs. The hostages. You've already won."

Tucan paused, his back rigid. When he spoke, his voice was soft, dangerous. "What do you know of victory, little matchstick? It isn't a trophy. It's a cage."

Before Hafa could retort, he vanished—literally, dissolving into the air like smoke.

"Show-off," she muttered.

A chuckle echoed from nowhere. "You'll learn, fire-child. Everyone does."