Amara had learned that the palace assigned to her mother did not shout.

That was the first thing she noticed after the first week.

Pais had always shouted.

Not always with voices. Sometimes with doors. With servants rushing too fast. With guards standing too close. With noblewomen smiling too sharply at her mother. With her uncle’s name moving through corridors like a hand closing around someone’s throat.

But this palace was quiet.

There were attendants, guards, tutors, physicians, cooks, gardeners, and serious-looking people who bowed to Seraphina as if she were someone to protect rather than someone to trade.

But the quiet here was different; it was peaceful and light.

Amara liked the gardens best.

They were broad and golden in the afternoons, with stone paths warmed by sunlight and fountains that sang softly beneath carved arches. Pale roses climbed the columns, and saint’s breath grew in low, fragrant clusters near the shaded walls.

Her mother liked those flowers.

So Amara gathered the smallest ones carefully, the ones with soft petals and pale golden centers, and sat on a low bench beneath the vines to make a crown.

It was not perfect.

Some of the stems bent wrong. Some flowers refused to stay tucked. One side was thicker than the other, which annoyed her greatly, but she kept working because Seraphina had smiled that morning for the first time without looking surprised by it.

Amara wanted to give her another reason.

She was threading the last flowers into place when the garden went still.

The guards along the far path straightened, and attendants lowered their gazes.

Even the fountain seemed softer.

Amara looked up.

Goliath stood near the archway.

She froze.

She had not seen him once since that terrifying day in his office, when her mother had stood before him like someone waiting for a blade and Goliath had spoken as if kings and tyrants were simply inconvenient pieces on a board he already intended to clear.

He was taller than she remembered.

Or perhaps the garden made him look larger.

Black and gold robes fell around him in heavy, elegant lines, embroidery catching sunlight along his chest and sleeves. His golden hair shone almost white beneath the afternoon light, and his eyes looked the same as they had that day.

Sharp. Like he saw things before they happened.

Amara clutched the flower crown in both hands.

Goliath looked at it.

Then at her.

"Is that for Seraphina?"

Amara’s fingers tightened.

She wanted to say yes.

She should say yes.

But in Pais, adults did not ask children questions because they wanted answers. They inquired because they had already decided what they planned to take.

Her uncle had once taken a ribbon from her hair because he said it suited a visiting noble’s daughter better.

A priest had taken her painted shell because offerings belonged to the gods.

A court lady had taken the little silver pin her father had given her because children had no need for sentimental clutter.

So Amara lowered her eyes and held out the crown.

"Yes, Your Majesty."

The words tasted awful.

Goliath did not take it.

After a moment, she dared to look up.

He was watching her with an expression she did not understand.

"You misunderstand," he said.

Amara blinked.

Goliath stepped closer, and the guards somehow became even stiller, though he paid them no attention.

"I asked because I wanted to know if it had already been promised."

Amara stared.

"It is for my mother," she said carefully.

"Good."

His gaze returned to the crown.

"It suits her."

That startled her enough that she forgot to be frightened.

"You think so?"

"Yes."

Amara looked down at the uneven circle of flowers. "It’s crooked."

"So are several royal bloodlines. People still decorate those."

She did not understand all of that, but the tone was dry enough that a tiny, uncertain laugh escaped before she could stop it.

Goliath’s mouth curved faintly.

"I have no talent for making beautiful things," he said. "But I do know when something is worth paying for."

Amara’s eyes widened.

"Paying?"

"Yes."

"It’s not for sale."

"Then I will commission another."

That confused her more.

Goliath reached into the fold of his robe and drew out a small gold coin. Not the heavy imperial kind adults used for important matters, but a smaller one stamped with the old sun seal.

He held it between two fingers.

"For the next crown."

Amara stared at the coin.

Then at him.

"You want me to make you one?"

"For Seraphina," he said. "This one is yours to give. The next one, I will purchase and deliver poorly."

Her lips parted.

"You will give my mother flowers?"

"If you make them."

"She likes saint’s breath."

"I know."

"You know?"

Goliath looked toward the pale clusters along the wall. "She asked the gardeners not to cut them back."

Amara held the crown closer to her chest, not out of fear now, but because something warm and strange had bloomed beneath her ribs.

Adults in Pais would have taken.

Adults in Nuria asked, or perhaps... only this adult did.

She studied him with all the seriousness of a child deciding whether an emperor could be trusted with flowers.

"You really won’t take this one?"

"No."

"Even if you’re emperor?"

"Especially because I am emperor."

That answer stayed with her.

She did not understand it fully.

Goliath crouched, lowering himself until he was closer to her height. The movement startled everyone nearby except Amara, who was too surprised to be afraid.

He offered the coin again.

"One crown," he said. "Pale flowers. Small enough not to annoy her. Strong enough not to fall apart before evening."

Amara looked at the coin.

Then at his face.

"You’re very demanding."

"I have been told."

"My mother says demanding people should pay extra."

Goliath laughed quietly and warmly, making the garden feel less still.

"Your mother is wise."

Amara considered, her pale blue eyes still on the gold coin and the long fingers holding it.

Then she took the coin.