The Name in the Palace Yet Unborn

The dream began with the sound of rain. On the cobbles, yes, but also on glass high above, falling through an endless vertical corridor lined with doors I didn’t recognize and portraits that didn’t have faces. Verra stood at the far end, which meant I was already in trouble. She wore her usual smirk, a twist of amusement and threat. Her eyes—impossibly old, impossible to read—found me through the fog. “Vladimir Taltos,” she said. “There’s a name waiting to be stolen. The corridor isn’t here yet, but it will be. Walk it, and claim the name before the Cycle turns. I’ll know if you don’t.” Have you ever tried to argue with a goddess? Don’t. I woke up with the taste of wet stone in my mouth and the certainty that tonight, somewhere in the Palace, a corridor was going to exist for the first time. And I’d have to find it with witchcraft, not steel, because my Organization friends don’t take kindly to jobs involving the Lords of Judgment or, worse, the House of the Phoenix. Loiosh stirred on my shoulder. “You’re twitching again, boss. Dream or bad mushrooms?” “Verra sent me shopping.” “Oh, great. That’ll go well.” Dawn in Adrilankha is never gentle. I wrapped myself in black, kept my knives sheathed, and crossed the city as an Easterner among Dragaerans: dodging elbows, glances, and the rain that never learned to fall straight. I left Organization territory behind, the green and black House sigils melting into the gold and silver banners of the Palace District. Inside, I worked old witchcraft under my breath, a tangle of words and the taste of my own blood. The spell slid over the marble, ignored by the sorcerous wards—almost. The Palace shifted around me, doors where there hadn’t been doors, a new corridor yawning open just as the clock struck the hour. “Found it,” Loiosh whispered, eyes flicking. “But whatever comes out isn’t going to like you.” The corridor was longer inside than out, painted in House Phoenix’s colors, lamp-gold and fire. At the far end, a single figure waited—a Dragaeran man in court dress, tall and cold, with a name shining above his head like a sorcerous sigil. The name I was sent to steal. I walked. My boots hit the wet stone; the walls flickered with images of past and future Emperors. My hand hovered over the pouch of witchcraft tokens. Steel wouldn’t help here. “Are you the thief?” the man asked, voice echoing. “Vlad Taltos. Sometimes I am. Sometimes I’m just borrowing.” He smiled—not kind. “Names aren’t for mortals.” I took a careful breath. “Then let’s make a trade.” I offered up a memory, shaped with witchcraft: my father’s voice, sharp and proud, the smell of Cawti’s hair after rain. In exchange, I reached for the name. For a moment, pain lanced through me: the cost of a neat job. The name slipped free. The corridor shivered, becoming more real, gilded with destiny. The Dragaeran’s eyes widened, then faded, like a portrait unpainted. I walked out with the name in my hand. Loiosh clung tighter as we left the Palace. “Was this worth it?” “Ask me when the Cycle turns. Or when Verra calls again.” Outside, the rain had stopped, but the city smelled of magic and change. I could live with that.

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