I feel Nesilhan's spike of unease. Yasar's expression sharpens with calculation.
It's Banu who breaks the tension, her eyes lighting up with familiar mischief. "Maybe she wants to study Kaan like a particularly fascinating bug? Poke him with sticks to see what happens? I do hope she plans to take notes. 'Day one: Shadow Prince glowered magnificently. Day two: Shadow Prince threatened to murder everyone. Day three: Still glowering, but with more creative threats.'"
I catch Nesilhan trying to hide a smile at Banu's performance, the first genuine amusement I've seen from her in days.
"She's not wrong about the glowering," Elçin observes dryly. "Though you do have an impressive range of murderous expressions."
We continue through districts that make my eyes water with their impossible geometry. In what our guide calls Hatira Pazari, vendors trade crystallized moments like currency—but I notice the sellers all have the same vacant look in their eyes, like something essential has been carved out of them.
My shadows catch glimpses of what the beautiful memory vials really contain—writhing darkness, fragments of souls, things that whisper with voices that sound disturbingly familiar. The vendors' smiles never waver, but for split seconds I see their true faces: gaunt, desperate, more corpse than living being.
"How does that even work?" I ask Banu as we pass a stall selling "childhood summers."
"Fae magic is tied to emotion and experience," she explains, then grins wickedly. "We can extract significant moments and preserve them. Very popular with people who want to forget their ex-lovers or remember their grandmother's cookies. The original memory stays, but it becomes..." she waves a hand vaguely, "...like trying to remember a dream after you've had really good sex. You know it happened, but the details get fuzzy."
"And what happens to the people who sell too much?"
Banu's smile turns wicked. "They become very peaceful. Very compliant. Very boring in bed, I imagine. Perfect citizens, really—they agree with everything, never cause trouble, and have the emotional depth of lukewarm bathwater."
I catch Yasar's eyes following mine to where a vendor's beautiful face briefly reveals something skeletal underneath. His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly—he sees it too. Elçin's handhasn't left her sword hilt since we entered the market, and I notice her gaze lingering on shadows that seem to move wrong.
"That's why my grandmother banned memory trading from the immediate court," she continues, louder now, as if she wants our guide to hear. "Too many subjects were losing themselves to nostalgia merchants. Though I notice the markets are busier than ever."
Our guide's form solidifies abruptly, their voice carrying a warning: "The Grove evolves with necessity."
We pass into what our guide calls Kehanet Bahçesi, where plants whisper predictions. Most seem to be complaints about weather, but I catch fragments that make my shadow magic stir uneasily—prophecies about "shadow princes who dance with chains" and "light that feeds the darkness." I choose to ignore this obvious nonsense.
Though as we walk deeper into the garden, my shadows show me what they always do—truth beneath illusion. For just a moment, the whispering roses reveal rotting petals crawling with maggots. A laughing fountain sprite flickers, showing the skeletal demon beneath its beautiful facade. The golden path pulses not with warmth but with something that looks disturbingly like veins.
"The architecture here," Nesilhan says, though genuine wonder wars with growing unease in her voice, "it's not just alive. It's watching."
She's right. A tower adjusts its height as we approach, but the movement feels hunting rather than helpful. Windows reshape themselves to frame our passage, but they linger too long on our faces, like they're memorizing us.
"Everything in the Grove is alive to some degree," our guide explains. "We find it efficient when buildings can participate in their own maintenance."
"Efficient," I mutter. "Right. I suppose complaints about the plumbing get resolved quickly when the pipes can inform on the complainers."
Banu snorts. "You have no idea. Try living here when you're sixteen and desperately want to explore your sexuality, but your bedroom ceiling keeps making helpful suggestions about technique. Nothing kills the mood like architectural commentary."
I'm beginning to understand why she left.
Büyüyen Saray turns out to be a massive structure constructed entirely from living trees whose branches have been trained into walls and columns. The trees are still growing, still alive, but as we approach I notice the way some branches end in sharp points, the way certain flowers bloom only when we pass beneath them, like they're tracking our scent.
My shadows show me flickers of the truth—roots that look more like grasping claws, bark that occasionally reveals faces twisted in silent screams, sap that runs red instead of clear. The palace isn't just alive. It's feeding.
"Welcome to my grandmother's home," Banu says, and there's something bitter in her voice now. "The palace has been growing for over three thousand years. Each Queen adds her own touches, and the trees remember every decision. Every visitor. Every disappearance."
We enter through doors that open themselves—literally grow apart to create an entrance. But I catch the way they hesitate before admitting us, like they're debating whether we deserve passage.
"The Queen will see you in Öz Odasi," our guide announces. "Please follow the golden path. Do not deviate from the golden path, no matter what you might hear calling from the side passages. Some routes lead to rooms that don't exist on Tuesdays."
"What day is it?" Yasar asks.
"Thursday," our guide replies. "Probably."
The golden path is actual gold—thin veins running through the living floor like luminous roots. But as we follow it, I notice the way the metal sometimes pulses, like a heartbeat. Like it's alive too.
"Charming place. Really captures that 'abandon all hope' aesthetic,” I comment.
