The morning broke with no blood on the streets.
Yet the entire capital reeked of death.
Whispers carried before the sunlight even reached the palace roofs. The banquet hosted by Prince Orion had ended not with wine, but with silence—one too chilling to ignore. Servants spoke of cold bodies, nobles who never woke again. No wounds. No poison. Just... breathless, lifeless stillness.
By the time the temple bells rang for the third time, the city already knew:
Seven high-ranking nobles, along with several low-ranking members of the aristocracy, were dead.
There were no survivors among those who sat at the highest table.
---
Inside the southern wing of the Damaris Estate—one of the few noble families still supporting the Second Queen—the marble table was already overturned.
Lord Varn Damaris, veins bulging at his temple, shouted over the stunned voices of his retainers.
"How?! How the hell does one attend a royal banquet and never return?!"
