It was late into the night, on the same day.
After the ritual, his messengers had arrived. Cyrus had already been informed that the plan with Velma, which had been to lure Prince Aiden to the border and subsequently kill him, had been unsuccessful.
At first, the Altherian soldiers had been winning, having the advantage of numbers. Victory had seemed close enough to taste—until unexpected reinforcements for the prince arrived in the form of Elliott's Order of Knights. The tide had turned in an instant. The hunters had become the hunted. It was the Altherian soldiers who were massacred instead, and the prince had lived.
The news enraged Cyrus when he first heard it—his goal so close, practically in his grasp, only to be snatched away yet again. This trap, he had thought, had no possible way of failing.
That initial fury had cooled somewhat in the days that followed. Now his anger was still simmering, though no longer boiling over. Messengers and spies had been drifting in over the week, bearing tidings of developments in the Vellurian court. Cyrus wasn't expecting a report tonight—yet his spymaster had insisted on an urgent audience. Urgent enough to break protocol.
It had to be something major.
The spymaster burst in. Cyrus was in his private chambers, brooding over the earlier revelation about Prince James. The man- a lean figure in his forties- bowed low.
"Your Majesty. Unforeseen developments."
Cyrus' face was carefully schooled, but a faint flicker in his eyes betrayed him. Cynthia stood to the side, still as a statue, watching.
"The Hound," the spymaster said at last, "is not the only threat circling the Sun anymore."
A pause hung heavy in the air, as if the chamber itself was holding its breath. Then-
"The Viper has returned to the palace."
Silence.
He didn't need to explain further. The aliases were burned into memory.
The Hound, Prince Aiden Lancaster. Elliott's personal guard dog. Fierce, unyielding, and dangerously loyal. A threat not because of courtly cunning, but because of his capacity for cruelty, the sort of decisive brutality that Elliott's conscience would never allow him.
The Viper, Gabriella Lancaster. She didn't need brute strength to be dangerous. While Aiden was a blade driven by muscle and force, Gabriella was a poisoned needle. Small. Precise. Lethal. It only took one prick for her to end an enemy.
And the Sun, Elliott. The title was more than poetic. He was heir to the Lancasters, the last living male descendant of the Sun God. More than that, in the worlds of both Aiden and Gabriella, he was the center around which everything revolved. Their world. Their purpose.
Cyrus' fingers curled into fists. Gabriella Lancaster. Of course she'd return now.
The spymaster exhaled sharply, as if releasing a weight from his chest. He didn't need to say it aloud. Gabriella changed everything.
"She's not just Elliott's mother," he said. "She's the reason he survived his own court as a prince, long enough to become emperor."
Cyrus knew the stories. Everyone did. Elliott hadn't become emperor through sheer will or ruthless ambition. No, his path had been carefully laid out for him since childhood, paved by Gabriella, softened with flowers, smoothed of every stone. Every thorn- every threat, every rival- had been plucked out by her hand.
Elliott never dirtied his own. He didn't need to.
That was the irony of it all: he didn't hurt anyone, not directly- because he didn't have to. Gabriella had ensured it. She had cut down every enemy before they could even stand against him. And she had done it without witnesses, without evidence—nothing that could be traced back to her.
That was what made her so dangerous. She was brutal strategy wrapped in silk and perfume.
Cynthia finally spoke, her voice low and lethally soft.
"Of course. Elliott is a fool who hesitates. If he were alone, the Vellurian Empire would've been invaded long ago. Aiden is a blade without a master, he has the force, but without proper direction, he's just one man. Gabriella, alone in exile, wasn't much of a threat either- what use is a genius strategist's mind in exile?"
She exhaled, her eyes narrowing.
"But together? Together, the Hound and the Viper, united by a common goal, are unstoppable. Gabriella is the pointer, the one who aims where to strike. Aiden is the arrow that hits the mark. Alone, they are threats that can be contained. But aligned, truly aligned, they leave no weaknesses. No blind spots. Absolutely no way in."
Cyrus was silent for a long moment, considering her words.
Then his gaze shifted to a shadowed corner of the chamber where he knew another figure stood. Silent. Hidden from the eyes of the others. The master of assassins.
"Poison her," Cyrus said quietly.
The words fell into the room like a stone into still water- no flourish, no drawn-out plan. Just a simple, lethal command.
"Let her taste the very poison she's used against so many others. She won't have the same protections as Elliott, no constant tasters checking every morsel of food. Their festival approaches... The Ascension of the Flame. Poison the ceremonial wine drunk after the ceremony. The city will be chaos, drunk on celebration. Make that your ally."
He smiled, thin and cold.
"And make the poison painful. Slow. Let her screams echo through those gilded halls. Let that sheltered fool watch his beloved mother die before his eyes, helpless, on the very days he's meant to be celebrating his divine ancestry."
His voice deepened, a cruel satisfaction in each syllable.
"This won't just be an elimination. It will be a message. A warning. That this-" his smile sharpened, "-is what happens when wayward snakes dare to slither into my war."