The capital city, a sprawling monument of stone and ambition, seemed to hold its breath. Liam, guided by Lyra's unsettling words, began to see the palace not as a symbol of power, but as a web of conspiracies. He moved through the gilded corridors with a heightened sense of awareness, his Dragon's Gaze active and attuning him to the subtle currents of the court. He observed everything: the way courtiers' Auras flickered with greed or fear, the faint, shimmering trails of magical energy left in the wake of passing mages, and most importantly, the unsettling pallor of the King's guard.
His gaze confirmed Lyra's suspicion. The Auras of the King's personal retinue, the elite few who never left his side, were not vibrant and strong as befitting their rank. Instead, they were muted, like dying embers. A faint, silver-gray film clung to them, a sign of mana and life force being drained away. Liam could feel it, a subtle, cold siphon in the air itself, as if the palace were breathing a terrible, quiet sigh that stole the very essence of those who served within it.
The most disturbing discovery, however, was in the King himself. When Liam next saw him, his Aura was not just frail; it was patched, as if a great, golden cloak had been mended with dull, lifeless thread. There were cracks in its foundation, and through those cracks, Liam sensed a slow, insidious drain. The king was not just dying; he was being consumed.
Liam spent his days training in a secluded courtyard, a necessary ritual to maintain his facade of a dedicated young warrior. He sparred with Sir Lucas, their clashing swords a rhythmic reminder of a more straightforward world. But his mind was never truly on the blade. He was always listening, always observing, always searching for the source of the insidious rot.
One evening, he followed the trail of the strange, siphoning Aura. It was a faint, almost imperceptible current, but with his heightened senses, it was as clear as a river. It led him through the upper floors of the palace, through corridors filled with priceless tapestries and forgotten statues, to a small, unassuming door tucked away in an alcove. The door was simple, unadorned, and seemed to belong to a servant's quarter. Yet, Liam felt the drain here more potently than anywhere else. The very stone of the walls seemed to hum with a quiet, terrible hunger.
He did not enter. He simply observed. He used his Vision skill on the door, but it was just a door, with no magical properties he could discern. This was a dead end, or so it seemed. The drain led to nowhere. The Aura was simply gone.
Frustrated, Liam turned to his only other source of information: the King's inner circle. He needed to find a way to get close to them, to observe them, to see if he could find the source of the rot. But the King's circle was a closed, paranoid world, a place where whispers were more dangerous than blades.
He found an opportunity at a small, private dinner hosted by a minor noble, a man known for his obsequious nature and his love of gossip. The dinner was attended by several members of the King's inner circle, including the Grand Chancellor, a wizened, ancient man named Ser Valerius, and the Royal Physician, a stern-faced, unsmiling woman named Lady Isolde.
Liam, accompanied by his father and Sir Lucas, navigated the dinner with a quiet grace. He listened, he observed, he used his Dragon's Gaze to peer into the souls of the powerful men and women who held the fate of the kingdom in their hands.
Grand Chancellor Valerius's Aura was a thin, brittle gold, a reflection of his own advanced age. But beneath it, Liam saw a deep, unyielding will, a mind as sharp as a razor. He was a man who loved the kingdom, a man who had dedicated his life to its preservation. He was not the source of the rot.
Royal Physician Isolde's Aura was a calm, soothing silver, a reflection of her own healing powers. But beneath it, Liam saw a deep, dark sadness, a quiet despair that spoke of a soul in turmoil. She was a woman who had seen too much death, who had lost too many battles. She was not the source of the rot.
Liam's gaze fell on a tall, slender man with a face like a hawk and eyes like a snake. He was the King's Steward, a man who had been at the King's side for a decade. He was a man of power, a man of influence, a man who had been a witness to every secret, every betrayal, every triumph and every defeat of the Razakian dynasty.
The man's Aura was a calm, collected gray, a reflection of his own cool, detached nature. But beneath it, Liam saw a deep, festering darkness, a cold, calculating ambition that burned like a fire in the night. The man's Aura was a silent, empty vacuum, a place of profound stillness and a terrible, insatiable hunger. Liam felt a chill run down his spine. The man's Aura was a parasite. It fed on the life force of others.
The man's name was Ser Alistair, the King's Steward.
Liam, his heart a silent, hammering drumbeat, watched as Ser Alistair spoke to the other members of the King's inner circle. His voice was a soft, gentle whisper, but his words were a blade. He spoke of the King's failing health, of the need for a strong, decisive hand to guide the kingdom through the coming storm. He spoke of Prince Arthur's youth, of his rash temper, of his immaturity. He spoke of the need for a council of elders to guide the kingdom, a council that would be led by a man of wisdom and experience. A man like himself.
Liam's heart sank. He had found the source of the rot. But the rot was far more insidious than he had ever anticipated. It was a man who had the trust of the King, the respect of the court, the admiration of the people. A man who was poisoning the kingdom from within.
He had to act. He had to expose Ser Alistair. But how? The man was a master of his craft, a man who had spent a decade weaving a web of lies and deceit. He had no proof, only his Aura and his senses. And in the treacherous world of court politics, that was not enough.
Liam returned to his chambers, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts. He had found the source of the rot, but he had no way to expose it. He was a man with a weapon, a man with a purpose, but he was also a man who was trapped in a gilded cage, a man who was a pawn in a game far larger than he had ever anticipated.
Later that evening, a soft knock came at his door. It was Lady Lyra. She stood in the corridor, her silver Aura a faint, ethereal glow around her, her intelligent eyes filled with a mixture of concern and a quiet urgency.
"Lord Liam," she said, her voice soft but clear. "I have something for you."
She held a small, leather-bound book. A book filled with ancient, forbidden texts, texts that spoke of forbidden rituals, of dark sorcery, of a terrible hunger that could only be sated by the life force of others. It was a book that spoke of a parasite. A parasite that fed on the life force of others. A parasite that was as ancient as the kingdom itself. A parasite that was as old as time. A parasite that was a silent, empty vacuum, a place of profound stillness and a terrible, insatiable hunger. A parasite that was Ser Alistair.
Liam's heart hammered against his ribs. He had found a weapon. A weapon that could expose Ser Alistair. A weapon that could save the King. A weapon that could save the kingdom.
"Thank you, Lady Lyra," Liam said, his voice a low whisper. "You have given me a weapon. A weapon that will be used to protect my family, to serve my King, and to forge a new path for my House."
He had found a weapon. A weapon that could expose Ser Alistair. A weapon that could save the King. A weapon that could save the kingdom. He was a man with a weapon, a man with a purpose, a man who was no longer a pawn. He was a man who was a master of his own destiny.