The palace was quiet at night, but Flynn's mind roared with unrest.
Tonight marked exactly five years since Caelan's death.
And five years since Khalid Caelum the traitor knight, now a beloved duke of Winterbell entered the royal court with a solemn vow of loyalty.
Flynn stood at the highest balcony, purple eyes scanning the cold expanse of marble towers. His white hair danced in the breeze, silver under moonlight. The memory of the blade that had pierced his back echoed through his body like phantom fire.
"I won't waste this second chance," he whispered.
He turned and descended toward the underground records chamber an off-limits place only a prince could unlock. The guards outside bowed and left without question. Flynn waved his sigil ring across the seal. The stone door groaned open.
Inside, he lit a lantern and rifled through rows of scrolls.
Tonight he wasn't looking for Khalid's military file.
Tonight, he was following a new clue.
From a traveler cloaked in dust, who had slipped past the gates that morning with a trembling message:
"They're planning another meeting. I overheard them. In the ruins of Myrinth. Midnight. Three days from now."
No name. No faces. Just a sigil drawn hastily on parchment.
Flynn unrolled it now and pressed it flat.
A black ember, encircled by a cracked crescent.
He'd seen it once before.
Back when he was still Caelan of Elaris, scouting enemy territories near the border. It had been etched into the hilt of a strange assassin's bladeone that had barely missed his throat.
The Ember Hand.
They were no mere rebels. Whispers in the shadows spoke of a covert group loyal to no crown—only power. They moved kingdoms like pawns, traded lives like coin.
If they were back…
And if Khalid had missing months after Caelan's death…
Flynn's jaw clenched.
He checked the old Elarian reports. One document had the sigil scribbled in a captured spy's notes. But it was marked as "disbanded." Clearly, a lie.
Suddenly, a sound. A soft clink. A whisper of fabric.
Flynn grabbed the lantern, blowing it out.
Footsteps.
Someone else was in the archive.
He pressed to the wall, dagger at the ready.
But the footsteps retreated. Faint, purposeful. Gone.
When Flynn lit the lantern again, one scroll had been moved.
He opened it military patrols for the upcoming week.
The path near the ruins of Myrinth was marked… cleared.
Flynn's heart raced.
Someone is making sure no guards are nearby that night.
He whispered, "A meeting unguarded… because someone in court wants it hidden."
Was it Khalid?
Was it someone above him?
He rolled the scroll up again, hiding it in his sleeve.
He had three days.
And he intended to be at the ruins first.
Whether the traitor was Khalid or someone else, Flynn would find out.
And this time, he would not die with the truth.
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