The palace corridors gleamed bright with sunlight, but beneath their beauty, tension coiled unseen.
In one chamber, Alaric wrestled with memories he could not banish.
In another, Lucian spun his quiet web, threads of influence slowly tightening.
And in yet another, Alistair sharpened suspicion like a blade.
And somewhere unseen, beyond the sight of courtiers and guards, the true enemy watched. Patient. Waiting. Ready to strike when the game drew too close to truth.
The game had begun. And every move now mattered.
Back at Alistair's chamber...
Prince Alistair leaned back in his chair, boot tapping against the marble floor, eyes fixed on the flame of a single candle. Across from him stood Corren, his most trusted spy, waiting patiently for the next order. The silence stretched until Alistair's lips curved—not into a smile, but something sharper, thinner.
"Leave me."
Corren bowed, hesitated only a heartbeat, then vanished through the door.
