They said the king had fled.
Again.
Rumor crackled through the palace like dry tinder in flame.
Every hall carried it, every servant spat it, every guard repeated it until the words tasted of iron:
The king had run. The crown was ashamed.
Perfect
While panic chewed through the corridors, Ryven was not beyond the walls, not bleeding through some gutter of the capital.
He was here.
The torchlight in his chamber flickered across hair that caught fire where gold met shadow, and into eyes as blue and cold as fractured ice.
He leaned against the stone, half-smiling, as if he knew something the world did not.
Pfft!House arrest?
For anyone else,It was a prison
But for him?
A gift!
Because the palace had gathered all its secrets under one roof—
and kindly given him the key.
The letter still lay on the desk.
Ash-edged. Fire-bitten.
The words whispered long after ink should have died:
You went below, didn't you?
He hadn't touched it again. He didn't need to.
A letter that slipped into a locked chamber without a knock wasn't a warning.
It was an invitation.
And Ryven? He didn't take invitations.
He rewrote them.
So he loosed the rumor of flight himself. He salted the palace with whispers.
Let them chase shadows in the dark while he moved where no one expected.
His bootsteps carried him through the corridor now—silent, deliberate, predatory.
At the end loomed a polished oak door, iron locked.
And behind it,Count Althar.
The Second Wing.
The man who had mocked his blood as hollow.
The man whose jeweled fingers clicked too eagerly when Ryven said Morbrak.
The man who had suggested—so kindly?—that the king's rebellion be solved by confinement.
Ryven's lips curved.
"Let's see what you flinch at this time."
His boot struck.
The lock shrieked. Wood splintered open.
The door swung like a throat cut too fast.
Althar spun, velvet half-buttoned, sixty years wrapped in silk. His frame was thin, but his eyes glimmered sharp as glass. Rings winked with firelight, trembling just enough to betray their master.
"Your Majesty?" His voice cracked with disbelief.
"You… you should be fleeing. Not—here."
Ryven stepped inside. The door slammed behind him.
His smile was a blade.
"I think," he said softly, "the one who should be fleeing isn't me."
Althar's laugh was brittle glass. "So this is it? A threat,little boy? You break into my chamber to grow teeth you don't have?"
Ryven's hand slipped beneath his cloak. The dagger gleamed black, hungry for breath.
"Call it whatever you like."
The count's eyes narrowed, his smirk bending into nervous calculation.
"Jester's steel?You dare raise it against a Wing? Fool child. Do you even know who you face?"
Ryven tilted his head. Blue eyes flared sharp.
"I know who flinched when I said Morbrak."
The silence hit harder than the boot on the lock.
Althar's mask cracked—only for a flicker, only for a heartbeat.
Enough.
Steel rang.
Althar's rapier flashed free with the hiss of a serpent.
Ryven met it, dagger catching thin steel. Sparks spat like curses.
Blades pressed, strained.
Age against youth. Experience against feral will.
And in the clash, Althar's breath caught.
"Impossible… who taught you this? Squald—he trained you?"
Ryven's smile widened, feral, cruel.
"A master did." He twisted, shoving back. Sparks lit the chamber like lightning.
"But not Squald."
Another strike. Another lock.
The rapier slid so close it combed strands of his golden hair.
Ryven's dagger answered, a brutal sweep that forced Althar against the table.
"I was talking about me."
The count grunted. The boy-king's hands—scarred, callused, marked by hours of steel—pressed harder, surer, not the hands of a caged monarch but of a man who had bled for skill.
"You lie," Althar hissed, voice shaking. "Your mouth lies—" His eyes flicked to those hands. "Gods!What have you done to yourself?"
Ryven bared his teeth in a grin.
"Earned the right to stand."
Blades shrieked again, thrust met with parry, parry with strike.
The chamber filled with the rhythm of steel, the thunder of locked breath.
Ryven pressed the assault. His voice was ice between blows.
"Tell me—The Child of Darkness still lives in Morbrak. Isn't he?"
Althar spat through his teeth. "Lies. He died. Light devoured him."
"Then why," Ryven's dagger kissed his throat, "did your face break when I named him?"
The edge nicked. Blood beaded scarlet.
"You imagine things!He is dead."
"The dead don't make old men sweat."
The dagger pressed deeper. The cut lengthened.
"Tell me the truth. Now."
The count's smirk faltered, his breath ragged. The fear bled through.
"Fine!" He spat it, bitter. "Fine! The Child lived. Broken—but lived. When light broke dark, he cursed the line. Slipped free. Vanished."
Ryven's chest burned, heart hammering.
The curse. The silence. The lie.
But Althar wasn't done. His voice grew fevered, mocking through fear.
"You want to know why you never heard it? Why your crown wears ignorance while I carry weight?"
Ryven's dagger stilled, inches from death.
Althar's lips curled.
"Because your father hunted him. The last heir. And the Child destroyed him. Body, soul, nothing left. From that day, the Council swore silence. No heir would chase death again. The lie was mercy."
The words crawled like venom through Ryven's ribs.
Mercy. Protection. A cage painted gold.
His smile returned, mocking.
"Thanks, Count. You've been… enlightening."
Althar flinched. He mistook the shift of blade for a killing strike.
"You won't get away with this!"
Ryven leaned close, whisper burning hot against his ear.
"And who said I intend to?"
Bootsteps thundered outside. Guards. Close.
In a blur, Ryven twisted the dagger—pressed it into Althar's hand—dragged the edge across his own throat. Blood spilled bright, staining gold.
When the door burst open, Morthen at the lead, guards behind, they froze:
Count Althar, dagger in hand, pressed to his king's neck.
Blood dripping.
"Help me!" Ryven sobbed, voice breaking.
"Please—he tried to kill me!"
His knees gave out. Tears streaked down, dripping crimson with the blood.
The boy-king clung to life like a child to a mother's hand—screaming, weeping, begging.
The hall erupted in chaos.
The count paled, stammering.
And behind his mask of fear, Ryven smiled.
The clock inside his veins kept ticking.