"Virell."
Not loud. Not angry. Cold. The Archmage's composure cracked. Sweat beaded along his hairline, catching in the grooves of his expensive circlet. His grip tightened on his staff, knuckles whitening.
In that moment, I saw it clearly. This tower wasn't just rich. It was dirty. Layered lies hidden beneath gold and crystal. Secrets sealed by fear and obedience. Someone had used Maden's own inner-circle magic to erase mana signatures, to misdirect investigations, to make princes and princesses simply… disappear.
And they thought no one would notice. I smiled, slow and sharp. "That," I said quietly, eyes never leaving Virell, "was all the confirmation I needed."
Around us, the Mage Tower held its breath. The realization settled into my bones like winter. Not a chill— a warning. "This isn't sloppy," I murmured as we walked beneath arches carved with spell-runes older than the kingdom itself. "This is practiced."
