The western tower stood abandoned.
Its stones were cracked. Its windows dark. Wind howled through broken arches like restless spirits.
Aren arrived before midnight.
Cloaked.
Armed.
Alert.
Every step echoed.
Every shadow watched.
A torch flared.
Prince Rowan emerged from the darkness.
Alone.
No guards.
No banners.
Only steel beneath silk.
"You came," Rowan said.
"Curiosity is dangerous," Aren replied.
"So is ambition," the prince answered.
They faced each other in silence.
Two men climbing different paths to the same summit.
Rowan spoke first.
"My brothers plot my fall. My council betrays me. My father fades."
He clenched his fist.
"I will not lose."
Aren listened.
Carefully.
"I need your eyes," Rowan continued. "Your ears. Your loyalty."
"And in return?" Aren asked.
"Blackmere restored," Rowan said. "A lordship. A seat on my council."
Again.
The same promise.
From a different mouth.
"How do I know you'll keep it?" Aren asked.
Rowan drew his dagger.
Cut his palm.
Blood fell on the stone.
"By this," he said. "By my life."
He held out the blade.
Aren hesitated.
Then cut his own hand.
Their blood mixed.
An ancient vow.
Footsteps echoed.
Both turned.
Too late.
A shadow slipped away.
Someone had seen.
Someone had heard.
Lysa found Aren later.
"You're walking on blades," she warned.
"I've always walked barefoot," he replied.
At dawn, the palace buzzed.
Whispers.
Rumors.
Accusations.
One prince accused another.
Servants vanished.
Guards doubled.
Fear ruled.
King Aldric collapsed that morning.
Blood on his lips.
Breath shallow.
Physicians rushed in.
The realm held its breath.
Aren stood alone in the courtyard.
Looking at the royal tower.
He understood now.
The game had ended.
The war for the crown had begun.