The council chamber smelled of polished oak and old dust. Torches lined the stone walls, their light flickering across banners that bore the crest of the kingdom: a crown split down the middle by a crimson sword. It was a symbol meant to remind men of unity through strength. But to Elias, seated at his father’s side, it felt like a warning.King Rodric’s voice thundered, commanding the attention of the bickering nobles. “Our borders bleed, and yet you argue about land and tariffs like children squabbling over scraps! The South calls for reinforcements, and I will not see them abandoned.”Elias tried to keep his face calm, but his hands tightened into fists beneath the table. Every council meeting ended like this—nobles weighing profit against loyalty, their voices like knives carving into the king’s resolve. And there, always seated with an unreadable smile, was Lord Alaric.“Your Majesty,” Alaric said smoothly, rising to his feet. His robes of midnight blue flowed as he placed one ha

The dungeon stank of mold and iron. Chains clinked in the dark as Elias descended the narrow stairway, torchlight flickering against stone walls. His father had forbidden him from interfering, but Elias had no intention of obeying. If the servant knew who had ordered the poison, Elias would hear it from his own lips.The boy knelt in the straw, wrists shackled, eyes hollow. He looked younger now, stripped of the tray and goblets, more like a frightened child than an assassin.Elias crouched before him, lowering the torch. “You carried poisoned wine. Why?”The boy flinched, shaking his head. “I didn’t—I was told it was for a toast—”“By whom?” Elias’s tone cut like steel.The servant hesitated, his mouth opening, then shutting again. Tears welled in his eyes. “If I speak… they’ll kill my family.”Elias’s grip tightened on the dagger at his belt. His chest burned with fury. Always the same. Always Alaric pulling strings while others paid the price.“Listen to me,” Elias said, voice drop

The southern road stretched like a scar across the land, a ribbon of dust and silence. Elias rode hard, cloak whipping in the night wind, the torchlight of the capital dwindling behind him. Each mile farther from the city felt like stepping deeper into Alaric’s design.By dawn, he reached the South Gate—a fortress of black stone looming over the borderlands. Once it had been the kingdom’s shield, but now its walls seemed like the ribs of some great beast, hollowed and waiting to devour him.The gate was too quiet. No merchants. No guards bantering at their posts. Only the echo of hooves against cobblestone.Elias dismounted, hand on the hilt of his sword. “Something’s wrong,” he muttered.His suspicion became certainty when a figure stepped from the shadows beneath the archway. Not Alaric, but a captain in his colors, his armor bloodied, his expression carved from stone. Behind him, steel glinted—soldiers, waiting in silence, their faces half-hidden by helms.“Prince Elias,” the capta

The corridors of the royal fortress were never silent. Even at night, when the torches flickered low and the guards spoke in hushed tones, the castle seemed alive—breathing, listening. Elias moved like a shadow, his cloak pulled tight, footsteps muffled against the stone. He was not meant to be here, not after curfew, but there were whispers he had to chase.The rumors had begun innocently enough. A soldier claimed to have overheard a servant speaking of secret meetings in the lower halls. Another guard swore he had seen cloaked figures slipping into the abandoned chambers once used by the late queen’s council. Elias knew better than to dismiss such talk. In a kingdom already poisoned by betrayal, whispers could be daggers waiting to strike.He descended the spiral staircase, his hand brushing the cold wall for balance. The torches thinned the deeper he went, and soon he was moving in near-darkness. At the final landing, he paused. Faint voices drifted from beyond the heavy oaken door

The fortress was quieter than Elias expected. The guards had tripled their patrols after the attack, yet silence weighed heavier than steel. Every flicker of torchlight seemed to carry a shadow too long, every gust of wind a whisper too sharp.But it wasn’t the silence outside that haunted him—it was the pulsing beneath his skin. The cursed sigil burned faintly on his chest, a rhythm matched only by his heartbeat. No matter how many layers he covered it with, he could still feel it: an alien presence, a tether pulling at his soul.He sat in the war chamber, hunched over the oak table, its surface littered with scrolls and maps. Yet his eyes weren’t on the kingdom’s borders—they were on his reflection in the bronze plate before him. For the first time, the face staring back looked less like a prince and more like a prisoner.The door creaked. Sir Caldus entered, his armor worn but polished, his gaze sharp as ever. Behind him trailed Maren, the spymaster whose presence often felt like a