The palace was quieter than usual.
Too quiet.
Clara walked through the east corridor with careful steps. The moonlight filtered through tall windows, casting pale lines on the marble floor like bars in a cage. Every footstep echoed, and every flicker of shadow made her heart pound a little faster.
She clutched the sealed parchment in her hand—the one with Cassian's name signed below a hidden tribunal. Her mother had trusted him once. And so had she.
Now, she wasn't sure.
Cassian was already waiting.
He stood in the map room, near the center table where old war routes and treaties were carved into the wood. He didn't look surprised to see her. His eyes, usually unreadable, were tired tonight.
"You found it," he said simply.
Clara dropped the parchment on the table between them. "You were there. When they rewrote history. When they silenced her."
Cassian didn't flinch. He looked at the parchment, then back at Clara.
"I was," he said. "And I have regretted it every day since."
Her chest tightened. She wanted to yell, to accuse. But her voice came out soft. "Why?"
Cassian sighed. "Because she made a choice. One that protected you. That protected him."
Clara blinked. "Alaric?"
Cassian nodded. "If the truth had come out then, they would've torn down more than the council. They would've taken the entire line. Including him. Evelyn knew that."
Clara stepped back. "So you helped bury the truth to save a throne?"
"No," Cassian said quietly. "To save the boy who would one day sit on it."
Her throat tightened. She thought of the warning in her mother's journal: *Do not let them turn him into his father.*
"You're saying they still could."
Cassian didn't answer right away. He just looked toward the window, where the moon was half-covered by clouds.
---
Clara found Alaric in the training yard.
He was alone, his coat off, shirt sleeves rolled, sword in hand. His strikes were sharp, precise, as if he were fighting invisible enemies that wouldn't stay down.
"You're awake late," he said without turning.
"So are you," Clara replied.
He finally stopped and looked at her. Sweat clung to his brow, but his eyes were clear. Tired, but alert.
Clara held the sealed journal to her chest. "I saw the records. The ones the council hid. The ones your father signed."
Alaric's expression didn't change.
"Did you know?" she asked.
"Some of it," he admitted. "Not all."
"Your name was in it too. In a warning."
That made him pause.
"What kind of warning?"
Clara hesitated. Then, carefully, she said, "That they would try to turn you into him."
He looked away, jaw tightening. "And maybe they have."
"No," Clara said, stepping closer. "You're not like him, Alaric. But you could be—if you let them blindfold you with duty."
His eyes met hers. There was something raw in them. Fear, maybe. Or shame.
"I didn't want this crown," he whispered. "Not like this."
"Then change what it means," she said. "Start by helping me expose the ones who twisted it."
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then he nodded.
---
Above them, in the shadowed balconies, someone watched.
A cloaked figure pulled away from the railing, disappearing into the hall. Their footsteps were soft, careful. The letter in their hand was already sealed.
A single phrase written on it:
*Protocol Thorne: Activate.*
---
Far from the palace, in a private study lined with glass and steel, Lord Cedric Thorne lit a cigar.
The messenger placed the letter on his desk.
He read it slowly. Then smiled.
"So," he said, exhaling smoke, "the Whitmore girl wants a war."
He crushed the cigar into a silver tray.
"Then let her have one."
[ To be continued....]