The weight of the crown had never felt heavier.
Alaric stood in his father's old war room, a place thick with the scent of old parchment and iron. The maps on the walls still bore pins from campaigns that had bled the continent dry. His fingers brushed over the edge of a table stained with candle wax and memory.
"This is what he left me," Alaric muttered.
Not just a kingdom. A legacy of fear.
Behind him, the ghost of his father's voice lingered in the silence. Commands. Decrees. Warnings. All still etched into the stone like scars.
He clenched his jaw.
I am not him.
But in the halls beyond, whispers were beginning to question that truth.
Clara sat by the tall windows of her chamber, a sealed letter resting in her lap like a live coal.
No crest.
No name.
Just one sentence scrawled inside:
"Loyalty has its cost. Choose your truth wisely."
Her fingers trembled.
The message wasn't from Cassian—his threats were colder, cleaner. This was... different. Intimate. And dangerous.
She stared out at the palace gardens, watching noblewomen in muted gowns glide past like wraiths. A few days ago, they wouldn't have looked at her. Today, they stared too long.
Her name had begun to circulate in the private letters of the Council. Marked. Not as a guest. Not as a future bride.
As a threat.
"Elise."
The maid turned, eyes wide. "Yes, my lady?"
Clara's voice was low. "Tell me again about the servant you caught in the east wing."
"She wasn't one of ours," Elise whispered, pale. "Too clean. Too quiet. I followed her, and she vanished behind the old archives door."
A spy.
In her mother's old wing.
Elise's discovery felt like a thread pulling loose in an already unraveling tapestry. Clara stood, hands suddenly cold.
"We need to be careful. Someone's watching us, Elise. And I don't think it's just the Council."
Cassian leaned against a column in the eastern corridor, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
"You're stirring hornet nests," he said as Clara passed.
"I'm not the one sending veiled threats in the dark."
"No," he agreed, stepping into her path, voice dropping. "But you're forcing their hand. And they will bite back."
She looked up at him. "Are you warning me?"
"I'm reminding you. Power has a price. So does truth."
For a moment, she wondered which side he truly stood on.
Far from the palace corridors, in a quiet estate nestled near the sea cliffs, Lord Cedric Thorne studied a letter with a smile too cold to be called polite.
"The girl moves fast," he mused, folding the parchment slowly. "Let's see how far she gets before the tide turns."
He tucked the note into the folds of his cloak and turned to the man waiting by the hearth.
"Summon the riders," Cedric said. "It's time I returned to court."
Later that night, Alaric found Clara in the old observatory.
The stars reflected in her eyes, but her mind was far from the constellations. She didn't turn when he stepped in.
"I saw the letters," he said softly. "They're coming for you."
"They already have," Clara replied. "This isn't about me anymore. It's about them. Your Council. Your crown."
He stepped closer. "Then stand with me."
She looked at him now—truly looked.
"Are you ready to fight your own bloodline for this?"
Alaric didn't hesitate. "If I must."
And just for a second, the storm between them calmed.
[ To be continued....]