The next morning dawned grim and gray, clouds bruising the sky as if the heavens themselves sensed unrest in Velmire. The palace was silent but tense—a sword drawn but not yet swung.
Kaelen stood in the war hall with his arms crossed, watching the king study a map laid out across the obsidian table. Black markers shaped like wolves surrounded the eastern border—Cierath's sigil.
Behind Kaelen, Seris leaned against a stone pillar, her flame-colored hair braided in coils like a crown of embers. Across from her, Aedric stood sharp and silent, cloaked in glacier blue. Zevien, as usual, had found the highest ledge to perch on, one leg dangling carelessly over the edge.
Magister Hareth spoke first. "The assassin used poisoned wine—a blend of voidroot and crystal bane. Nearly impossible to trace. Only someone with access to high court alchemy could've created it."
"Then it wasn't just Cierath," the king growled. "It was someone inside our walls."
Queen Iselyn's voice cut like a blade. "Or someone who believes they'll benefit from our bloodline breaking apart."
Her gaze flicked—barely—to Kaelen.
He didn't flinch.
"We need to know who the true threat is," Kaelen said, stepping forward. "Give me the chance."
The council stirred. Seris rolled her eyes.
"You? You've barely been back a week. You can't control your storm, you've never walked court politics, and you expect Father to—"
"To trust me," Kaelen said, meeting the king's gaze. "Not as a prince. As a weapon."
The king considered this.
"You want to be my blade," he said quietly. "Then I'll give you a chance to prove you're not just thunder and impulse."
He turned to the war table. "There's a spy ring in the Market Quarter—silent brokers who trade secrets to the highest bidder. We've long suspected they deal with Cierath. I want their leader found. Broken."
Kaelen nodded.
"I'll go."
"I'm coming too," Zevien said, springing down from his perch. "You'll need someone who can talk through a door rather than blow it off the hinges."
"And I'll send soldiers," Seris said, her voice taut. "Not out of trust. Out of insurance."
Aedric said nothing, but his narrowed eyes followed Kaelen as if already calculating his fall.
That evening, Kaelen and Zevien stepped into the shadows of the Market Quarter. The city looked different by torchlight—less majestic, more alive. Music drifted from taverns, and the scent of roasted spice and spilled ale thickened the air.
Zevien wore a velvet coat and a mask with a phoenix feather. Kaelen stuck to black and shadow.
Their contact was a girl called Mirth. No surname. No title. But she knew every secret in the alleys of Velmire.
They found her behind the weaver's den, fingers deep in a card game with two mercenaries and a man who smelled like swampwater.
Kaelen pulled back his hood.
Mirth blinked, then grinned. "Well, stormboy. Didn't think you'd show."
"You know who poisoned Lady Mavra?" Kaelen asked, without preamble.
Mirth dealt another card. "I know who passed the vial. Kid named Tolan. Street rat, fast hands. Used to work for a fence named Vesk."
"Where is he now?"
"Dead," she said. "Slit throat, last night. Whoever planned this is tying knots in blood."
Kaelen swore. Zevien leaned closer. "And the spy ring?"
Mirth tapped her card deck. "The Veil. Five members, all hidden. Operate through code names—Crow, Vulture, Wasp, Spider, and Serpent."
Zevien looked interested. "Charming."
Kaelen stepped closer. "How do I find them?"
Mirth shrugged. "You don't. Unless you make them come to you."
She handed Kaelen a folded scrap of parchment. "This will get their attention. If you survive the night after delivering it… well, you're more storm than I thought."
That night, Kaelen stood alone at the edge of the city's stone aqueduct, the wind hissing past like a warning.
He dropped the parchment into the water.
The lightning came first—distant, then louder. Kaelen's own blood answered, sparking faintly beneath his skin.
Then came the voice.
"Prince of thunder," it said from the shadows. "The kingdom's bastard storm. Why come to us?"
Kaelen turned slowly.
A figure stepped forward, masked in silver, robes stitched with raven feathers.
"I'm looking for a traitor," Kaelen said. "And I think you know where to find them."
The figure laughed. "We're all traitors here. That's the game. The crown pretends to care, and we pretend to obey. But there are pieces on the board you don't even know exist."
"I don't care about the board," Kaelen said. "Just the rot in it."
Another laugh. Then, from behind, Kaelen heard a whisper of cloth—a second figure.
"You're brave," they said. "Or foolish."
Kaelen clenched his fists.
"You think thunder frightens us?" the first figure asked.
Kaelen smiled grimly.
"No. But I'm not here to frighten you."
Lightning burst from his hands.
He moved like the storm—fast, brutal. The masked figures leapt back, hurling daggers of shadow magic, but Kaelen twisted through them, lightning crackling with every breath.
He struck the first cleanly—shattering their mask with a blast that left them dazed on the ground.
The second vanished into the mist.
Kaelen stood breathing hard, thunder still humming beneath his skin.
The figure moaned. "You… have no idea… what you've started."
Kaelen knelt.
"Then tell me who did," he growled.
The figure spat blood. "Not Cierath. Not entirely."
"Then who?"
A pause.
And then: "Someone wearing your crest."
Kaelen froze.
"My… what?"
But the figure laughed once—low, broken—and went limp.
Zevien appeared moments later, breathless.
"You always start fights without me?" he asked.
Kaelen didn't answer.
Someone in Velmire was using the royal crest to kill—and make it look like treason.
And he had no idea who.
Back in the palace, Queen Iselyn stood alone in the Moon Gallery, staring at a wall of painted ancestors.
Behind her, a cloaked figure emerged from the shadows.
"It has begun," she said softly. "The children sharpen their fangs."
The figure knelt.
"And Kaelen?"
She smiled faintly.
"He'll break the board for us."