The soft glow of the candlelight flickered across the room as Leticia sat at her ornate writing desk, her quill scratching against the parchment with urgency. Her brows furrowed in concentration, and the weight of her thoughts seemed to press on her shoulders.

She read over the letter once more, her lips moving silently as she mouthed the words:

Your Highness,

I write this letter with urgency, as I have reason to believe that your life may be in danger tonight. Although I cannot reveal how I came across this information, please trust that my intentions are sincere and solely for your safety.

Respectfully,
Leticia Zephyr Drakemorne.

She paused, her fingers trembling slightly, then signed her name at the bottom in elegant script. With a heavy sigh, she folded the letter carefully, sealing it with her personal emblem—a small wax seal bearing her family crest.

“Elena,” Leticia called softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes, my lady?”

Leticia stood, holding the letter out to her. “Please, Elena, deliver this to Prince Alistair immediately. It’s of utmost importance.”

Elena’s brows furrowed slightly, but she nodded without hesitation. “Of course, Miss Leticia. You can count on me. Do not worry.”

Leticia’s gaze softened, gratitude flickering in her eyes. “Thank you, Elena. And please... be careful. Make sure no one sees you.”

Elena took the letter, tucking it securely into her apron. “I will, my lady.” She turned and slipped out of the room, her footsteps silent against the polished floor.

As the door clicked shut behind her, Leticia slumped back into her chair. She stared at the faintly flickering candle flame, her thoughts swirling with unease.

“I hope this reaches Prince Alistair in time,” she murmured to herself, her voice laced with worry. “And I hope it’s enough to protect him.”

                                                                                               ***

Caltheria Kingdom,

Old Wine Shop,

Count Eryndor Varlen, a tall man with a sharp profile and graying hair, stopped in front of the old wine shop at the edge of the bustling market square. The smell of aged wood and fermented grapes lingered in the air, mingling with the distant chatter of merchants and townsfolk.

He looked around, his eyes sharp as they scanned the crowd. Though his expression remained composed, his unease was evident in the way he adjusted his cloak.

Behind him, moving silently like a shadow, was Ravik, Crown Prince Kael's shadow. His face was mostly obscured by a dark hood, but the faint glint of his scars was visible beneath the fabric. His presence was commanding, yet unsettling—a reminder of a secret burried.

Count Eryndor glanced over his shoulder looking around. Ravik moved forward, his steps deliberate, scanning the area with a cautious intensity.

Just as Ravik passed a narrow alley, a small boy, no older than seven, came running out, clutching a worn toy in his tiny hands. He didn’t notice Ravik and collided into him with a soft thud.

Startled, the boy looked up—and froze. His wide, innocent eyes filled with terror as they landed on Ravik’s scarred face. His lips trembled, and he dropped his toy as tears began to stream down his cheeks.

“Monster!” the boy cried, his voice quaking with fear. “Don’t hurt me!”

The sound carried through the air, catching the attention of nearby shoppers. Heads turned, and within moments, a crowd began to gather. Murmurs spread like wildfire.

“Who is that?”
“Look at his face... Is he cursed?”

The murmurs of the crowd faded as Ravik vanished, his shadow slipping through the winding alleys like a ghost. His absence left behind an air of unease, the boy’s cries still lingering in the minds of the onlookers.

Meanwhile, Count Eryndor stepped into the old wine shop. Its exterior may have seemed unassuming, but within, the air was thick with secrecy and a faint metallic tang that spoke of unsavory dealings.

He walked briskly through the narrow, dimly lit corridor, following a burly man who led the way with practiced ease. They reached a thick wooden door guarded by a man whose piercing gaze seemed to strip away pretenses.

The guide whispered a code word: “Nightshade blooms at dusk.”

The guard stepped aside without a word, pushing the door open. The faint creak echoed into the darkness beyond.

Eryndor entered a small, shadowed room, illuminated only by a single flickering oil lamp. The air was damp, and the scent of old wood and stale liquor clung to the walls. The room’s sparse furnishings—a battered table, a few mismatched chairs, and a stack of wooden crates—spoke volumes about its clandestine purpose.

A tall, imposing man stood on the other side of the room. His broad shoulders and weathered face suggested years of brutality, his sharp eyes gleaming with predatory cunning.

“Count,” the man said, his voice deep and gravelly. “What brings you to my domain?”

Eryndor settled into a chair, his movements calculated and calm. He reached into his cloak, withdrawing three heavy pouches of gold. He placed them on the table with a deliberate motion, the clink of coins breaking the heavy silence.

The man’s eyes narrowed as he assessed the count, then the gold. “Interesting.”

Eryndor leaned forward, his tone as cold as the room itself. “Kill Prince Alistair. Tonight.”

The man’s lips curled into a half-smile, his eyes alight with intrigue. “A bold request,” he said, running a calloused hand over the nearest pouch. “The prince has just arrived, hasn’t he? Are you sure you want to stir this pot so soon?”

Eryndor’s expression hardened. “I didn’t come here to discuss strategy. The gold is yours if the prince doesn’t see tomorrow’s sunrise. If you’re as skilled as your reputation claims, this should be a simple task.”

The man chuckled, his voice low and menacing. “Simple? Killing a royal is never simple, Count. But for this...” He lifted one of the pouches, feeling its weight. “I’ll make an exception.”

Eryndor’s cold gaze never wavered. “See to it that there are no loose ends.”

The man nodded, tucking the pouches away. “Consider it done. By dawn, the Kingdom of Caltheria will wake to a very different reality.”

The count stood, straightening his cloak. “Good.” He turned toward the door, his steps echoing softly in the dim room.

As the door creaked shut behind him, the man remained seated, a wicked glint in his eyes as he began to make his plans. Outside, Eryndor emerged into the night, his face a mask of composure. But within, his heart raced—not from fear, but from the thrill of setting the pieces in motion.

The darkness around the wine shop grew heavier, as though the shadows themselves conspired to keep the night’s secrets.