For days, riders galloped to every corner of the empire, delivering messages to petty kings, lords, and knights alike, bearing the grim tidings of the emperor’s death.

In Thalvaren, the royal court had become a theater of whispers and veiled glances. The great hall, once resplendent in violets, golds, and emerald banners, was now draped in solemn black and silver, casting a shadow over the empire’s most powerful figures. They moved in clusters, their voices hushed, their eyes sharp. Mourning robes could not mask ambition, and every glance betrayed a calculation.

Treania stood apart from the gathering, alone by the towering windows that overlooked the royal gardens. Her hands rested lightly on the marble sill, her resolve hardening as she stared out at the withering blooms. The rhythmic sound of boots clicking against the polished floor announced her half-brother’s arrival.

Sir Balon strode into the hall with his usual self-assured flair, the dark red and gold of his cloak billowing behind him. The polished steel of his armor gleamed under the candlelight, and the pommel of his sword shone with an emerald as deep as their father’s eyes.

“Treania,” he greeted smoothly, his tone overly cordial as he approached her. “Still lingering in the shadows, I see. How fitting.”

“Balon,” she replied evenly, refusing to rise to his bait. “I see more vultures have arrived. I half-expected you to spend the day admiring your own reflection.” She tilted her head slightly, a cold smirk tugging at her lips. “Honestly, I’m impressed.”

Balon’s smirk widened as he leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a mocking whisper. “You seem tense, sister. Worried now that father is gone, there’s no one left to prop up your claim to legitimacy?”

The words cut deeper than she cared to admit. While their father lived, her place had been unquestioned. Now? She could already hear the murmurs. Her hands curled into fists at her sides, but before she could retort, another voice cut through the tension.

“There you are, Balon—probably riling Treania, no doubt.”

Lady Katherynn approached, her silver-threaded gown swaying gracefully with each step. Her expression was one of practiced calm, though the sharp glint in her emerald eyes betrayed her irritation. “There’s no need to embarrass yourself further.”

Balon stepped away from Treania, rolling his eyes. “Ah, Kat,” he said in a sing-song voice, “ever the mediator.” He turned back to Treania, flashing her a wry grin. “She can fight her own battles.”

“And you should remember that we are here to mourn our father, not prattle like children,” Katherynn scolded, her gaze hardening.

Treania remained unfazed, her smirk sharpening. “Lady Katherynn, cleaning up your brother’s mess again? A full-time occupation, I imagine.”

“Ignore her,” Katherynn said briskly, placing a firm, restraining hand on Balon’s arm as he bristled. “You two love provoking each other. It’s exhausting.” She sighed, rubbing her temple.

Balon took a step forward, his boots clicking against the marble floor, his gaze locked on Treania. But before he could speak, Katherynn cut him off with a measured, icy tone.

“If you’re both done playing off each other’s insecurities, perhaps we can focus on matters of importance. I would rather we put these childish squabbles to bed—at least for today.”

Treania raised a brow, her smirk fading into something more calculating. “Of course,” she said, voice laced with mock sweetness. “I can rise above petty disputes when necessary.”

Balon met her gaze with a cold, steady stare. “Good,” he muttered. “Because I have no interest in indulging you further.”

“Enough,” Katherynn snapped, exhaling sharply as if to steady her patience, which was visibly slipping.

Their exchange had not gone unnoticed. Nearby courtiers cast uneasy glances at the brewing storm between the royal bastards. Among the onlookers stood Lord Sa’amjyazza, castellan of the Gryphon’s Spire—a towering, twisted old wizard’s keep that clung to the main castle like an ancient growth. Though he bore the title of a lord, he was no noble but a scholar of the arcane. His robes, adorned with faded glyphs and sigils, hinted at lost grandeur, and his presence carried the weight of unspoken wisdom.

The old wizard watched them in silence, his keen gaze piercing through the tension as though unraveling the deeper currents beneath their animosity.

Finally, he stepped forward, his gnarled staff tapping against the cold stone floor with each deliberate movement.

“My condolences for the loss of your father,” he said, his voice steady yet softened by age. He dipped into the deepest bow his weary bones could muster.

The three siblings responded with equal grace, their movements practiced, their gestures measured.

Treania was the first to rise. “It has been many months since you ventured from your tower, Lord Sa’amjyazza,” she said, stepping forward to embrace the old wizard.

Sa’amjyazza chuckled, the sound like the rustle of brittle parchment. “Please, now, Princess,” he replied, patting her arm with a frail but steady hand, “that title was merely a courtesy your grandsire insisted upon.” He withdrew from the embrace, his expression darkening.

“I wish my visit were simply one of condolences,” he admitted, shifting his weight against his staff. “But I bear news—grave and immediate.”

Treania’s brows furrowed. “What is it?”

Sa’amjyazza looked between Balon and Katherynn, his gaze lingering as though considering the weight of his next words. “The council has decreed a king’s moot,” he finally said, his voice low and deliberate.

Treania’s breath hitched.

“They say the name your father whispered on his deathbed is invalid, and soon every claimant in the realm will gather here.”

Silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating.

Treania’s jaw tightened. “I must prepare.”

Sa’amjyazza placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder, but before he could speak, Katherynn interjected. “What name did he whisper?” Her voice was calm, but a thread of curiosity ran beneath it.

“Elindos,” the wizard answered, letting the name linger.

Katherynn frowned. “Elindos? That is not a name I recognize.”

“Few do,” Sa’amjyazza murmured. “He was a hero of a bygone era. A relic of the past.”

Balon’s brow furrowed. “Why would our father whisper that name?” He took a step closer, skepticism creeping into his voice.

Sa’amjyazza hesitated, his fingers tightening around his staff. “I knew your father well,” he said at last. “I was there when he was born. I was there when he was crowned. And I was there when he died.”

Treania stiffened. “What are you saying?”

The old wizard’s grip on his staff tightened. His voice dropped to a whisper, barely audible over the murmuring court.

“I believe your father was murdered.”

A sharp breath escaped Treania’s lips. Katherynn and Balon exchanged glances, but it was Balon who scoffed first, crossing his arms over his chest. “That’s a bold claim, old man.”

Sa’amjyazza’s gaze did not waver. “Bold, yes. But no less true.” His voice was a quiet blade, cutting through the air. “I have seen sickness take a man, watched it wither flesh, dull the mind, slow the breath. Your father did not die as one does from mere illness.” His tone turned graver still. “He was fading, yes, but not from nature. His body fought something unseen. Something unnatural.”

Katherynn’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Poison.”

Sa’amjyazza nodded. “A slow one, crafted with precision to mimic a wasting sickness. I tried to purge it when I suspected, but it was too late.” His expression darkened. “Now they’ve declared a king’s moot, ensuring that whoever truly stands to gain from his death can claim the throne uncontested.”

Treania’s fingers curled at her sides, but her expression remained unreadable. “You are certain of this?”

“I stake my life upon it.”

Balon exhaled, pacing away. “If this is true, then we must—”

“No,” Treania interrupted, her voice cold as steel. “Not yet.”

Katherynn tilted her head. “And then?”

Treania smiled, slow and knowing. “Then, dear sister, we remind them that the blood of kings is not so easily spilled.”