The dim light of dawn crept through the heavy curtains of the princess’s chamber, casting long shadows over the silk-draped bed. Kalythra lay sprawled across the mattress, her breathing slow and even, a picture of untroubled sleep. Valaia sat up carefully, her movements deliberate to avoid disturbing her. The events of the previous night lingered in her mind, a chaotic swirl of passion and doubt. But now, the clarity of the morning brought purpose: she had to find proof of Kalythra’s dark magic.

Pulling on her clothes, she began her quiet search. Every drawer, every ornate box, every hidden nook of the room became a potential hiding spot. Her fingers brushed through Kalythra’s collection of jewels, trinkets, and silks, but there was nothing overtly incriminating.

The ornate desk by the window caught her eye. As she rifled through the scrolls and letters, her heart pounded in her chest. Half-written decrees, trade agreements, and mundane correspondence filled the space, but one scroll stood out. Its black wax seal bore an unfamiliar symbol—a jagged circle with an ominous crescent. Before she could unroll it, a distant noise broke her concentration.

Voices. Loud, frantic.

Valaia stiffened, glancing toward the door. The sound of rushing footsteps echoed through the palace corridors, accompanied by muffled shouts. Sliding the scroll into her tunic, she left the desk and crept to the doorway, cracking it open to peek into the hall.

Servants darted back and forth, their faces pale and their movements hurried. Pots clanged in the distance and hushed whispers carried tension. Valaia stepped out into the chaos, her presence commanding enough to make a young maid stop mid-run.

“What’s going on?” She demanded, gripping the servant’s arm gently but firmly.

The girl hesitated, glancing nervously toward the stairs leading to the main hall. “There’s a riot, my lady,” she said, her voice trembling. “Outside the palace gates. The citizens are accusing the princess of… of assassinating the three nobles.”

Valaia’s blood ran cold.

“Where is the king?” she asked, her tone sharp.

“He’s addressing the court now. But the crowd is restless, my lady. They’re demanding answers, and some say they’re ready to storm the gates.” The maid twisted her apron in her hands in fear. “The guards can’t hold them for long.”

Releasing the servant, Valaia stood frozen in thought, her heart pounding. The timing of the accusations was suspiciously convenient. Did the princess know this would happen? Or had she underestimated the impact of the assassinations?

She glanced back toward Kalythra’s chambers. The princess remained asleep, blissfully unaware—or perhaps unbothered—by the turmoil outside.

Torn between loyalty and suspicion, Valaia clenched her fists. The scroll tucked in her tunic felt heavier than it should, its presence a burning reminder of the secrets she had yet to uncover.

Forcing herself to move, she strode down the hall toward the grand staircase. If she was going to protect herself—and perhaps even the princess—she needed to know the truth about what Kalythra had planned. But first, she had to see the riot for herself and gauge just how close the kingdom was to unraveling.

Each step she took was heavier than the last, the palace’s tension pressing down on her like a suffocating weight. And all the while, a singular thought echoed in her mind:

What if this is exactly what Kalythra wanted?

*

Valaia stepped onto the balcony, her leather boots clicking softly against the polished stone as she approached the edge. Below her, the mob roared like a stormy sea, voices raised in anger and fear. The once-pristine courtyard was now a mess of trampled grass and mud as the citizens pressed against the iron gates, demanding answers.

Her frown deepened as she scanned the crowd. The accusations were growing louder, their venom aimed squarely at the princess.

A soldier shifted nervously beside her, his grip tightening on the spear in his hand. She turned her head slightly, catching his uneasy expression.

“They’re accusing the princess of witchcraft,” he muttered, his voice just loud enough to carry over the noise. “They say she’s behind the assassinations.”

Valaia scoffed, flipping her braid over her shoulder and raising her chin. “All baseless accusations,” she said, her voice laced with disdain. “Nothing but frightened sheep looking for a scapegoat.”

The soldiers exchanged uneasy glances, their tension in the charged air. They were warriors, trained to fight physical threats, but an angry mob armed with righteous indignation and whispers of dark magic was another matter entirely.

Valaia turned on her heel, intending to return inside and plan her next move. She had barely taken a step when a low rumble rolled across the sky, stopping her in her tracks.

Thunder.

She and the soldiers instinctively turned their gazes upward. Dark, swirling clouds had gathered overhead, blotting out the sun. They weren’t the soft gray of an ordinary storm, but a deep, foreboding black, shot through with streaks of violet and silver that crackled ominously.

Valaia’s chest tightened. She didn’t need to be told—she could feel the familiar, unnatural pull of magic in the air. This wasn’t nature’s doing.

The first drops of rain began to fall, cold and heavy. Within moments, the drizzle became a flood, drenching the mob below. The wind picked up, howling through the courtyard like a living thing, scattering banners and tearing at the citizens’ clothes.

Shouts turned to screams as the storm intensified. The crowd began to break apart, people scrambling for cover, their anger dissolving into fear. Some fell to their knees, muttering prayers or curses, while others simply fled, pushing and shoving to escape the sudden chaos.

Valaia watched in silence, her face carefully neutral, though her mind was racing. She could feel the threads of magic curling in the air around her, a reminder of the princess’s raw, unrestrained power.

The soldier who had spoken earlier turned to her, his face pale. “This… this isn’t natural.”

“No,” Valaia said quietly, the corners of her lips twitching into a faint, knowing smile. “It isn’t.”

The storm’s fury began to subside as quickly as it had come. The clouds lingered, but the rain lessened, leaving the courtyard empty except for a few brave—or foolish—souls who hadn’t yet fled.

Valaia stepped back from the edge of the balcony, turning toward the soldiers. “The mob’s dispersed,” she said, her tone brisk. “Return to your posts.”

The soldiers nodded, though their unease was evident. As they moved to obey, Valaia cast one last glance at the sky, her expression unreadable.

She turned and headed back into the palace, her steps quick. If the princess had truly unleashed her magic to quell the unrest, it was both a warning and a revelation.

Her mission had just become far more dangerous—and far more complicated.