The palace bells were ringing on high alert, their thunderous clangs echoing through the marble corridors. Guards were sprinting in different directions, shouting over one another.

"The blast came from the courtyard!"

"Check the perimeter! Wasn't the traitor Harold being brought in today?!"

One guard shouted back, "He was! Escort detail's gone silent—move!"

Boots clashed against the stone floor as they disappeared down the hall. The corridor, moments ago filled with frantic noise, fell eerily silent once they left.

Behind the massive double doors of the royal chamber, King Darius sat slumped on his couch, staring out the wide glass window as smoke curled from the courtyard below. He sighed heavily, resting his chin on his hand.

"For once," he muttered, voice dripping with exhaustion, "can this castle go one day—just one day—without exploding?"

The sarcasm was sharp enough to cut marble.

Near the door, Mark stood with his back slightly slouched. His white tunic hung open enough to show a small scar that ran across his chest, real or fake, who knows?. the blanket around his shoulders slipping a little. He coughed into his hand, his face paling, but he quickly steadied himself, refusing to show weakness.

Before the King could comment, a knock sounded and Eilan entered.

Straight-backed, spotless, and cold-eyed as always. He bowed briefly before stepping beside Mark, who only half-glanced his way.

King Darius' face brightened at the sight of his younger son. "Ah, Eilan! At least one of you looks like a prince."

Mark smirked faintly and muttered under his breath, "Looks can be deceiving…"

Before anyone could respond, another boom shook the windowpanes. The King's patience snapped.

"BY THE GODS—SHUT UP!" he roared, snatching the nearest jug and hurling it out the open window. It shattered somewhere below. "Is it so hard for a king to have peace in his own kingdom?!"

Mark couldn't help it. He chuckled, low and amused. "You should put that on a coin, Father."

Eilan's nose wrinkled slightly, suppressing a laugh. The air eased for a heartbeat—just enough for Darius to glare at both of them like an old lion annoyed with his cubs.

He gestured toward the chairs. "Sit. Both of you."

Mark obeyed lazily, lounging sideways on the opposite couch. Eilan, on the other hand, moved closer, sitting primly near the King's armrest, ever the model prince. The tension between the two brothers was as thick as fog.

The King began, his tone stern but not without pride.

"Eilan, I commend your efficiency. You've done well in bringing Harold in alive. The man has caused more trouble than a drunk knight at a festival."

Mark snorted, tapping his fingers against the couch arm. "Yeah, great job—though, maybe next time, try delivering the prisoner without an explosion."

Eilan's eye twitched. He turned his head just enough to glare daggers at his older brother.

"At least I was working, not lounging around pretending to heal from yesterday's sickness."

"oh... pretending?" Mark smirked, raising a brow. "And yet your 'hard work' still ended with the sky on fire. Bravo, brother. Truly a master tactician."

"Enough," the King snapped. "Both of you. The palace already sounds like a war zone; I don't need my sons adding to the noise."

Mark leaned back, crossing his arms. "Not my fault the noise is more interesting than the conversation."

Eilan shot him another glare but forced himself to focus on the King. "Father, regardless of the explosion, Harold is restrained. The attackers won't stand a chance against Duke Aithur."

The once immaculate white courtyard was now filled with chaos. Smoke curled upward, debris scattered across the cobblestones. Guards stood flanked on either side, their formation tight but tense.

In the center stood Harold—a mess of torn robes, blood streaking down the side of his head. His breath came in ragged bursts, his stance low and defensive. Four cloaked figures surrounded him in a loose circle, blades glinting beneath the sun.

The head guard shouted, "Drop your weapons! Step away from the prisoner or you'll be cut down where you stand!"

One of the cloaked figures chuckled darkly, the sound almost playful.

"Cut us down? You can try. We're only here for him." The figure jerked their head toward Harold. "Anyone who interferes dies."

Tension snapped like a drawn bowstring.

A younger guard, face twisted in anger, couldn't hold it in. "You'll regret that!" he yelled, charging forward with his sword drawn.

The cloaked one sidestepped smoothly, countered, and steel clashed in a sharp, brutal rhythm. The others joined, and within seconds, the entire courtyard erupted into battle.

Harold swayed slightly, the noise around him growing muffled. His vision blurred, blood dripping into his eyes. The fight seemed far away, like a storm seen through glass. Every pulse in his head echoed with pain.

He stumbled back, breathing raggedly. "No… no, I can't die here… Not yet…" His voice was low, broken. "Not before I finish it…"

And then, instinct took over. He turned and ran.

Harold's bare feet slapped against the marble floor, leaving faint trails of red. His crazed smile twisted wider as he muttered incoherently, half-laughing, half-weeping.

"Almost out… almost free… those idiots won't catch me now—!"

WHOOOSH!

A blur of silver sliced past his face. He froze.

A sharp sting tore through his ear—and then came the pain. He screamed, clutching his head as blood gushed between his fingers.

The dagger embedded itself in the wall beside him, still humming from the force.

A voice echoed calmly from the shadows ahead.

"You know… even for a delusional fool, your luck amazes me."

Harold turned sharply, breathing hard. Aithur stepped from the end of the corridor, sword drawn, eyes cold and gleaming.

His blade came to rest inches from Harold's throat. His words dripped venom.

"You call the gods liars, yet still beg for their mercy. Tell me, Harold—does your hypocrisy not make your skin crawl?"

Harold trembled, then grinned through the blood on his lips.

"It's rare… hearing that from you of all people, Sire—the man who curses the word 'divinity' more than the demons do."

Aithur's glare sharpened. The tension between them was suffocating.

Before he could reply, a faint whizz cut through the air. His instincts flared—he pivoted and raised his sword just in time to deflect another incoming dagger.

The blade clanged off his weapon and spun to the floor. Aithur noticed a faint shimmer of liquid along its edge. The moment a droplet hit the marble, it hissed, burning a small black mark into the floor.

He blinked. Acid?

A slow, mocking clap echoed from above.

"Well, well," a playful voice purred. "As sharp as ever."

Aithur looked up—and there, perched on the upper ledge like a cat enjoying the view, sat Mina. One leg crossed over the other, she rested her chin on her palm, a dagger lazily twirling between her fingers.

Aithur smirked.

"I was wondering when you'd show up"

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