Amal's POV
I watched the Empire tear itself apart from the inside. Not with war, not with explosions or fires—but with silence, tension, and too many whispered secrets behind palace walls.
Chris had summoned me days ago. I still couldn't forget the look in his eyes. Not rage. Not sorrow. But… fear. The kind only a ruler feels when he begins to doubt the people closest to him.
And now, Amara. Loyal Amara. She was starting to slip.
I wasn't blind.
She was agitated, unpredictable—obsessed with Skylar and the limits Chris had placed on her. It was more than strategy now. It was personal. And that made her dangerous.
I walked through the West Wing, my heels clicking steadily, each step echoing the thoughts I tried to suppress.
Classic was still hiding his allegiance, Darius was tangled in guilt, and Amara? She was boiling with ambition under the surface.
But me? I was a ghost in the court. Watching. Waiting.
I reached the garden pavilion, where the roses bloomed unnaturally, still fed by the Empire's artificial weather tech. Chris used to walk here when he needed clarity.
Now it was empty.
I pulled out the small comm device tucked into my sleeve, hesitating before pressing the secure line.
It rang once. Then twice.
"Amal?" Classic's voice answered, laced with quiet surprise.
I paused.
"I know everything," I said softly. "About you. About Darius. About your silent support of your father."
Silence.
"I'm not against you," I added. "But this game is getting dangerous, and Amara is cracking."
"What do you want?" Classic asked.
I looked up at the black towers piercing the sky.
"To protect Chris. Even if it means betraying everyone else."
Classic's voice lowered. "Then we stand together."
I ended the call without another word.
And as the night wind swept through the garden, I finally felt it—the shift in power.
Chris wouldn't be saved by commands, armies, or brute force.
He would be saved by ghosts like me.