[ROYAL CHAMBERS]
The soft light of candles bathed the crimson linen drapes, flickering across the stone walls of a chamber reserved for the castle's newly risen elite. A sweet perfume lingered in the air, mingled with the scent of fine wine and incense. Nil lay reclined upon velvet cushions, his shirt half-open, a goblet in hand. Helena, resting against his chest, traced circles on his skin with her fingertips—a gesture of silent triumph.
"You managed to convince the king," she whispered, a mischievous smile on her lips. "He believes every word."
Nil stared at the ceiling, distant, as though her voice barely registered. The wine had lost its flavor.
"The sword," he said at last. "That wasn't part of the plan."
"You think it was the prisoner?" Helena asked, adjusting herself against him. "He vanished from his cell that same night. Convenient… perhaps even the perfect distraction."
Nil remained silent for a moment. He knew it had been he who opened the gate, though he had told no one.
"I've been thinking. What if Rael didn't die?"
Helena pulled back slightly, raising a brow.
"You stabbed him. Higor struck him hard enough to break a gate. And then he fell from the castle cliffs into the river. No one survives that."
"He wasn't just anyone," Nil replied, eyes fixed on the fire. "Rael was strong enough to endure multiple blows and still wound Higor badly—even through heavy armor."
Helena's brow furrowed. The name still cast a shadow.
"Even if he's alive, he can't be well. He'll be weak. Far. Alone."
"But he's stubborn. Honorable. And now, likely enraged."
He turned to Helena, his eyes gleaming with something more than concern—
cold strategy.
"That's why I'm organizing the hunt for the 'fugitive traitor.' It will be a public spectacle. A lure. If my brother still lives, he'll want to see it. Or stop it. And if he shows himself…"
Helena completed the thought, her voice a feline purr:
"…we finish the job. But this time, with all the eyes of the kingdom on our side."
Nil leaned in and kissed her slowly. When they parted, she gazed at him with eyes like winter steel.
"When this is over, and the crown rests on your brow… I expect you to remember who stood at your side. Who wiped the blood from your victory."
"Helena…" he murmured, brushing her golden hair back. "You are not my shadow. You are my throne."
And between whispers and wine, they drank in silence—
not to the memory of Rael,
but to the dream of a world where he had never existed.
[VILLAGE OF ELOREN]
Night had draped the forest in a veil of shadow and silence. Only the river's steady voice whispered through the trees. The chill bit at Rael's skin, but he did not move. His eyes were fixed on a distant point where the village lights flickered like fireflies trapped in glass.
Eloren.
Beneath his feet, the damp grass exhaled the earthy breath of night. He crouched beside the small bundle of cloth carefully folded beside the tree where he had rested. Within it, a simple outfit of raw cotton—loose trousers, a wide-sleeved tunic, and a cloth sash. Eastern in style. Plain. Unassuming.
Rael ran his fingers across the fabric in silent reverence. Lyara had left it for him. In her eyes, he was just a man—not a prince, not a legend. Just someone in need. And perhaps, he thought, she had helped him not out of duty, but because he offered her something she herself had never tasted—change.
He dressed slowly, each motion tugging at half-healed wounds, overburdened muscles, and bones that still remembered the fall. At last, he wrapped the sword in dark cloth and secured it across his back, well-hidden beneath the light mantle.
His gaze returned once more to the village, where a few homes still glowed with the warm breath of lamplight and flame. The world there seemed calm, almost untouched by the iron weight of Cronos.
He needed to know what had happened after his "death."With silent steps, he began to descend toward the village of Eloren, shrouded by the darkness of the forest.
The village of Eloren slumbered beneath the dim glow of lanterns, its nighttime rhythm composed of distant, unhurried footsteps, the clinking of dishes being washed, and the occasional murmur slipping from half-open windows. It was a living village, but small. Humble. Just as Rael remembered from the maps—packed earth roads, wooden houses with slanted roofs, and gardens tended by hand.
Rael moved through this scene like a shadow among shadows.
He followed a side path, slipping between fences, trees, and the narrow, poorly lit alleys that separated the homes. His feet made no sound, and each step was calculated with precision. He observed everything: where the lamps stood, which houses showed signs of movement, the location of the central well, and the tallest structure—the mayor's house, if memory served.
Time passed, and the heartbeat of the village slowed beneath the dark sky. Eloren now slept, nearly in full, its lights dimming one by one. Only a single building still held a lantern in the window: the town scribe's home.
Rael watched from the top of a low roof, his body crouched like a predator poised to strike. The night cloaked his plain attire, and a makeshift hood hid the glint of his eyes. He studied the scene with the discipline of a soldier—one back door slightly ajar, narrow windows, no movement in the neighboring homes. No dogs. No guards.
This was the moment.
He descended in silence, boots touching the soft ground with the grace of one born to the wind. He crept along the side of the house, tall grass muffling his steps, and took cover beneath the window. Inside, he heard the sound of turning pages, a quill scratching parchment—and a yawn. The scribe was still awake.
Rael waited.
Long minutes passed before the chair scraped the floor, and footsteps creaked up an interior stair. When a higher groan of wood signaled the man had reached the second floor, Rael moved.
He pushed the back door open slowly. It had been left ajar, the latch undone—the kind of trust found only in small villages. He entered.
The scent of the place was a blend of ink, old parchment, and wood. Stacks of local papers and scroll clippings were strewn across tables, boxes, and makeshift shelves. A crude bulletin board bore charcoal portraits—wanted criminals, fallen nobles, public notices. Rael recognized a few names.
In one corner, a pile of fresh editions lay bundled, not yet distributed. He sifted through them.
Among the scrolls, Rael spotted a special edition, folded and marked with a royal seal—something that should not have been so easily accessible. His fingers pulled it free with care, and the headline, in dark, bold letters, brought the lie to life:
DEATH OF THE CROWN PRINCE — TREACHERY WITHIN THE CASTLE
The article was long, written with the breathless urgency of a kingdom in crisis. It read:
Prince Rael was slain in his chambers, victim of a brutal assault. According to sources close to the royal family, the perpetrator was a former prisoner of war, an aged mercenary known only as 'the Black Prophet,' who escaped his cell the same night. Despite the heroic efforts of his brother, young Prince Nil, and Captain Higor, he could not be saved. The kingdom mourns, but honors the survivors—most notably young Nil, now recognized as the new heir to the throne.
Further down, in a highlighted opinion box, one line seared itself into Rael's mind like a brand:
They say the prince was too proud to accept help. Pride and honor may be virtues—but they can also be fatal flaws.
Rael narrowed his eyes. His fingers clenched the paper with such force it nearly tore.The parchment groaned in his hands.His eyes remained fixed on the words, but he no longer saw them. A dense, silent fury coursed through his veins, wrapping his bones in a molten chain.
The simple meal Lyara had given him now twisted in his gut with disgust.
Nil was hailed as a hero.And he—the rightful heir—pronounced dead and mocked.
His heartbeat thundered in his ears. Too loud. Too fast.
"Hey!" said a trembling voice behind him.
Rael turned sharply. The lantern at the stairwell flickered.
At the top stood the scribe—a thin man with a short beard and wary eyes, gripping an old staff with unsteady hands.
"Who the hell are you… and what do you want?"