The antechamber had been scoured clean.

  The blood washed away. The marble polished until it gleamed once more like the day the palace was raised.

  But it still reeked.

  Not just of spiced wine—smashed goblets and overturned feast-trays had soaked the stone with it—or the copper stink of spilled blood that no amount of burning herbs could smother. No. It reeked of betrayal. It clung to the walls like oil, unseen but undeniable.

  Gregor paced before the basin of Vrorn, hands locked behind his back like manacles. The fire behind him crackled low, casting long shadows along the white and gray marble floor and the torn imperial banners that hung lopsided from their golden rings. His boots whispered across stone as he turned again and again, too tightly wound to sit, too furious to be still.

  He hadn’t slept. His beard was untrimmed, greying at the edges, and the ceremonial sash still slung across his shoulder had been splashed with blood—dried now, but not his own.

  He was speaking to the flames.

  “My own son,” he muttered, voice low. “My Alucard. A traitor. And Zavian, the man sworn to my protection of the empire… plotting my death alongside him.”

  His son's name day had become a battlefield.

  He wore his ceremonial armor still. It was heavily scratched in many places. Including a large gash where Zavian's blade had almost ended him. His left shoulder glistened with dried blood, though whether his or another's, he could not say. The clasp around his neck was broken, and the crimson cape hung askew like a half-shucked skin.

  He turned sharply at the sound of approaching footsteps.

  Lord Protector Ernesto entered first, tall and tired, one gloved hand resting on the pommel of his blade. The grizzled commander had not changed since the battle; his cloak still bore a tear from where a crossbow bolt had grazed his ribs. Behind him came Nylla the Green, robed in muted jade, her ever-stern expression softer than usual, though her eyes remained sharp and knowing.

  Gregor greeted them with a flick of his hand, then returned his gaze to the fire.

  "Well?' he asked the fire, not dying down. "Is he still breathing?"

  Ernesto grunted. "Aye. Locked in the Black Cells. Shackled with a collar of iron."

  Gregor spun." He tried to murder my family, Ernesto. In front of the entire court. The fucking entire court!"

  "And then Zavian. Gods. I trusted the man. He was with us in the South, in the marsh campaigns. He took an arrow for me at Veldhar. And now-..."

  Gregor's voice cracked. "Now he's a corpse."

  “He wore my crest as he raised his blade. I shared wine with him not five days past. I toasted the birth of my son with the man who planned to spill the child’s blood upon the marble. Tell me, Ernesto… how did we let this happen?”

  Ernesto stepped forward. “We missed it. All of us. Me most of all. I vouched for him, trained beside him. He was loyal for twenty years.”

  Nylla interjected from her place near the archway. “Loyalty is a river. Sometimes it runs beneath the surface. Sometimes it bends without breaking. Sometimes… it carries you where you do not mean to go.”

  Gregor turned sharply. “You speak in riddles again.”

  “No riddle,” she replied. “Only truth. There is a power moving through this land, old and heavy. It rots the roots of things. Your son is not the first noble to fall under its shadow.”

  Gregor turned from the fire, his face half-shadowed, his voice shaking not with weakness but with the kind of fury that had to be spoken, or it would burn its vessel alive.

  "Zavian spoke of the lich returned as if it was our salvation, not our doom. How can one become so twisted?"

  There was silence for a long moment.

  Finally, Gregor turned to face them both fully. “The name day was supposed to strengthen the realm. Now the nobles return home with blood on their boots and chaos in their ears. How many of them will whisper the truth? How many saw my son raise a sword against me? How many will believe it was… what? A fever dream? A spell?”

  Nylla folded her arms. “They saw pieces. Smoke. Movement. They saw blades drawn, but not motives. This can still be managed.”

  “Managed how?” Ernesto asked.

  Gregor answered for her. “With a lie.”

  Nylla gave a slow nod. “The truth is not ready for the world. Nor is the world ready for the truth. You think they’ll rally behind a shattered throne and a son in chains? You think they’ll march in unity when they believe the very bloodline of the Willinghelms has been corrupted by darkness? They will splinter. Houses will declare for themselves. The Church will cry heresy. The dwarves will seal their gates. The elves will vanish into their woods and call the world damned.”

  Ernesto sighed. “But isn’t that exactly what’s happening already? Lies won’t stop the storm, Nylla. They’ll only blind us when it breaks.”

  “Then let us blind them,” she said, stepping closer to the hearth. “Let us shape the fire, rather than be burned by it.”

  Gregor said nothing. He stared into the coals again, eyes shadowed.

  “And what would we say?” he asked. “That the entire attack was staged by some minor lord? That one of the corpses conveniently left behind had the means, the motive, and the madness to kill a crowned emperor in the middle of a celebration?”

  Nylla’s voice was smooth. “Yes. A noble. Perhaps Lord Alveret—he had been grumbling about increased tariffs for months. Or Baron Ferrox. His daughter was denied marriage to Prince Alucarde last year, was she not?”

  “Because she was twelve,” Ernesto snapped.

  “Which matters little to rumor,” Nylla replied coolly. “What matters is that the dead are quiet. The living must be loud.”

  Gregor exhaled, the weariness in his voice sounding less like a man and more like an emperor again. “And we would paint Alucarde as what? A hostage? A confused boy tricked by whispers?”

  “No,” said Ernesto. “That would be too weak. It would smell of rot.”

  Gregor turned from the fire, his face half-shadowed, his voice shaking not with weakness but with the kind of fury that had to be spoken or it would burn its vessel alive.

  “You tell me,” he began, staring straight at Ernesto, “how does a man raise a son in honor, in faith, and loyalty to the realm — teach him the difference between crown and chaos — only to have that same son raise steel against him before the eyes of gods and men? I gave that boy everything! My name, my armies, my bloodline, the love of the people, the faith of the clergy, and still he spat upon it all like it was ash in his mouth! And my alucarde, the man I trusted more than any brother, who guarded me through six campaigns, who stood watch over my wife’s chambers when she carried my heir, who swore before the Flame that he would die before I fell — he turned his blade upon me as though I were some foreign tyrant to be toppled. How? How do such things happen in my own house?”

  He slammed his fist upon the table, the wood shuddering beneath the blow. “Was I blind, Ernesto? Were my eyes closed while rot festered beneath my roof? Or was it you, my Lord Protector, who failed to see it creeping through the ranks, worming into the hearts of those I trusted most? You are supposed to protect me — not merely from blades, but from betrayal itself! Tell me, old friend, where were your vaunted instincts when the vipers came to dine at my table?”

  Ernesto opened his mouth, but Gregor cut him off with a glare sharp enough to silence him. “No. Do not speak. You of all men should understand what treason does to a father’s heart. Do you think I am angry because of a threat to my throne? Thrones can be rebuilt. Power reclaimed. But trust? Trust dies once, and once dead, it stays buried forever.”

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  He turned on Nylla then, his voice deepening into a growl. “And you, witch of the courts, seer of half-truths and riddles — where was your wisdom while my blood turned against me? You spoke in prophecies and dreams, muttered of shadows in the west and old fires stirring beneath the world, yet not a single word to warn me that the shadow would be cast from within my own house! Did your magic not see my son whispering with the damned? Did your green fire not flicker when my protector sharpened his blade for my throat?”

  Nylla’s expression did not change, but Gregor pressed forward, voice rising. “You tell me of destiny, of Malekith’s return, of tides that cannot be turned — but I will tell you what I saw: I saw the heir of my line with madness in his eyes and murder in his heart, and I will not have it excused by prophecy or chance! If Malekith’s poison runs through this Empire, then it runs through veins we trusted, and I would cut them out myself before I let it spread another inch.”

  He stepped closer, hands trembling not with weakness but with barely contained violence. “You speak of lies to save the realm, Nylla. But how do I lie to myself when I watched my own flesh try to carve me open? You say hide the truth — but which truth, woman? That my son is a traitor? That my guardian is a snake? Or that I, the Emperor of all mankind, could not see the rot devouring his own house until the stench filled the throne room?”

  He drew a long, uneven breath, eyes blazing with something that was not just rage, but grief dressed in armor.

  “I have spilled enough blood for this Empire to last ten lifetimes,” he said bitterly. “I have broken kings, crushed rebellions, and slain more men than I can count — but never did I think I’d see the day when the war would come from my own blood, my own sworn men. Do you understand, Nylla? Ernesto? There is no victory in this. There is no justice. There is only shame — and the knowledge that the knife came from the hands I once held in love and trust.”

  He turned back to the hearth then, his voice softening, though the iron in it did not fade. “And so I will lie, yes. I will bury the truth beneath marble and seal it with prayer. But not because I forgive them — no. Because if the world learns what I now know, it will break the very spine of the Empire, and there will be nothing left to rule but ashes.”

  Nylla said nothing.

  Ernesto frowned. “There is another danger.”

  “What?”

  “The Church.”

  Gregor opened his eyes again. “Of course. They saw everything. The Arch Bishop stood not ten paces from the carnage.”

  “The Arch Bishop,” Nylla said, “is a man of doctrine, yes—but also of ambition. He will not mourn the truth if a lie serves his station. Let him anoint your son. Let him stand beside you when the boy is named. Give him a new cathedral if he needs it.”

  Gregor rubbed his brow. “And the people?”

  Ernesto leaned against the edge of the hearth. “They deserve to know.”

  Gregor looked up sharply. “Do they? Do they really, Ernesto? What happens when every farmer from Coldmere to Lustrumburg believes that demons walk the halls of power? What happens when they hear the name Malekith and remember the old fires? The wars of plague and shadow? What happens when they learn that my own blood is tainted by his reach?”

  He turned to the fire once more. “No. Not yet. We must gather our strength. And for that, we need unity. Fear will break us.”

  Nylla stepped closer. “Then let the lie be beautiful.”

  Just then, the doors parted again.

  Empress Cristina entered, wrapped in blue silk, hair unbound, and in her arms—wrapped in a blanket of white thread and sun-gold embroidery—was their infant son. The boy’s dark curls stuck damply to his brow, and his eyes were closed in sleep.

  Behind her came Archbishop Luc de Presti, his white robes unmarred by blood or ash, and behind him, Sir Henri the Commander of the Holy Guard. His face was unreadable, but his hand never left the hilt of his sword.

  Cristina’s eyes moved from face to face. “What are you three whispering about?”

  Gregor straightened but did not lie. “We were discussing… how to shield the realm from what happened today.”

  Cristina looked down at her son, then at her husband. “Shield the realm or shield ourselves?”

  “Both,” said Nylla before anyone else could speak. “The truth, Your Grace, is a blade. One we do not yet know how to wield.”

  Cristina walked forward, her expression calm. “Then perhaps it can wait. Just for tonight. Let us give our son his name. Let something in this wretched day be remembered for joy.”

  Gregor looked at her. Then he stepped forward, gently brushing a hand against his son’s brow.

  The Arch Bishop unrolled a parchment scroll, voice like iron in velvet.

  “In the name of the Heavens Above and the Laws of the Flame Crown, by the will of his parents and the blessing of the Faith, this child shall be given name and station.”

  Cristina looked to her husband.

  Gregor did not hesitate. “Sergi.”

  The name echoed in the still chamber.

  “Sergi Willinghelm,” Cristina repeated, holding the boy close. “Born of fire and blood. May he outlive the shadows.”

  The Bishop made the sign of the flame upon the child’s brow. “So shall it be written.”

  There were no cheers. No fanfare. Only the wind moaning softly beyond the stained-glass windows.

  As the boy slept, Nylla stepped back, her voice barely above a whisper.

  “Let them remember the name day not for the blood that was spilled… but for the prince that was named.”

  But even as she said it, her eyes were watching the fire, and the shadows within it danced with things far darker than memory.

  The fire was low by the time the boy had been named.

  The Arch Bishop had left with his guards in solemn procession, offering blessings and whispered oaths of silence to the corridors as he went. Cristina had taken Sergi back to the inner chambers, guarded by six of the Empress’s own handpicked sentinels—knights who answered not to crown nor clergy, only to her.

  Now, only three remained.

  Gregor. Ernesto. Nylla.

  And the weight of the lie that would shape a generation.

  The hearth hissed as a log cracked, and embers scattered across the stone like stars cast from heaven.

  “I want every word spoken tonight carved with care,” Gregor said at last, staring into the fire as if the flames might transcribe prophecy. “Every whisper that leaves this room will travel faster than an arrow. Once loosed, it cannot be recalled.”

  Ernesto sat heavily on a bench beside a long, low table. The blood had been wiped away, but deep gouges in the wood remained—a silent reminder of how close the realm had come to ruin.

  “We start with the nobles who were present,” the Lord Protector said. “We cannot silence them all. Not without… unnecessary force.”

  Gregor looked at him. “Then some force is necessary.”

  Nylla arched a brow. “That will only breed suspicion. Better to keep their mouths full than their throats cut.”

  “How?” Ernesto asked. “They saw Zavian draw steel. They saw the Alucarde turn on the Guard. Lords and Ladies from ten provinces. If even half of them speak what they saw—”

  “They won’t,” Nylla interrupted. “Not if we make them want the lie.”

  Gregor turned to her, folding his arms. “Speak plainly, Nylla.”

  She walked slowly to the table, laying out a sheet of blank parchment. “We give them what they want—an answer, a villain, and a path forward. We feed them a story with just enough truth to be digestible. Not a complete fiction. A… distortion.”

  Gregor frowned. “Of what sort?”

  Nylla began to write as she spoke, her quill a whisper across the page.

  “Lord Halven Alveret, of the Wolfmaw. Ambitious. Recently snubbed for a seat on the High Council. His daughter was denied courtship with Alucarde last year. Bitter. Proud. He had the wealth to buy blades, and the grudge to use them.”

  Ernesto narrowed his eyes. “He died during the attack.”

  “Exactly,” Nylla said. “Perfect. A dead man cannot object. We say he organized the conspiracy. Claimed the crown had grown weak, that you, my Emperor, had lost the sense to lead. He whispered to dissidents. Paid for killers. Perhaps even poisoned a few allies.

  "And what of my son? How do we paint that picture. He raised a blade against his blood and now lies in chains. He did not die beside the rest."

  “No,” Nylla said. “Which makes it more delicate. But also, more powerful. If we control the narrative now, Alucarde becomes tragic. Flawed, but brave. It buys you sympathy. It ensures the realm does not see your line as tainted. When the time comes to announce his exile, we say it is for his protection."

  Gregor was quiet. The shadows of the fire danced against his cheek, outlining the hollows in his face. He looked older than he had before the attack. Worn. But not broken.

  “No one will believe Lord Alveret acted alone,” he said.

  “Then let him have conspirators,” Nylla replied.

  Ernesto grunted. “Who?”

  “Select from the dead,” she said simply. “Baron Ferrox. Ser Tolland of Virehold. Lady Lierien—the one with the poisoned ring, remember her? Let each piece of the story be filled by a corpse. Name them all. Say they met in secret, plotted over letters, bribed Alucarde. A network of discontents. Disbanded houses. Heirs who saw themselves greater than the realm.”

  “We would be rewriting the night in full,” Gregor said.

  Nylla smiled. “We would be shaping it.”

  “And the Queen of the Elves?” Ernesto asked. “She was there. She saw everything. She won’t swallow this tale without protest.”

  “She’ll swallow what’s good for her people,” Nylla answered. “If Malekith’s return is made public, it changes everything. The Silver Glades will be dragged into a war before they’re ready.

  The queen along with Kings Zansabar and Brambor will toe the line', Gregor said. "They know the importance of keeping Malekith's return a secret."

  Gregor breathed out slowly. “And what of the Church?”

  Nylla raised her eyes. “You let the archbishop name your son. You gave him a seat beside your throne. In public. Before every surviving noble. That was your offering. But if that does not suffice, promise him more. A cathedral. A purge of heretics. He’ll believe what we need him to, if the lie elevates him.”

  Ernesto remained seated, his fingers tightening on his belt. “You’ve thought all this through.”

  “Of course,” Nylla said. “I’ve seen what happens when truth spreads like wildfire. You cannot un-burn a city.”

  Gregor walked back to the table. He placed his hands upon it, staring at the parchment Nylla had marked with names—names of the dead, now repurposed for betrayal. The ink bled into the fibers like blood into cloth.

  “And what of Alucarde?” he asked, almost a whisper. “He still breathes. Still carries my blood. If he speaks the truth, it undoes everything.”

  Nylla’s expression softened. “Then he must not speak.”

  Ernesto looked sharply up. “You want to kill him?”

  “No,” Nylla said. “Let him live. But far from here. He’s already branded. Mark him as a confused boy, shamed and self-exiled. Send him to the shattered border, or into the temple caves. Make him take a vow of silence. The people will weep for him… and never hear his voice again.”

  Gregor closed his eyes.

  It was the only way. He saw it now. The cost of survival was always measured in truth.

  “Very well,” he said. “Draft the decree. I will sign it by morning.”

  Nylla gave a short nod and rolled the parchment.

  Ernesto rose slowly, armor creaking. “I’ll begin informing the houses. Quietly. Those who resist…”

  Gregor didn’t finish the sentence. “Do what’s needed.”

  As the two left the chamber, Gregor turned once more to the dying fire.

  Outside the window, the city burned with candlelight. Bells tolled for the dead. Nobles rode through the night with scrolls and secrets. And far below, beneath stone and silence, Alucarde Willinghelm waited in chains.

  The Empire had chosen the lie.

  But the truth still lived.

  And it would not stay buried forever.