A ripple of tension surged through the grand hall, subtle at first—like a chill wind sweeping across still water. Whispers fractured the polished calm as generals, ministers, and nobles—figures robed in gold thread and centuries of power—began to drift away, gravitating toward the shadowed exits along the east wing.
Alaric’s shoulders tightened like drawn bowstrings.
Lara caught the shift in the room’s atmosphere instantly. "What does that mean?" she whispered, eyes scanning the crowd.
"It means something’s gone wrong," Alaric murmured, his voice edged with unease. "And if the east wing’s involved... this isn’t court gossip anymore. It’s politics."
Then came a voice—quiet, deliberate—just behind them.
"I wouldn’t linger too long, Prince Alaric."
An elderly man stood a few meters away supported by his knight. His hair and beard were snowy white, his frame stooped with time, the crest of the House of Arces—a soaring eagle—was embroidered with reverence on his ceremonial robes.
"Grandfather," Alaric said softly, his voice catching with a mixture of affection and worry. "Why?" His expression clouded, pained. The old man was actually Alaric’s grand uncle, but he was used to calling him grandfather instead of uncle.
Lara studied the old man, noting the ease of Alaric’s tone. There was closeness here—warmth tempered by respect.
Lara deduced that Alaric must have a good relationship with the old man.
The murmurs from the crowd had grown bolder now, echoing like distant thunder beneath the gilded ceiling.
The old man offered a faint, wintry smile. "Because someone has formally contested Prince Reuben’s claim to the throne. And your name, my boy—your name was invoked."
Lara’s heart skipped.
She turned sharply toward Alaric. He had gone utterly still.
"What does that mean?" she asked, urgency threading her voice. "Your name came up how?"
But Alaric didn’t answer. His eyes had drifted past her, fixed on the east wing’s looming archway. Shadows gathered under his eyes like bruises.
He knew something. Lara could see it now—something long-buried, tightly guarded.
And Alaric, whether he sought it or not, had just become a chess piece on the board.
"Grandfather... was it you?" Alaric’s voice trembled as he gently took the old man’s arm, guiding him toward the nearest velvet-cushioned chair. "Did you start this?"
The elder chuckled—a dry, rasping sound. "If it wasn’t me, boy, would you just let the jackals have you? Who’d marry a prince who rolls over? Power attracts power. You want strength beside you, not simpletons." The old man has a forlorn look as his gaze drifted to the exit leading to the garden. "Besides, the crown and the throne are rightfully yours."
Lara furrowed her brow, peering more intently at the old man. Beneath the age-lined face, those sharp, deep brown eyes struck a chord—familiar, striking.
There was something of Sandoz in this man.
The old man caught her gaze and tilted his head with mock disapproval. "Young lady, hasn’t anyone told you it’s rude to stare? Especially at ancient relics like me?"
Lara’s face turned red. She was embarrassed.
"I’m sorry, Grandfather. You remind me of someone—Sandoz, the Duke of Arces’ son."
The old man’s smile vanished. "Connor doesn’t have a son," he said quietly, a hint of sorrow in his voice.
"Oh, he has, Grandpa," Lara answered with certainty.
Prince Alaric shifted from where he was standing.
"Grandpa, didn’t Connor tell you that the child who was abducted two years ago has returned?" Alaric asked.
"Yes, I know about that." The old man replied casually.
"But that child wasn’t a girl. He was a boy named Sandoz, my little brother." Lara spoke hastily.
Silence clamped down like a vise.
The old man froze, disbelief flashing across his face—then wonder. Slowly, he rose from his chair, voice trembling. "I... I have a great-grandson?"
It was Lara’s turn to freeze.
Great-grandson? Then, the man before him, could he be...
Before Lara could complete her thought process, a voice interrupted them.
"Prince Dakota, his majesty is requesting your presence at the east wing."
Lara was dumbfounded.
The man before her wasn’t just Alaric’s grandfather.
He was the grandfather of Connor—the great-grandfather of Sandoz.
Alaric assisted the old prince as he staggered toward the east wing.
"Grandpa, thank you for your help, but I am not interested in being the crown prince. My father’s decision to banish me to Calma is a good thing."
"You rascal, how can it be good when it is so far away from the capital? The seat of power is here."
"Trust me. Grandpa." Alaric’s voice sounded resolute.
The old man remained silent, simply gazing at Prince Alaric. He was trying to discern if what the prince had said was true.
They walked until they reached the east wing.
The carved doors of the hall loomed ahead, guarded by knights in silver armor etched with the royal crest. Their halberds were crossed—a silent message: entry by summons only.
Alaric hesitated at the door. A breeze whispered through the corridor, tugging at the dark edges of his cloak, but he didn’t move.
Lara stepped beside him, her voice hushed. "You have to go in."
He nodded, though his jaw was clenched tight. "This room... nothing good ever starts in that room."
The last time he’d entered the east wing, it was to swear allegiance to a brother who now wanted him silenced. The weight of those memories pressed in as the guards stepped aside, recognizing him without a word.
Alaric and Prince Dakota crossed the threshold.
The chamber was unlike the rest of the palace—darker, quieter. Ancient. Its walls bore frescoes of long-dead kings wreathed in fire and conquest, their eyes seeming to follow him as he walked alongside Dakota.
A ring of noble houses surrounded a central dais, each seat occupied by a figure more formidable than the last—highlords, councilors, generals whose voices could raise or break a kingdom.
And at the head of it all sat King Heimdal, flanked by Prince Reuben, whose expression was unreadable, and Prince Alderan.
What Alaric could not understand was why the king was too hasty. Why not wait for the court session the next day?
Lara watched from the door, unseen.
A scribe stood to read the writ. "As of this morning, by the authority of the Council of Lineage, the legitimacy of Prince Reuben’s claim to the throne has been challenged. The challenge was issued on the basis of a direct bloodline with active succession rights."
All eyes turned toward Alaric.