The Aegis Palace lay cloaked in an unnatural stillness in the fragile hours after dawn. The great halls, usually alive with murmured debates and clattering footsteps, now held only the hushed scratch of quills and the muted shuffle of parchment.
Scribes bent low over their desks, transcribing coded reports with quick, nervous strokes. Courtiers lingered in silence, their gazes downcast, while guards stood immovable along the marble pillars, steel flashing cold in the pale morning light. At the head of the council table sat King Aragon—broad-shouldered, his face carved in grim lines, eyes as unyielding as granite.
The silence shattered like glass when the doors thundered open.
A scout staggered into the chamber, soot-streaked and ash-stained, his tunic torn nearly to rags. Each breath came ragged, his chest heaving as though he had outrun death itself. The council froze mid-motion, every gaze snapping toward the intruder.
