The chamber still reeked of blood. The coppery scent clung to the air, mixing with the faint, burnt stench left over from the earlier ritual. Cyrus stood in the middle of it all, the hem of his dark robes brushing against the floor where the pool of blood had already begun to dry and crust at the edges. He paced like a caged, cornered beast, every step sharp and deliberate, as if he were trying to wear grooves into the marble.
He scoffed, his voice dripping with disbelief and venom.
"You're telling me—a goddamned river saved him? Against multiple assassins?"
The woman standing across from him, her face calm despite the tension in the room, simply shrugged.
"That seems to be the only explanation, Your Majesty. The entity does not lie. It is safe to assume the child did survive the waters... and now, he could be anywhere in the Vellurian Empire."
Cyrus' head snapped toward her.
"We have to find him," he snarled, his voice rising. "We have to find him before he even learns his true name. Before he dares to think—or even dream—of a throne. I am not letting a ghost of the past take away what's mine."
His words rang sharp in the hollow chamber, bouncing off the cold walls. For a moment, the only other sound was the faint drip of blood still trickling from the altar's grooves to the floor.
"We can't even send more hunters or killers," he muttered, his voice tightening with frustration. "Because it's Elliott fucking Lancaster's territory. And that goddamned pushover fool won't take it. His armies at the border will stop any mass incursion—especially with the current circumstances." He spoke the last words like poison.
The high priest, still visibly unsettled from the remnants of Cyrus' earlier fury, cleared his throat and spoke cautiously. "Perhaps... you could make him a deal, my liege—"
Cyrus barked a laugh, mocking and bitter. "A deal? You think that holier-than-thou fool would make a deal with me that involves a human life? If it were any other kingdom, quite literally any other monarch, we would have a chance. Offer a pretty bargain and they'd leap at it. A prince in exchange for gold, land, or power. No ruler in their right mind would refuse. They would have let us search freely- or better yet, dug the boy up themselves and handed him to us on a silver platter."
He took a step closer to the high priest, voice lowering but gaining a dangerous edge. "But Elliott? He won't. Because of his so-called principles and kindness. On the contrary—if he even gets wind of this, he'll protect the brat on principle alone. 'Oh, you have a tragic story, I'm so sorry,'" he sneered, mimicking a gentle voice. "That alone would be enough for him to shield the boy."
No one in the room raised an objection. They didn't need to. The truth of it was well known- Elliott's kindness and softness had reached even the darkest corners of the Altherian court.
It was Cynthia who finally spoke, her voice calm but deliberate. "Since it is clear the Vellurian Emperor will be of no aid to us... we cannot allow James to reach the Vellurian court. More importantly, we cannot allow the Vellurian Emperor to realize the 'dead' prince is alive and within his territory."
She didn't need to elaborate further. Everyone in the chamber knew what it meant. If Elliott learned that Prince James Corvette- the true heir to the Moon and the Corvette bloodline- was alive and well, he would not only shelter the boy... he might try to restore him to his rightful place.
A returned prince. A rightful heir.
It would be the match to the powder keg. The public, and even parts of the nobility, were already weary of Cyrus' tyrannical reign, his rule of fear, and his needless cruelty. The only reason he still sat the throne was because no other viable heir existed... no other rallying point for rebellion. But if word spread that the true heir lived, rebellion would come like a tidal wave. Fear could only chain people for so long—after a point, even fear loses its hold.
Cyrus' face had gone pale. Cynthia, watching him carefully, showed no change in her own expression, though her thoughts were sharp and calculating. She knew well enough that if Cyrus' throne fell, so would she.
"Stay calm, Your Majesty," she said, her tone as steady as ever. "Angry men make mistakes. We shall... send the Shadows."
A murmur rippled through the chamber at the words. The Shadows were a form of blood magic so forbidden it had been erased from even the most obscure grimoires. They were not soldiers in the usual sense. They were the dead, pulled back into motion. Undead assassins, moving like ghosts, killing without sound, without hesitation. The only way to truly destroy one was purification by divine power or for it to complete its mission, at which point it would crumble back into lifeless blood. Even the knowledge of how to create such a thing had been lost... or so most believed.
Cyrus voiced the doubt with an irritated grunt. "And how, exactly, do you propose we make them? There are no records proving such a practice is even possible anymore."
Cynthia's lips curved slightly—just enough to be unsettling. Her eyes glinted with something cold and certain. "That is where you're wrong, my king," she said softly. "You need not trouble yourself with the preparation. Leave that to me."