The Court, Altherian Palace
The air in Cyrus' court was thick with fear and trepidation. The emperor sat upon his throne, his face carved into a grave, unreadable mask. His hands were steepled against the armrest in a deceptively calm manner, that seemingly calm demeanor more terrifying than any outburst.
Generals and courtiers sat in their appointed places, their postures stiff and faces arranged into carefully schooled masks of composure. Yet the tension was palpable. Everyone knew the spymaster's report was not good news, and when the emperor was displeased, survival itself became uncertain.
The spymaster approached with slow, measured steps before falling to his knees. His body trembled despite his efforts to remain collected, his nose nearly brushing the cold marble floor. Normally the man was the embodiment of control and sharp as a blade. But tonight, even he was afraid.
"Your Majesty..." His voice cracked despite himself. "I bring bad news. The poison was mixed into the viper's wine, as ordered. It was to be consumed after the ascension. But the ritual— by some unforeseen disruption— was halted midway. The emperor left before it could finish. The ceremonial wine was never brought out to be drunk. The viper remains safe."
Cyrus' jaw tightened, the barest twitch betraying the fury beneath his stillness.
"You're telling me," he said, each word precise as a knife point, "she got away."
The spymaster only nodded, his eyes lowered in shame and fear.
From the sidelines, Cynthia's sharp gaze did not waver. She knew what was coming. If the failed poisoning stirred Cyrus' anger, the next part of the report would ignite it fully.
"What about the shadows?" Cyrus' voice was low now, his tone like the growl of a predator before it strikes. His eyes cut toward Cynthia, demanding her answer. "Do they report success in eliminating James?"
Cynthia inhaled softly, steadying herself. Her tone was smooth as always, but it carried a faint tremor that betrayed the weight of what she carried.
"All six were dispatched, as Your Majesty ordered. They were given a strand of the prince's hair. They were to hunt him without fail. None remain. I attempted to summon them but none answered. They were unmade. Destroyed. Either by Elliott... or by divine power."
The words landed like stones in the chamber.
Silence. Heavy, oppressive silence.
No one dared breathe too loudly. Every general, every advisor knew—Cyrus' wrath, once stirred, demanded an outlet. And sometimes that outlet was whoever moved too suddenly.
But Cyrus did not lash out. He did not scream, did not strike down the trembling spymaster or Cynthia. Instead, he straightened on his throne, his movements slow and deliberate, like a beast savoring the moment before it devoured its prey.
His expression was unreadable—still, cold—but his eyes burned. A dark, hungry fire that seemed to strip the very air from the room.
"So," he murmured, voice soft enough that the silence swallowed it whole, yet sharp enough that every ear caught it. "Not only does Gabriella yet live... but the shadows have been undone. Whatever the manner, the result is the same. They know. They know James is alive. They have him. And they think they have won."
Cynthia's eyes met his, steady despite the storm behind his. "It is the only explanation. The Vellurians move with purpose. They know."
Cyrus' lips curved. It was not a smile. Not truly. It was a mockery of one, thin and dangerous, curling with malice.
"They have James," he repeated, almost amused. "And they believe that means victory. That we are cornered and out of options."
A low laugh escaped him then, hollow and cold. "Too bad... they are mistaken."
He leaned forward, the light catching sharp angles of his face, making him seem less like a man and more like something carved from nightmare. His voice dipped lower.
"Commence with the plan we agreed upon earlier. Gabriella still being alive is irrelevant—she can be dealt with along the way. There will be a death in their palace, and on the surface... it will seem unrelated. Gabriella's name will be dragged through ash. She will be disgraced, incapacitated, stripped of credibility. And while she is pushed aside—Elliott will be lured into our trap. The sentimental fool will walk straight into it, blind. The hound, Aiden, won't forsee it. Only Gabriella would have had the sense to recognize it for what it is. Too bad she won't even be in the picture."
His voice dropped into a chilling whisper, though every word struck the chamber with perfect clarity.
"Once Elliott falls, the empire will fracture. Chaos will devour them from within. And in that chaos... she will be killed too. Easily."
He leaned back, eyes gleaming with cruel certainty.
"As for the prince..." his smile widened, more sinister, "the lovesick fool will destroy himself once his beloved emperor is dead. Whether in grief, or rage— it matters little. Either way, he will be gone. And as soon as Elliott is taken down... we have already won this war."
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