The streets of the capital had never been so quiet.
Lucifer walked them alone, robes whispering over cobblestones still damp from morning mist. No escort. No fanfare announced in advance. Yet word traveled faster than any herald—carried on whispers, on the sudden hush that fell over markets and taverns alike.
He felt the weight of eyes from every window, every shadowed alley.
Before he reached the palace gates, a figure detached from the colonnade of the Grand Exchange—an older man in deep violet robes, the crest of House Arkenvale embroidered in silver thread. Archduke Vorin, one of the oldest and most cautious players at court.
Vorin fell into step beside him without invitation, voice pitched low enough that only Lucifer could hear.
"A word, Holiness, before you enter the lion's den."
Lucifer did not slow. "Speak."
