"Treason is a simple injury. But the act of rotting a kingdom from the inside? That is an act of war against the future itself."
The strategy hall was a space designed for cold, functional logic. Tonight, it was anything but. The King's private wing, where the hall was located, was usually alive with the hum of silent activity, guards patrolling, aides carrying scrolls, the faint sound of Alaric's own restlessness. Now, it was muted, the silence pressing down on the stone corridors like a lead weight. Every step we took in our borrowed boots felt loud, inappropriate.
We had scrubbed off the external grime, but the scent of scorched earth and that metallic, sweet reek of corruption clung to our pores like ghost rot. We were clean, but we were not clean.
