The morning sun over the Capital was pale and watery, filtered through a strange, persistent haze that seemed to cling specifically to the spires of the Vernhardt district. Herschel had paced his chambers until the grey light of dawn, his mind a chaotic battlefield of urgency and etiquette. He had intended to storm Vernhardt estate the night before, driven by the harrowing reports he had seen at the silver mines, the blackened stone, the hollowed-out lives, and the stench of forbidden Void magic. But the cold logic of the crown stayed in his hand. To arrive at a Duke's gate so late would be seen as an act of instability.
He arrived at the Vernhardt gates in the early afternoon. The guards waiting at the entrance were different, no familiar livery, no polite estate formality. They stood with a rigid, unnatural stillness that made the Prince's skin crawl.
