Winter deepened.
Snow buried Greyhaven's streets. Rivers froze. Hunger followed.
Inside the palace, warmth never failed.
Nor did intrigue.
Aren was given a room near the eastern tower.
Small.
Windowless.
Guarded.
Not comfort.
Containment.
A reminder: he was valuable, but not trusted.
His work began quietly.
Listening in corridors.
Reading sealed letters.
Watching nobles argue behind polite smiles.
Every secret was a blade.
Every whisper a weapon.
He learned quickly.
Duke Harland met him often.
Always smiling.
Never sincere.
"Remember who lifted you," Harland said once.
Aren bowed.
And remembered who had burned him.
Archbishop Morn offered prayers.
And questions.
General Caelis offered wine.
And warnings.
Each man wanted him loyal.
To them.
Not the crown.
One night, Aren followed a servant through hidden passages.
Down.
Deeper.
Past locked doors.
Into the undercroft.
Torches flickered.
Voices echoed.
He hid.
Listened.
"…Draven will strike before spring," someone said.
"And the prince?"
"Unstable. Easy to guide."
Aren felt cold.
This was treason.
He memorized every word.
He reported to the king at dawn.
Aldric listened.
Eyes tired.
Hands shaking.
"Well done," he murmured.
But fear lived in his gaze.
Outside, Lysa waited.
"You're changing," she said.
"Am I?"
"Yes. You're learning to smile while lying."
He said nothing.
That night, Aren dreamed of Blackmere.
Rebuilt.
Crowned.
Surrounded by enemies.
All bowing.
All waiting to strike.
He woke sweating.
Power was a shadow.
It followed him everywhere.
And soon…
It would demand blood.