Blood was spilled before any crown was chosen.
It happened at dawn.
Quiet.
Sudden.
Final.
Lord Fenric of Westmoor was found dead in his chambers.
Throat cut.
Windows barred.
Doors locked.
No witnesses.
No weapon.
Only a single black feather on his chest.
House Draven's mark.
Panic followed.
Guards sealed the palace.
Servants were questioned.
Nobles accused.
Alliances cracked.
"Draven has spies inside," someone cried.
"Or one of us killed him," another whispered.
The council met in chaos.
Duke Harland slammed his fist on the table.
"This is Rowan's doing," he roared.
Rowan rose slowly.
"Prove it."
Prince Edric pointed.
"You met Fenric last night."
"So did you," Rowan replied coldly.
Silence fell.
Aren investigated.
Quietly.
Without orders.
He searched Fenric's room.
No struggle.
No noise.
The man had trusted his killer.
Aren noticed muddy footprints near the balcony.
Boots.
Soldier's size.
Not noble.
He found Lysa in the kitchens.
"Someone hired mercenaries," he said.
"Inside the palace."
She nodded. "I've heard the same."
"By whom?"
"By someone afraid."
That evening, a servant tried to flee.
Guards caught him.
Under torture, he spoke.
"I was paid," he sobbed. "By Lord Verrick's man."
The room erupted.
Verrick's allies drew steel.
Harland's men answered.
Only Rowan's shout stopped bloodshed.
Verrick was arrested.
Protesting.
Cursing.
Swearing innocence.
No one listened.
Later, Aren confronted Rowan.
"Was it you?" Aren asked.
Rowan's jaw tightened.
"No," he said. "But I won't save him."
"An innocent man may die."
Rowan looked away.
"Many will," he replied.
That night, Verrick was found hanging in his cell.
Officially: suicide.
Truthfully: murder.
Aren stared at the body.
This was how kingdoms were built.
With lies.
With corpses.
With silence.