Keval strode through the garden, his face twisted with barely concealed fury. Each step he took was firm, his posture rigid, as he advanced toward the secluded section of the palace grounds—a five-meter square hidden among tall hedges and delicate stone sculptures. In the center lay a body clad in the unmistakable armor of the royal guard, a crimson pool seeping onto the ground below.
He stopped abruptly, staring down at the fallen figure, a cold rage darkening his eyes. Slowly, he turned, his gaze snapping onto Vrator, his nephew and head of the palace garrison. Vrator stood a few paces back, tense and silent, as if bracing himself against the oncoming storm of Keval's anger.
"Explain this," Keval demanded, his voice low but seething, making Vrator think that his cousin looked more like his uncle than he let on.
