I stepped out into the courtyard, and the sharp cold of the air struck like an unseen hand; my breath rose in white plumes under the faint moonlight. The castle's stone walls loomed on every side, high and foreboding, casting jagged shadows across the cobblestones.
Gregor followed close behind, his armor clinking softly with every step. His expression was grim, and I could tell he was grappling with something he didn't know how to say.
"Out with it," I said, not breaking my stride.
He hesitated. "Your Majesty, forgive me, but… is this wise? The castle is secure. The guards are on high alert. If the dark elves return, we'll be ready."
I stopped and turned to face him. "You think this is over?"
Gregor straightened, his lips pressed into a tight line. "No, Your Majesty. But—"
"But nothing," I interrupted. "The dark elves didn't act alone. They had help—someone inside these walls. Someone who knows exactly where to strike."
His jaw clenched, but he nodded. "And you think… it's him?"
"I don't think, Gregor," I said, my voice low. "I know."
We moved quickly, sticking to the quieter corridors toward the castle's eastern wing. It was late, and most nobles had retreated to their chambers after the chaos of the banquet.
Most.
I stopped outside a set of heavy oak doors, my grip tightening on the hilt of the Shadowbane Blade. The runes along its surface glowed faintly, as if they sensed the tension in the air.
"Stay here," I said to Gregor.
"Your Majesty—"
"That's an order."
He stepped back reluctantly, his hand resting on his own sword as he stood guard by the wall.
I pushed the doors open and stepped inside.
Duke Eravon's chambers were exactly as I expected: opulent and meticulously ordered. Bookshelves lined the walls, packed with leather-bound volumes and scrolls. A grand desk stood by the window, its surface covered in neatly arranged papers and an open ledger.
Eravon himself stood by the fire, his dark robes casting long shadows across the room. He turned as I entered, his expression calm and unreadable.
"Your Majesty," he said smoothly, inclining his head. "To what do I owe the honor of this… late-night visit?"
I let the door close behind me with a heavy click that echoed in the silence. "You've been busy, Eravon."
His eyebrow twitched slightly. "I'm afraid you'll have to be more specific."
I stepped closer, my hand resting casually on my sword's hilt. "The dark elves. The assassins. The whispers in the court. Don't insult me by pretending you don't know what I mean."
Eravon's lips curved into a faint smile. "Ah, I see. You've been listening to rumors. Dangerous things, rumors. They have a way of twisting the truth."
"Do they?" I said, meeting his gaze. "Because from where I'm standing, the truth seems crystal clear."
He didn't respond, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied me. The room seemed heavier for a moment, the air thick with unspoken tension.
And then he laughed.
It began softly, almost polite, but quickly grew louder, its mocking edge filling the room.
"You've changed, Your Majesty," he said, his tone amused. "A week ago, you were barely holding this court together. And now, here you are, storming into my chambers in the dead of night, accusing me of treason."
I didn't flinch. "Maybe I got tired of being underestimated."
His laughter faded, and his expression darkened. "Careful, Alaric," he warned in a low voice. "You're playing a dangerous game."
"So are you," I shot back.
For a moment, neither of us moved. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, its flickering light casting strange shadows across Eravon's face.
Then I saw it—a flicker of movement in his eyes, a split-second glance toward the desk.
I followed his gaze and landed on the open ledger.
"Step away," I ordered, my voice sharp.
Eravon's expression didn't waver, but he didn't move either.
I drew the Shadowbane Blade, the runes along its surface glowing faintly. "I won't ask again."
Slowly, he stepped back, hands raised in mock surrender.
I crossed the room in a few quick strides, keeping him in my peripheral vision as I picked up the ledger. The pages were filled with neatly written entries—transactions, dates, names. But one name stood out, repeated several times: Kaelrith
"Kaelrith," I said aloud, narrowing my eyes. "Who is this?"
Eravon remained silent.
I looked up and, for the first time, saw unease in his expression.
The door burst open behind me, and Gregor stormed in, sword drawn. "Your Majesty!"
Before I could react, Eravon moved.
His hand shot out, a blade glinting in the firelight as he lunged toward me. I twisted away just in time, the dagger slicing the air where my neck had been moments earlier.
Gregor was on him instantly, their blades clashing with deafening force.
I stumbled back, clutching the ledger tightly as I watched them fight. Eravon was faster than I expected, his movements precise and calculated, but Gregor's strength and determination were relentless.
The fight ended swiftly. With a brutal strike, Gregor disarmed him, sending the dagger skittering across the floor.
Eravon dropped to his knees, blood dripping from a cut on his cheek.
"Arrest him," I ordered, my voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through me.
Gregor hauled Eravon to his feet, gripping his arm firmly.
"You're making a mistake," Eravon hissed, his composure cracking. "You have no idea what you're dealing with."
"Maybe not," I replied, stepping closer. "But I know enough to see you're a traitor. And you're going to tell me everything."
As Gregor dragged him away, I looked down at the ledger in my hands. The name Kaelrith burned in my mind—a name that felt both familiar and foreign.
Whoever—or whatever—they were, one thing was certain: this wasn't over.
Not by a long shot.