The war chamber was colder than the rest of the castle.
Stone walls rose bare and unadorned, save for old banners darkened by age and soot, their sigils faded but still watching. A long oak table dominated the center, scarred with knife marks and burn stains—signs of past councils that had ended in bloodshed rather than agreement. Torches burned low in iron brackets, casting restless shadows that clung to the corners like eavesdroppers.
Alaric stood at the head of the table, hands braced against its surface.
His armor was stripped down to a dark leather jerkin, practical and unadorned, the crimson of his house worn only in the thin cord tied around his wrist. He had not sat. He did not intend to.
One by one, his men filled the chamber.
Captains first. Lieutenants after. Veteran guards with scarred knuckles and hardened eyes. Men who had bled for the crown and would do so again without hesitation. The murmur of low conversation died the moment Alaric straightened.
"This is not a discussion," he said calmly.
"It is an order."
Silence settled—thick, obedient.
"A young woman was found dead at the edge of the village at dawn," Alaric continued. "Drained. Mutilated. Left like refuse." His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "This is not drunken violence. Not banditry. And not coincidence."
One of the captains shifted. "Your Highness believes it's connected to the disappearances?"
"I know it is," Alaric replied flatly.
He gestured, and a folded parchment was laid on the table—lists, names, locations. Missing livestock. Vanished travelers. Children who never returned from errands. Patterns that only appeared once someone bothered to look.
"We've ignored this for too long," Alaric said. "That ends today."
He began assigning commands with ruthless precision.
"Double patrols at dawn and dusk. No gaps between routes."
"You'll question innkeepers, traders, ferrymen—anyone who moves between villages."
"I want records. Names. Faces. Anyone who arrived and didn't leave."
"And you—" his gaze locked onto one man "—take riders north. Quietly. If you hear rumors, you follow them."
A lieutenant frowned. "Your Highness… what exactly are we hunting?"
Alaric's eyes hardened.
"Something that believes it can feed on my people and walk away."
The room shifted uneasily.
"We do not spread panic," he added sharply. "No talk of monsters. No wild guesses. To the public, this is an investigation into crime." His voice dropped. "To us, it is a hunt."
Another man spoke carefully. "And if it isn't human?"
Alaric straightened fully then, every inch the crown prince.
"Then it will learn," he said, "that this kingdom does not belong to it."
The meeting ended swiftly after that. Orders were taken. Armor adjusted. Swords reclaimed. One by one, his men filed out, resolve etched into their movements.
Left alone, Alaric stared down at the table.
At the names.
At the blood yet to come.
His thoughts flickered—not to the dead girl, nor even to the threat itself—but to the tightening currents within the palace. Traditions being questioned. Decisions being whispered behind closed doors. And one name that seemed to surface far too often lately.
Levi.
Alaric's mouth curved into something cold.
If the kingdom is about to burn, he thought, then at least I will decide who stands closest to the flames.
Prince Alaric watched his men depart.
From the high archway, he stood with his hands clasped behind his back, posture immaculate, expression unreadable. The courtyard below was alive with movement—armor catching the daylight, horses stamping, commands murmured low and efficient. No torches burned; the sun hung high enough to cast sharp lines of shadow across stone and steel.
One by one, his guards mounted and rode out through the gates, bound for the village.
Only when the last banner disappeared beyond the walls did Alaric allow himself to breathe out slowly.
He felt it then.
A shift in the air.
A presence too hesitant to be bold.
He did not turn.
"Y–Your Highness…"
The voice trembled, small and uncertain.
Alaric paused, as though weighing whether the sound deserved his attention at all. Inwardly, a faint, amused thought crossed his mind.
So you finally found the courage.
A single brow lifted before he turned his head—slowly.
The motion alone was enough.
The young maid stood several paces behind him, frozen in place, hands clenched in the folds of her plain dress. The instant his gaze touched her, her heart seemed to drop straight into her stomach. Her breath hitched, chest rising too fast, too shallow.
"Yes?" he said at last.
Her knees nearly buckled.
"The—the Queen," she managed, voice barely holding together. "Queen Selene requests an audience with you, my prince. At her chambers."
"An audience?" Alaric murmured, as though mildly intrigued.
He turned fully now.
The maid's pulse thundered in her ears. She could feel him looking at her—taking in the dust beneath her nails, the faint scent of soap and ash, the way her shoes were worn thin from endless scrubbing and running. She had never felt so exposed in her life.
He stepped closer.
The space between them vanished far too quickly.
Her breath stuttered. It felt as though a blade hovered inches from her throat, unseen but certain. Every instinct screamed at her to flee, yet her feet refused to move.
Alaric stopped just short of her.
"So," he said quietly, "the Queen is impatient."
"No, Your Highness— I mean—" She bit her tongue, terrified she had already said too much.
He leaned slightly closer, his presence overwhelming, suffocating.
"Tell Her Majesty," he said calmly, "that I will attend her shortly."
Relief and fear crashed together inside her.
"Yes, my prince," she whispered.
As he moved past her, the edge of his cloak brushed her sleeve.
She flinched as though struck.
Alaric did not look back. His steps were unhurried, perfectly measured, as though the world itself moved aside to make room for him.
The moment he disappeared down the corridor, the maid collapsed to her knees.
Her lungs burned as she dragged in air, fingers clutching her chest. Her whole body shook, weak and unsteady, but she did not allow herself more than a heartbeat. A prince's message delayed was a sin punishable by far worse than fear.
Gritting her teeth, she forced herself up and ran.
Queen Selene received the message in silence.
She inclined her head once, dismissing the maid without comment. Only after the door closed did she exhale, fingers tightening briefly around the arm of her chair.
Minutes passed.
Then—
A knock.
"Your Majesty," a guard announced. "Prince Alaric requests an audience."
"Admit him," Selene said at once.
The doors opened.
Prince Alaric entered with a smooth, effortless grace, bowing just enough to satisfy protocol without ever diminishing himself.
"My Queen," he greeted.
"My prince," Selene replied, her voice warm but her eyes sharp. "You are punctual, as always."
He straightened. "You sent for me."
"Yes." She lifted a hand slightly.
At the gesture, the remaining maids and servants quietly withdrew—tea left untouched, doors closing softly behind them.
Silence settled.
Only Queen Selene and Prince Alaric remained.
"There is a matter," she said at last, "that requires your discretion."
Alaric met her gaze, expression composed, unreadable.
"I am listening."