Ascalon Virellion awoke slowly, his eyes fluttering open beneath sheets spun from Damaran silk. Light spilled through the arched windows of the Eastern Wing—soft and golden, diffused through thin drapes. The sun painted everything with a kind of sleepy royalty, the kind that made the air taste too perfect to breathe deeply.
The room was warm, absurdly large, and unnecessarily beautiful. Sculpted walls of rose-gold stone. Chandeliers that had no business being in a teenager's bedroom. Gilded bedposts with spiraling dragons wrapped around them. His breath fogged slightly against the faint chill left by the morning wind leaking in from the balcony.
At the foot of his bed lay Ruin, his Cane Corso, sprawled like a shadow cast in muscle and fur. The dog stirred as Ash sat up, ears perking before relaxing again. Loyal, protective, and oddly tender. Most were afraid of the hound. Ash wasn't. They were alike—quiet, intense, with a danger buried beneath silence.
Ash rose, bare feet padding softly over the marble floor. The moment he entered the dressing chamber, the servants pounced.
"Oh for Light's sake," he muttered.
Two tailors, both lanky and twitchy, descended like birds on a carcass.
"Prince Ascalon," one chirped. "Gold. The Council expects gold today. It's tradition. The Mid-Year Address and all—"
"And we've stitched this beauty by hand," the other cooed, holding up a brocade tunic so yellow it nearly blinded him. "Gold trim, gold thread, gold cuffs—"
"And no dignity," Ash muttered under his breath.
They tried pulling it over his head.
"No," he said simply.
"Your Highness—"
"I'll look like a honey-glazed pastry."
They blinked. "But it's what the King would—"
"The King would want me comfortable, wouldn't he?" Ash said, tilting his head with faux innocence.
"Not… necessarily—"
"Tell me, brothers," Ash cut in, smiling just enough to be dangerous, "have you ever seen me spill tea on a dark outfit?"
They blinked again. Hesitated.
"But gold—"
"Is terrible for hiding blood."
They flinched.
"Tea," Ash corrected with a wink. "I meant tea."
The tailors fidgeted. One scratched his neck. "Perhaps a compromise—"
"I already picked something," Ash said, stepping to the side and revealing a sleek black doublet with faint, embroidered vines crawling up the sleeves. "It's quiet. Sharp. Sleek."
They looked like he'd slapped them.
"No embroidery of the royal crest," one pointed out.
Ash held up a finger. "Unless..."
He turned, stepped behind a screen, and called, "What if we pair it with the ceremonial sash? Gold, across the chest. Big enough to scream Virellion, small enough to keep me from looking like a walking chandelier."
There was a pause.
"…Perhaps," one said, defeated. "But the Queen—"
"Adores when I make my own decisions," Ash called sweetly.
That was a lie.
The lie became irrelevant the moment a knock rang from the door. Then it opened.
"Marella," both tailors groaned, backing away like mice before a hawk.
She stepped in, unbothered. In her mid-fifties, hair always in a tight, practical braid, Marella Dusk didn't need armor to make people obey—her voice was sharper than any sword in the palace.
Her eyes found Ash immediately. "Oh, Ascalon."
"Marella," he said, lowering the tone of his voice to the exact timbre that meant don't be mad.
She crossed the room in long strides, looked him up and down, then snapped her fingers. "Off."
"But—"
"Off. That's not the Virellion gold."
He looked to the tailors for backup. They looked away.
Ash tried again. "It's tasteful. Elegant. Understated—"
"You're the fifth child of the house of Virellion," she said, already pulling garments from the hanger. "But you carry a name built on light, not shadow. Wear the gold."
He sighed. "But can I keep the boots?"
She looked down. His black boots with thin golden stitching stood out beneath his otherwise rebellious outfit.
A moment of silence. Then—
"…Fine. But don't think I didn't notice you bribed the guards with cherry tarts to sneak the outfit in."
He grinned. "You raised me well."
She rolled her eyes. "I raised you despite yourself."
As she helped fasten the tunic—gold, yes, but bearable now with the black boots and undershirt—she brushed his collar and tugged his shoulders straight. She moved like a mother, not a servant. Every motion said I've known you longer than your own mother cared to.
"I'm proud of you, you know," she said quietly. "Even when you're a pain."
He didn't respond, just leaned into her touch for a second. Then he straightened. Ruin stood and followed as Ash turned toward the grand oak doors.
"Ready, Ruin?" he asked.
The dog gave a low whuff.
Ash opened the doors and stepped into the corridor.
And there they were.
His siblings.
All four.
Crown Prince Thalen, back early from campaign, already half in uniform. His Doberman, Valko, stood at his side like a statue carved from obsidian.
Loric, standing with a book under one arm and Echo, his husky, at his heels. His eyes lit up. "Ash!"
Serana, dressed like she had just walked out of a fight and into a runway. Her greyhound Noxie yawned behind her.
And finally, Elira—only a year older, but infinitely more composed. Her golden retriever, Nyra, wagged its tail once.
Ash blinked. "Did… did I miss a summons?"
"No," Thalen said, smirking. "We just wanted to see if you'd survive Marella."
Ash stepped forward. Ruin fell into step beside him.
"Barely," he muttered. "She made me wear gold."
"Good," said Elira, inspecting his outfit like a fashion officer. "You look half royal now."
"A shame," Serana added. "I liked the shadow prince aesthetic."
Ash smiled despite himself. "Still kept the boots."
Thalen reached out, clapped a hand on his shoulder, and leaned down.
"Welcome to the group, little brother," he said. "Today, you speak in front of the court."
Ash's smile faltered.
"…Wait. What?"
~~~~~~~~~
Ash hated mornings.
Not the kind that came with sword drills or hunting horns or the thrill of an open field—but these ones. The ones that required silk over steel and smiles over snarls. The ones where everyone wore masks more polished than their silver goblets.
The great breakfast hall was a stained-glass cathedral of golden light. Ceiling like a cathedral, long enough to echo footsteps for days, and a table so wide it could've split kingdoms. No food was ever close. You had to ask for things—because, of course, in the Virellion dynasty, asking was an art.
Ash sat two seats from the end. Not the farthest. That was for Aunt Vellaria, who hadn't shown up in years but still held a place. Not the closest either. Those belonged to King Caelan and Queen Isolde—sun and moon, the crown and its shadow.
Today, the sun wore navy. And the moon wore judgment.
Ash reached for a warm roll. Elira, his older sister, beat him to it—but instead of stealing it for herself, she passed it gently to his plate. Her eyes didn't meet his. She didn't speak. Just gave the smallest nod, like a ghost who remembered him. Like she was saying, Yes. I see you. For one second.
He muttered thanks.
Thalen was already deep in discussion with their father. Their eldest brother, sharp-jawed and iron-souled. "If you reroute the fourth battalion through the western borderlands, the delay will fracture before they regroup."
Caelan gave a nod. "And the resistance from the Dreloth alliance?"
"Handled. I spoke with the envoy."
"A prince of solutions," Caelan said, lifting his goblet in amused approval. "Not just blades and bravado."
Thalen smiled, barely. Modesty, rehearsed.
Across the table, Loric cleared his throat. "Actually, I was reading a treaty from the Old Pact—the one that bound the coastal kingdoms together. There's a clause—an old one—about mutual neutrality that might help—"
Nobody responded.
Not one person.
Except Ash, who tilted his head. "You mean the clause about maritime border exceptions in times of civil unrest?"
Loric blinked. "You read that?"
"I got bored last week."
There was a flicker of something in Loric's face. Not quite pride. Not quite relief. Just the barest breath of connection—then gone again.
Serana crashed into the moment like a summer storm. She laughed loudly—too loudly—as she flopped into her seat beside Elira, hair wet and clinging to her neck.
Ash stared. Wet?
They had all walked down together.
When the hell did she bathe?
She caught him looking and winked. "The stablehands have better soap."
"Don't encourage them," Queen Isolde said coolly, not even looking at her.
Serana smiled wider, practically daring her to comment again.
Ash poked at his plate. He hadn't touched the porridge. Mostly because it looked like sadness. Also because the pit in his stomach had been growing since dawn.
He turned toward Thalen. "You're sure about the speech? I—I mean, I could stand behind you or—"
Thalen didn't look at him. "You'll speak."
Ash faltered. "But—what if I mess up? What if I trip or—"
"This is breakfast," Thalen cut in, finally turning. "The court comes after."
Ash stopped breathing.
A second ago, he'd thought he had time to panic.
Apparently, he didn't.
A laugh caught in his throat, then died. He stared down at his eggs as though they might explode. "I thought—this was it. The speech. Just… here."
"No. The speech is in the Hall of Thrones," Thalen said casually, sipping his wine like it wasn't the end of Ash's world. "Before the nobles. Before the emissaries. Before—everyone."
Ash swallowed hard.
The walls of the breakfast hall suddenly felt taller. The ceiling stretched further. Even the food seemed louder—cutlery clinking like swords being sharpened.
"You'll be fine," Thalen added, almost like an afterthought. "You've practiced."
"I practiced in private."
Thalen arched an eyebrow. "Everything worth doing is done in public."
Ash looked to his mother for reprieve.
Queen Isolde didn't even glance at him.
Instead, her gaze darted across the table, cool as frost. Until—"Ascalon."
His back straightened like a whip crack.
She tilted her head. "You're holding your fork like a peasant."
Ash blinked.
Then he glanced at his hand—delicate grip, three fingers, just like the etiquette scrolls said—
"Thumb tucked. Spine up. Elbow in. You are not an animal."
"Yes, mother."
She returned to silence.
Serana made a show of slouching, jabbing a grape with her dagger. Elira quietly adjusted her own fork, probably realizing she was guilty of the same offense. Loric buried himself in his book. And Thalen? He hadn't even noticed.
The King, meanwhile, took a long, thoughtful bite of venison.
Then—unexpectedly—he turned toward Ash. "Tell me, son. What would you change in the Southern Law?"
The question landed like a slap.
Ash blinked. "Uh…"
"The people's courts are rebelling. I want your take. Fresh eyes. No wrong answers."
Ash scrambled, heart thudding.
"No… wrong answers," he repeated, stalling.
Then: "Well, I think the punishment for grain theft is excessive. Starvation breeds desperation. If you punish hunger with imprisonment, you only create resentment. Maybe community work—rebuilding roads or working farmland instead?"
There was a long pause.
The entire table turned toward him.
King Caelan stared—then chuckled.
"Ash thinks like a farmer."
Ash flushed. "I—"
"That's not a bad thing," Caelan said, taking another bite. "Farms feed kingdoms. But one day, son, you'll have to think like a king."
Ash nodded stiffly.
Queen Isolde sipped her tea.
Thalen leaned in, murmuring something to their father.
Ash exhaled. Every moment at this table was a trial. An exam with moving parts, unseen rules, and judges that never told you what the prize was—only what would happen if you lost.
He caught Elira glancing at him again. She nudged the sweet roll closer. The gesture didn't say much. But it said enough.
In this family, kindness was currency. And Ash was still learning how to spend it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
The grand double doors of the court opened with a low, reverberating groan. It was the kind of sound that settled in your bones—half announcement, half warning.
Ash entered in black.
Not midnight, not onyx—no, this was a deliberate black. Regal, trimmed with the thinnest lines of silver. Subdued, serious, sharp. Gone were the softer creams and quiet reds that marked him as "the youngest." Now, he walked beside Thalen like shadow and sun, flanked by guards in polished crimson and steel.
The nobles whispered, of course. They always did. Ash had learned not to hear it, not in the way Thalen did. For his brother, whispers were tools. For Ash, they were chains.
Thalen leaned in as they approached the dais. His voice was low, almost teasing.
"Nervous?"
Ash didn't look at him. "Why am I even here? I didn't go with you on the campaign."
Thalen smiled, almost fondly. "They don't need to know that. Besides—the idea was yours."
Ash blinked. "That was a joke."
Thalen's smirk deepened. "A good joke. And I ran with it. You think I'm too proud to borrow brilliance? Because you're the last? Come on, brother. Make me proud."
Ash resisted the urge to cuss him out right there in front of the noble court. The man was insane. But he was also right.
They stepped up before the thrones.
The King sat center, the crown heavy even when he wasn't wearing it. Caelan Virellion had the kind of stillness that made people want to confess, beg, or flee. On his right sat Queen Isolde, eyes like frostbite, fingers steepled. Serana leaned casually against the balustrade beside her, an arm slung over the back like she owned the marble. Loric was flipping through a leather-bound book without reading. Elira stood behind them all, quiet and unreadable as ever.
Ash cleared his throat.
"Your Majesties. My lords. I bring word of the southern campaign."
Heads turned. Eyebrows rose.
Wasn't this Thalen's duty?
Ash began to speak. He kept to the script, exactly as Thalen had coached. Tactical advances. Supply chain reinforcements. The relocation of the Velmari resistance and how their remaining leaders had capitulated in the face of—yada yada yada.
He could feel the sweat beneath his collar, but his voice stayed level. This wasn't the same as arguing with Serana or navigating Elira's silences. This was a performance, and Ash—Ash had always known how to survive performances.
Until—
"What was the compromise with the D'varran scouts?"
A voice from the pews. Lord Helgarin. Old. Sharp. Mean.
Ash's heart stuttered.
That… wasn't in the documentation.
He could feel Thalen shift behind him, ready to speak—but King Caelan raised a finger.
"Let him answer."
For a beat, the silence was deafening.
Ash inhaled.
"The D'varran scouts wanted territorial immunity. We gave them false autonomy in exchange for routed patrol paths and restricted zones. To them, it felt like a win. To us, it made their maps obsolete and our movements invisible. Everyone walked away thinking they won."
Another beat.
Then—
The King let out a small chuckle. A real one.
"Clever."
Ash exhaled. Barely.
Lord Helgarin didn't speak again.
The rest of the court session blurred. Ash didn't remember who spoke next, or how long they stood there. Just that, eventually, they were dismissed.
The guards were ordered back to their posts. Thalen moved to the right of the King, as always.
The court continued.
But Ash wasn't listening. He was still replaying that one question. That one moment.
And wondering what the hell Thalen was planning next.
~~~~~~~~~~
Ash ducked beneath the arch of the eastern hall, court whispers still clawing at his mind. The words, the stares, the weight of it all—it sat on him like a chainmail soaked in blood. He needed air. He needed out.
The stables greeted him with silence. A lone torch sputtered near the entrance, shadows dancing across the walls. And there she was—Serana, already tightening the last strap on a saddle, her midnight-grey mare calm beneath her touch. Hood up. Braid tucked. Born ready.
"You took your sweet time," she said without turning. "I almost thought you chickened out."
"I almost did," Ash muttered, tugging at his collar. "But I knew you'd never let me live it down."
She smirked and tossed him the reins of a lean black steed.
"Come on. No guards. No audience. Just wind and hooves."
They rode hard—out the side gate, past the outer fields, and into the forest beyond where the moon carved silver paths through the canopy. For a moment, it was just two siblings, reckless and free. Not royalty. Not pawns.
Serana surged ahead, laughing, daring.
Ash pushed his horse harder—caught up.
Until he didn't.
His horse misstepped on a patch of wet leaves. Ash tumbled, swore, rolled, and landed in a heap of bruised pride and damp dirt.
Serana reined in, circled back, and dismounted with a grin. "You're bleeding."
"You're annoying," he shot back, sitting up and spitting out a leaf.
She tossed him a flask. "Hydrate, o clumsy one."
They sat under a crooked pine, breath catching up with them. The night hummed quietly. No judgment here.
"Nice work at court," she said after a while. "That Lord Helgarin question? You had Dad leaning in like a fangless wolf."
Ash snorted. "It wasn't me. Thalen fed me the whole script."
"Still your voice. Still your eyes. You've got that quiet fire." She looked at him. Really looked. "The kind that saves kingdoms. Or burns them to ash."
Ash frowned, rubbing the blood from his lip. "I didn't even go on the last campaign."
Serana shrugged. "You survived court. That's worse."
A silence fell. It didn't hurt.
"What if I don't want any of it?" he asked.
"Then make something else of it," she replied simply.
"And you?" he glanced at her.
"I want to not want the throne," she said. "But I do want peace. Real peace. And that means leverage. And people who think before they swing."
Ash leaned back against the bark. "Big world."
"Someone has to care."
They rode back slower.
The castle rose ahead, a silent titan brooding in moonlight. But something stopped Ash just before the outer gate—a mark on the wall, half-hidden by vine and shadow.
Spray-painted in blood-red ink:
RED IS THE TRUE LAW.
He pulled his horse up. Stared.
"You think they're right?" he asked. "The rebels?"
Serana leaned forward in the saddle, eyes scanning the letters. "People believe what they need," she said. "To justify the fire in their bellies. Some call it truth. Others call it madness."
Ash frowned. "But what if everyone could agree? Actually agree. Consensus."
She laughed—dry, sharp. "That's called politics, baby brother. Been happening since the dawn of time: alliances, betrayals, peace treaties, wars. Then bigger alliances. More war."
She met his eyes.
"How's that been working out?"
Ash had no answer.
The gates creaked open.
Just before they split, Serana called back—
"One day, I'll need your sword at my back."
Ash turned. "Then I'll be there."
"Good," she said with a smirk. "Try not to die before then, prince."
The tower had no guards. It didn't need them. The sheer spiral staircase that led to the top was punishment enough.
Ash's legs ached by the time he reached the final step, his tunic sticking slightly to his back with sweat. He ducked under the low beam carved with ancient runes and stepped into the top chamber—Loric's domain.
Books were everywhere. Not shelved—just strewn across cushions, tables, floor tiles, and the window ledge where Loric sat now, legs pulled to his chest, a leather-bound tome open on his knees.
"You're late," Loric murmured without looking up. "By exactly twenty-seven minutes. Either you overslept, or you let the tailors trap you in one of their absurd silk assaults again."
Ash grinned faintly. "Both."
Loric didn't smile back, but his voice softened. "Sit. I've been saving this one for you."
Ash stepped over a collapsed pile of scrolls and perched beside him. A gust of wind from the open archway stirred the incense smoke curling from a clay bowl. Loric passed him a folded parchment—old, brittle, and sealed with a sigil that had long since faded.
"A peace treaty between House Virellion and the Barrow Clans. Written during the Sapphire Accord. Read it."
Ash skimmed, lips moving silently. "It says they agreed to mutual non-aggression and shared land rights... but—wait... here, it says 'for all heirs born in union'. That's... vague."
Loric nodded, finally closing his book. "Exactly. Vague means flexible. Flexible means manipulatable. In some contexts, that line excludes children from concubines, or anyone not born within the exact ten-day span of ceremonial alignment. You can twist it to say almost anything. That's how wars start—over a misinterpreted word."
Ash raised a brow. "So every empire is just... one technicality away from crumbling?"
"Every empire," Loric said, "is a glorified story written in ink that bleeds."
Silence sat with them for a moment.
Ash leaned back, watching a falcon drift across the distant skies beyond the window. "What if bloodlines are just stories too? Things people keep repeating until everyone believes them. My claim. My crown. My destiny. Just... stories."
Loric turned to look at him, really look. "You sound like a king."
Ash snorted. "Or a heretic."
"Sometimes they're the same thing."
There was no warmth in Loric's expression, but there was gravity—like a storm waiting at sea, silent but immense.
Ash reached down and picked up a cracked scroll. "What's this?"
"Rebel code." Loric tapped the edge of the parchment. "They've started hiding messages in merchant invoices. Look for the double spacing between words. That's where they hide numbers. Numbers lead to coordinates."
Ash scanned it, impressed. "And you figured that out?"
"I listen. The world speaks in whispers most people ignore."
Another beat of silence. Then, Ash said, "I like it up here. It's... quiet."
Loric turned a page. "Good. Stay quiet long enough, you might start hearing what matters."
Ascalon Virellion stood at the edge of the Queen's chamber, the scent of myrrh clinging to the red velvet drapes like whispered threats. Candlelight flickered off golden sconces shaped like thorns—sharp, deliberate. Nothing in Queen Isolde's quarters was soft. Not the walls. Not the air. Least of all, the woman herself.
She didn't look up from her seat at the vanity. "You're late," she said flatly, as if punctuality were a royal virtue and not something she routinely ignored herself.
"I wasn't aware I was summoned," Ash replied. His tone wasn't sharp, but it wasn't docile either.
The Queen finally turned, her black-and-gold gown rustling like a storm cloud. "That's the first lesson. You're always summoned."
A servant quietly bowed and exited, leaving them alone. The door clicked shut behind him like a prison cell locking.
Ash took a step forward but didn't kneel. That, he knew, annoyed her. A flicker in her eye confirmed it.
She gestured to the ornate seat across from her. He sat.
"This is training," she began, voice smooth as cold steel. "Not with swords or shadows. But with something far deadlier—words."
He waited, half-prepared, wholly reluctant.
"You're to attend court next week. The Countess of Farryn will be present. You'll greet her by title, not name. Speak last. Smile less."
Ash tilted his head. "And if she tries to trap me in conversation?"
Isolde's painted lips curled faintly. "Then you dance around the blade and stab her politely." She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the carved oak desk. "Tell me. If Lord Elveron greets you with, 'The boy prince walks with wolves now, does he?' — how do you respond?"
Ash blinked. "Depends. Are we lying today or being clever?"
The Queen gave a single, rare laugh. Low and sharp. "Both. Always both."
She stood, walking around him slowly. "You speak too softly. Stand straighter. Don't lower your gaze unless you intend to gut them while they blink."
Ash's hands curled into fists in his lap. "You summoned me to insult me?"
"No." Her tone cooled. "I summoned you because I'm tired of watching you bleed every time someone opens their mouth near you. The world doesn't coddle princes. Especially not the unwanted ones."
That one sank into his gut like a rusted blade. He didn't flinch.
"You need to look dangerous, Ascalon. You have the blood. The name. Even if it wasn't given freely." She leaned close, brushing a nonexistent speck from his shoulder. "People won't fear you. Not yet. But make them listen. Even sheep bite when cornered."
Ash stood abruptly. "Is that what you are, then? A cornered sheep?"
For a moment, fire danced in her eyes. Then it was gone.
"One day," she said, voice like glass cracking beneath frost, "even you may have to wear a crown. And you'll hate it."
Ash turned toward the door, pausing as Ruin—her personal shadow hound—emerged from the red corner of the room. It growled lowly as he passed.
"I think you're forgetting something, Mother," he said over his shoulder. "I'm nowhere near the throne."
Isolde's smirk twisted, both amused and knowing. "Not yet."
The door closed behind him with a decisive thud. Ash didn't realize how tightly he was gripping his own wrist until his nails left marks.
The tower smelled of parchment, darkwine, and old embers.
King Caelan stood by the hearth, crown set aside, armor gleaming quietly on a mannequin. He swirled a half-full goblet, lost in thought.
"I'm told you rewrote the oldwar codes," he said without looking back.
Ash lingered by the doorway, hesitant. "They had inconsistencies."
"Inconsistencies my generals missed," Caelan said, finally turning. His eyes twinkled—not pride exactly, but something close. "You remind me of your grandfather. Thalen. Sharp mind. Never sought thrones, but ruled anyway."
Ash lowered his gaze. "I'm not like Thalen. Or Loric. Or even Serana."
"No," Caelan agreed, stepping closer. "You see the cracks before the fall. That's rarer than strength."
He handed Ash a small scroll wrapped in red ribbon. "There are gifts I've left for you—should anything ever happen. A blade. A key. And something only Elira knows about."
Ash frowned. "Why would anything—?"
"Just humor an old man." Caelan smiled, but his eyes stayed haunted. "The world is rarely kind to dreamers."
They stood by the window now, watching the stars blink across the sky.
"Do you know the tale of the First Flamebearer?" Caelan asked softly. "He wasn't the strongest. But he endured. That was enough to light a kingdom."
Then, after a pause:
"Power never makes a man. It reveals him."
"You may never be the strongest, Ash. But maybe you'll be the one who survives."
Ash didn't answer. But his fingers tightened around the scroll, and in the starlight, something in his heart quietly ignited.
A scream tore through the dark like a blade.
Ash jolted upright, breath ragged. The silver scroll from Caelan still clutched in his hand.
Then—
CRASH. Glass. Shattering. Somewhere close.
Ruin snarled at the balcony doors, hackles up, teeth bared. Smoke coiled outside like a serpent, rising in thick black plumes from the western wing—the scholars' tower.
Ash stumbled to his feet, heart slamming. From the courtyard below, footsteps thundered. Steel scraped. And then—
A horn. Automated but still a horn.
But not the usual call to gather.
This one was older. Wilder.
A call every royal was taught to fear.
A call etched into ancient history books.
The Horn of Elthuris.
The Call to Kill.
Another scream. Closer this time.
A second horn blew.
Ash grabbed his cloak, reached for the dagger beneath his desk.
Outside, the stars began to vanish — one by one — as if something vast and winged was blotting them out.
He didn't need to hear the next horn.
He already knew:
The palace was under siege.