Alderon's POV
I had never hated the palace more than I did now.
Its halls were still gilded. Its floors still polished to a shine that reflected torchlight like molten gold. Servants still bowed, guards still saluted, and courtiers still whispered behind silk sleeves.
But beneath it all, the place felt rotten.
Because somewhere beneath my feet—behind stone and iron and law twisted into cruelty—Maria sat in a dungeon for a crime she had never committed.
And it was my fault.
I had spent the day doing everything a prince could do without tearing his crown from his own head.
I argued with the council until my voice went hoarse.
I demanded a private audience with my father and was denied.
I sent petitions. Requests. Appeals framed in the language of diplomacy and restraint.
All of them were ignored.
"Elowen's word stands," the advisors said.
"The alliance cannot be threatened," they warned.
"Her father is watching."
Always her father.
