Chaos was a living beast in the great hall, feeding on spilled wine and shattered crystal. But for Adrien, it was a symphony reaching its crescendo. He watched, a statue of perfect composure, as his father, King Louis, twitched his last upon the ruined feast.
His eyes were not on the king. They were pinned to his brother, Armand, whose drunken horror had frozen into a mask of pure, stupid shock. And then Armand's gaze dropped, his hand fumbling at his feet. He lifted the object that had rolled from their father's table.
A golden serpent ring.
It was the cue.
"Seize him!" Adrien's voice cut through the panic, cold and sharp as a surgeon's lance.
All eyes turned. The loyal guards—his guards, planted and paid for over years of meticulous planning—moved in.
"My brother," Adrien announced, his voice laden with a grief that did not touch his eyes, "has coveted the throne. Now, he has taken it. By poison. A coward's weapon." He pointed a steady finger at the ring in Armand's hand. "The symbol of the very cabal that seeks to destroy us all. Seize the Regicide."
The word hung in the air, a death sentence. Regicide.
Armand's mouth opened, but no sound came out. The truth was a physical blow, a poison more potent than the one that killed his father. He saw it now—the cold fulfillment in Adrien's gaze. This was not a tragedy; it was a coronation by patricide. As the guards wrenched his arms behind his back, he found his voice, a raw, broken thing. "Adrien… you…!"
But Adrien had already turned away, his attention on the next piece on the board. Princess Isabel stood amidst the chaos, her icy composure unbroken. Their eyes met across the screaming nobles. No words were needed. It was the acknowledgment of two predators, their pact sealed in blood and poison.
In the East Wing, the trap closed.
The court physician's stiletto lunged for Charlotte's heart. She was no warrior, but she was a survivor. She threw herself sideways, the blade slicing through the air where her throat had been. She scrambled back, grabbing a heavy silver candelabra. As he lunged again, she swung with all her might. It connected with his temple with a sickening crunch.
He fell. But as he did, his flailing hand, adorned with a golden serpent ring, scraped across her arm.
The touch was electric. It was not a memory. It was an Echo.
She tasted the wine; thick, cloying, with an undertone of bitter almonds. She saw through the poisoner's eyes: her father's laughing face, the tilt of the goblet, the cold, approving gaze of Adrien from across the room. She felt the cool weight of the serpent ring.
The knowledge was branded onto her soul. Adrien. Her own brother. The golden serpent. The Cabal.
The door to her chamber splintered and burst open. But it was not more assassins. It was two of her personal guards, their faces etched with panic. "Princess! We must get you to safety! The city is in an uproar!"
Charlotte looked from the dead man at her feet to the terrified faces of her guards. The Princess Charlotte, the dutiful daughter, the quiet observer, died in that room with the Echo of her father's murder.
"No," she said, her voice eerily calm. She stripped the physician's dark, blood-stained robe and pulled it over her sapphire gown. She smeared soot from the fireplace on her face. "The Princess is dead. She died with the King."
She looked at her guards, her eyes now holding a glint of feral, ancient steel. "If you are loyal tome, and not the ghost of a crown, you will follow. And you will call me La Lupa."
Without a backward glance, she slipped into the secret passage behind her tapestry, a wolf leaving its gilded cage.
The news, carried by a frantic, dust-caked messenger, reached the Anvil like a thunderclap.
"King Louis of France is dead! Poisoned! Prince Armand is accused, Prince Adrien has taken the Regency! The Spanish bitch Isabel is at the gates, and the whole of Marseille is drowning in blood!"
A grim silence fell over the hardened soldiers of Giovanni's fortress. This was not a border skirmish. This was the foundation of the world crumbling.
Giovanni's face was granite. He turned to his spymaster, Lorenzo. "The Cabal."
Lorenzo gave a single, grave nod. "Their move is made. The board is reset."
The Commander's gaze swept over his best. His eyes fell on Aurelio and Gerald, who stood side-by-side, the initial hatred between them now forged into a tense, unspoken partnership by their shared secret at the river.
"The time for drills is over," Giovanni's voice echoed in the sudden quiet. "France is a headless serpent, thrashing. Spain is a dagger at its throat. And in the shadows, the Cabal laughs."
He walked up to Aurelio and Gerald.
"You two… you are no longer just soldiers. You are a weapon I have tempered." He looked at Gerald. "You carry the rage of the North." His eyes shifted to Aurelio. "And you… you have the sight. The instinct. I have seen it in the yard. You feel the blow before it lands. That is your weapon now. Wield it."
He placed a sealed scroll in Aurelio's hand.
"This is your target. A Cabal stronghold, a monastery called the Sunken Cathedral on the French coast. They are moving something—or someone—vital. You will infiltrate it. You will learn what they plan next. You are the arrow I fire into the heart of the coming storm."
Aurelio felt a chill that had nothing to do with the evening air. You have the sight. Giovanni knew. He had always known.
As they turned to ready their horses, a frantic shout came from the gate. A scout stumbled in, his face pale. "Commander! Riders approaching! Flying no colors! They move… wrong. Too fluid. Too quiet."
From the darkening pass, a dozen riders emerged. They were clad in black, featureless armor, and they moved with a synchronized, unhurried grace that was utterly inhuman. At their head was a tall figure who raised a hand, halting the company without a sound.
The figure removed its helmet.
The face was Cecilia's. But her eyes, once warm, now held the same vacant, ghost-light sheen as the physician who had attacked Charlotte. And when she spoke, her voice was a chilling harmony of her own and something else, something ancient and cold.
It was a voice that knew the Echoes, that swam in them.
"I am the Daughter of Fire and Shadow," the thing wearing Cecilia's face said, its gaze sweeping over the stunned soldiers before locking directly on Aurelio. "And I have come for the one who hears the whispers of the dead."
END OF ACT I