The bells rang at noon.
Slow.
Heavy.
Mournful.
Greyhaven fell silent.
King Aldric was dying.
Physicians hurried through the palace halls. Priests whispered prayers. Guards stood rigid at every door.
No one smiled.
No one trusted anyone.
Aren was summoned at dusk.
Two soldiers escorted him to the royal chambers.
The air smelled of herbs and sickness.
Curtains were drawn.
Candles flickered.
The king lay beneath thick furs.
Smaller than ever.
Fragile.
Aldric opened his eyes when Aren approached.
"Valewood," he rasped.
Aren knelt.
"My king."
The old man gestured weakly.
"Closer."
Aren leaned in.
"I have seen too much," Aldric whispered. "Betrayal… lies… ambition."
He coughed.
Blood stained his lips.
"They circle me like wolves."
Aren said nothing.
"I trusted you," the king continued. "Because you had nothing."
Aren's throat tightened.
"Now," Aldric said, "you have everything to lose."
He grasped Aren's wrist.
"Protect the crown," he begged. "Not the princes. Not the council."
"The realm."
Aren met his fading eyes.
"I will," he promised.
A servant entered.
"Your Majesty," she whispered. "Prince Rowan waits."
Aldric closed his eyes.
"Let him in."
Aren stepped back.
He felt dismissed.
Replaced.
Outside, Lysa waited.
"He's choosing," she said.
"Or dying," Aren replied.
That night, rain battered the palace.
Thunder rolled.
A scream echoed from the royal chamber.
Then silence.
At dawn, black banners rose.
The bells rang again.
Longer.
Louder.
Final.
King Aldric was dead.
In the council hall, nobles gathered.
Faces pale.
Voices low.
Three princes stood apart.
Watching.
Waiting.
Calculating.
Aren realized:
The throne was empty.
And everyone wanted it.
Including him.