Aren did not sleep.
Guards stood outside his door.
Two at all times.
Rotating.
Watching.
Listening.
Waiting.
Near midnight, a stone tapped his window.
Once.
Twice.
A code.
Lysa's.
He opened it slightly.
A folded note slipped inside.
Burn after reading.
It read:
Harland moves tomorrow.
False witnesses ready.
Only Rowan can stop it.
He wants something.
Aren crushed the paper.
Burned it in a candle.
Ash drifted away.
Before dawn, footsteps approached.
Not guards.
Soft.
Measured.
The door opened.
Prince Rowan entered alone.
No crown.
No guards.
Only a cloak.
"You're losing," Rowan said quietly.
"Not yet," Aren replied.
"You will," Rowan insisted. "By noon."
He placed a sealed scroll on the table.
"Confession," he said. "From your 'messenger.' Forged, but convincing."
Aren's jaw tightened.
"What do you want?"
Rowan smiled faintly.
"Honesty."
Aren waited.
"I will be king," Rowan said. "Sooner or later."
"And you'll help me."
"Or I'll die," Aren answered.
"Probably," Rowan agreed.
Silence followed.
Two ambitions measured each other.
"You want loyalty," Aren said. "I want survival."
"And Blackmere," Rowan added.
"And justice," Aren replied.
Rowan raised an eyebrow.
"Careful. That's expensive."
"I'll destroy Harland's case," Rowan said. "Expose the forgery. Remove Morn's support."
"But when you rise," Aren said, "I stand beside you."
"As my hand," Rowan finished.
"Not as my servant."
Rowan considered.
Then nodded.
"Agreed."
They shook hands.
No witnesses.
No vows.
Only risk.
Hours later, Rowan stormed the council.
Documents in hand.
Witnesses trembling.
Truth mixed with lies.
Harland's plot unraveled.
Publicly.
Brutally.
By nightfall, Harland was stripped of office.
Placed under guard.
Morn retreated to prayer.
The charges vanished.
Aren walked free.
But he knew:
He had just tied his fate to a future king.
And kings were the most dangerous allies of all.