Rowan sat alone in the palace, the weight of Greyhaven pressing down like stone.
No visitors. No council. No laughter.
Only walls.
Every report he received was laced with fear.
Every messenger hesitated.
Even his guards glanced nervously at the shadows, expecting them to strike.
Aren's control was complete.
The city whispered his name.
Soldiers obeyed his commands without knowing who had given them.
Merchants and minor lords moved under his unseen hand.
Rowan tried to send secret orders.
By the time the letters reached recipients, instructions had changed—or never arrived.
Draven forces were delayed, misled, or ambushed.
All orchestrated by shadows he could not see.
Aren watched silently from a hidden tower.
Every movement in the city cataloged.
Every ally accounted for.
Every threat measured.
Even Edric warned Rowan.
"Your reach is gone," he said quietly. "You are a king in name only."
Rowan's hands shook.
"You… you cannot take the crown without blood," he whispered.
Edric's silence answered him.
Fear had isolated Rowan completely.
He realized that power meant nothing when no one dared obey.
He had been prince.
Aren had become ruler.
Not by title.
Not by law.
But by fear.
Rowan stared through the palace windows at the streets below.
Silent. Empty. Watching.
He understood finally that survival would require more than cunning.
It would require allies he did not have.
And a price he may not want to pay.