The warm glow of candlelight flickers softly, casting elongated shadows across the library walls. Prince Zorion sleeps soundly beside me, his small frame rising and falling with each steady breath. His silver hair spills over the cushion beneath his head, glinting under the dim light like strands of woven moonlight. He looks peaceful, but I know better than to assume he feels safe. I adjust the heavy blanket draped over him, ensuring he remains warm in the chilly night air. The weight of exhaustion tugs at me, but sleep refuses to come. My mind is restless, haunted by questions I cannot answer. To distract myself, I reach for the nearest book on the table. My fingers brush against the worn leather cover, the title embossed in fading gold letters. I hesitate for only a moment before flipping it open. The Moonspire Dynasty: A Forgotten Lineage of Kings. The name alone sends a shiver down my spine. I skim the pages, tracing the history of the ancient royal bloodline that once ruled V

The farmlands of Varidianth are vast, stretching as far as my eyes can see, but they are nothing like I remember. My father used to say that the strength of a kingdom is measured not by its warriors but by the hands that till its soil, by the people who grow its food and feed its future. But now, under Zenthio’s rule, the land is broken. The soil beneath my boots is dry, cracked, gasping for nourishment. The crops are sparse, their stalks thin and weak. The air carries the scent of dust, not the rich, earthy aroma of thriving fields. I kneel, running my fingers over the dirt, letting the texture of it tell me what words cannot. Too dry. Too starved. There has been no proper irrigation for months. A murmur of voices drifts toward me. I rise, turning my head slightly. A group of farmers stands near a collapsed fence, their shoulders hunched, their eyes hollow with exhaustion. “What do we do now?” one of them mutters. “We don’t have enough seed left for next season,” another replies

The Ashfall estate rises in the distance, its dark stone walls blending into the night. Unlike the Hawthorn mansion, which carries the weight of history and nobility, this place feels empty—as if no warmth or life has ever truly belonged here. And yet, Zenthio has come. I kneel in the shadows of a neighboring rooftop, Hale crouched beside me. The cool night air presses against my skin, thick with the scent of damp stone and distant rain. Through the tall arched windows of the estate’s great hall, I see them. Zenthio. And the woman he has spent his entire life chasing. His mother. Duchess Melissa Ashfall sits in a high-backed chair, her posture regal, her expression unmoved. She is dressed in a gown of midnight blue, her silver hair braided into a crown of intricate knots. Zenthio stands before her, shoulders squared, as if awaiting judgment. He holds a small, ornate box in his hands. A gift. A peace offering. He lifts the lid, revealing a delicate silver locket—the same pendant I’

The letter arrives with the first rays of dawn, delivered by a quiet-footed courier who vanishes before I can question him. I sit by the window, my fingers curled around a lukewarm cup of tea, watching the golden morning light stretch over the rooftops of Varidianth. The air outside is cool, damp with the lingering scent of last night’s rain. Hale stumbles into the room, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He tosses an elegantly folded envelope onto the wooden table between us. "Some fancy noble sent you this," he mutters, running a hand through his tousled hair. "It’s weird, though. It’s got all these little bumps on it." I set my cup down and reach for the parchment. The texture beneath my fingertips is unmistakable. Braille. I pause. A slow, knowing smile pulls at my lips. There is only one person who would send me a letter written this way. Prince Zorion. ⚔️ I trace the raised dots, feeling the familiar precision in each letter. His handwriting—if one could call it that—is perfectly

The warmth of the tavern has long since faded, leaving behind the stillness of the rented room. A single candle flickers on the wooden table, its golden light barely holding back the deep shadows that stretch along the walls. The scent of ale, roasted meat, and stale bread lingers in the air, mixing with the damp musk of old wood and fabric. Beyond the window, the wind stirs through the trees, its distant wail threading through the silence like a whisper meant only for me. Sleep does not come easily. I lie on my back, staring at the uneven ceiling beams, exhaustion pressing against my limbs but never quite pulling me under. The mattress is stiff, the sheets rough against my skin, but that is not what keeps me awake. My thoughts are restless, circling, tightening. The weight of my dreams coils at the edges of my consciousness, waiting for me to close my eyes. I can feel it, like an unseen hand reaching from the dark. Across the room, Hale sleeps. His breathing is slow, steady, the onl