I stand beside Zenthio, the obedient shadow at his heels, the loyal hound he believes me to be. From the grand terrace of his mansion, he gazes down at the people gathered in the courtyard below—his people. His subjects, as he so arrogantly calls them. But they are not subjects. They are desperate. The morning sun casts long shadows over the uneven cobblestones, highlighting the weariness etched into their faces. Farmers, merchants, craftsmen—all standing in tense silence, clutching whatever coin they could scrounge together. Today is collection day. Today, Zenthio counts his wealth, and the people count their misfortunes. He stretches his arms lazily, exuding the air of an emperor surveying his kingdom. I watch him with vague amusement as he takes slow, deliberate steps forward, his polished boots clicking against the marble. A performance, as always. Zenthio does not walk. He prowls, basking in the weight of the gazes below. "Another fine morning in my lands," he muses, voice ca

The scent of burnt wood lingers in the cold night air, thick and suffocating, like the last breath of something long dead. Smoke still coils in weak tendrils from the remains of the house, rising into the sky like a funeral prayer whispered too late. Julian stands at the heart of it all, motionless amid the wreckage. The home he once knew is nothing but a blackened skeleton. Charred beams stretch toward the sky like fractured ribs, the remains of the walls sagging inward, barely holding themselves together. Everything inside is gone—consumed by the fire, reduced to nameless piles of soot and ash. But still, he searches. His fingers dig through the wreckage, sifting through cinders and broken stone, pushing aside remnants of a life that no longer exists. His movements are slow, methodical, like a man performing a ritual for the dead. He picks up objects that hold no meaning anymore—half-melted trinkets, shards of pottery, a broken wooden spoon. He inspects them with hollow eyes befor

Pain blossoms across my jaw before I even register the movement. The impact snaps my head to the side, my ears ringing, the taste of iron blooming across my tongue. I stagger but do not fall. My grip tightens around my cane, steadying myself. My breath hitches for a moment before evening out, but the pain lingers—a dull, throbbing ache where Hale’s fist connected. He hit me. Hale hit me. I exhale slowly, tilting my head back toward him. “Are you finished?” My voice is level, but there is a coldness beneath it. Hale stands rigid, his chest rising and falling sharply. His fist is still clenched, his knuckles white. His entire body is wound tight, as if he’s barely holding himself together. “No,” he growls. “Not even close.” I swipe my thumb against my lip, smearing the blood there. “So that’s how we’re handling disagreements now?” Hale scoffs, his face twisted in frustration. “I don’t know how else to get through to you.” He takes a step forward, his eyes burning. “You weren’t liste

The scent of damp wood and old stone lingers in the air as I shut the door behind me. The night outside is still, the city beyond Hale’s home quiet in a way that unsettles me. Too much silence is dangerous—it means fear has settled into the bones of this place, pressing into its people like an unspoken warning.But I do not linger on it. Not now.I step into my room and let the illusion settle over reality like a second skin.The rough-hewn walls smooth into dark mahogany, the warped wooden floor shifts beneath my boots into polished marble. A silk canopy drapes over a bed far too fine for a place like this, its fabric swaying gently despite the still air.None of it is real.The truth lies beneath the glamour—cracked beams, uneven floorboards, the faint scent of mildew clinging to the corners of the room. A simple cot in place of a grand bed. A single, unlit candle instead of the illusionary chandelier that hangs above me.I do not need luxury.But the i

I exist in many places at once.The city whispers my name in the dark, a flickering shadow slipping through the cracks of locked doors, lingering in the hush of frightened voices. In alleyways, men speak of me in cautious tones. In grand halls, nobles glance over their shoulders, wondering if I am watching.Children, huddled beneath their blankets, hear stories of the man who walks between worlds, the specter who listens even when no one is watching. They say I can be anywhere. That I am everywhere.And they are not wrong. I walk the halls of Lavinia’s mansion, where illusions weave themselves into reality like a second skin.I stand in Zenthio’s mansion, where cruelty is currency, and the weak are devoured whole.And now, I am here. The Queen’s palace.The morning light filters through the stained-glass windows, casting fractured colors across the polished marble floor. The scent of spiced tea and warm pastries lingers in the air, mingling with the sharp ink of freshly opened letters