The inner walls of Goldhearth swallowed the light. As Saezu crossed the stone threshold into the castle proper, the air changed—thicker, colder, filled with the faint scent of oiled iron, parchment, and old secrets. Everything here was silent, not with peace, but with pressure. Like a breath held too long.

  Servants stepped aside quickly, bowing their heads, but their eyes lingered. Saezu didn’t need to guess what they were thinking. His clothes were travel-worn, his hair uncombed from days on the road, but it wasn’t dirt or rags that marked him as different. It was his face.

  He looked like the King.

  Every archway was flanked by guards in polished plate. Every hallway bore tapestries embroidered with scenes of conquest. Kings on thrones, dragons chained at their feet, rebels in shackles. Saezu kept his expression blank, but inside, something coiled.

  "This way," Fenric said.

  They moved through hall after hall, until the great bronze doors of the throne chamber loomed ahead. Twelve feet tall. Engraved with roaring lions and carved runes of law, legacy, and blood.

  Two guards stepped forward and heaved the doors open. Saezu stepped through.

  The throne room of Goldhearth was built to intimidate.

  Vaulted ceilings soared overhead, filled with mosaics that caught and threw sunlight through stained glass, casting red and gold patterns across the black marble floor. Long columns lined the chamber, carved from obsidian. At the far end, a staircase of five wide steps rose to the dais—and on that dais, the throne.

  Carved from dragonbone and blackstone, wrapped in silver filigree, the throne of Goldhearth was not built for comfort. It was built for judgment.

  King Alric sat atop it.

  He wore no crown, only a heavy fur cloak pinned by a lion-shaped brooch. His hair was iron-gray now, cropped close, and his face bore the weight of decisions no man should have to make. His hands, gloved in leather, rested on the arms of the throne. Behind him, on either side, stood three of the royal brothers.

  Prince Varric. Prince Hadric. Prince Leontes.

  Saezu stopped at the base of the stairs and met his father’s eyes.

  A heartbeat passed. Then another. Then—

  "You’ve grown," Alric said.

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  Saezu’s voice was low. "So I’ve heard."

  A rustle spread through the courtiers lining the walls. Nobles, advisors, and foreign emissaries had gathered in anticipation of this moment. Most of them studied Saezu with cool calculation.

  Varric, tall and broad, wore a military uniform draped in crimson. His jaw was clenched. Hadric, dressed in layers of dark silk, gave nothing away, but his eyes glittered with curiosity—or malice. Leontes, the smiling one, nodded faintly as if greeting an old friend.

  Alric stood.

  "You have all heard the rumors," he said. His voice, though aged, filled the chamber with ease. "This is my son. Saezu. Born from love I could not protect, raised away from the throne for his own safety. But he is of my blood."

  He paused.

  "And he will be welcomed."

  Murmurs rippled across the room. Some murmurs of approval. Others of doubt.

  "He is to begin training with the Royal Guard. He will be afforded the status of a noble ward. He is not in line for the throne."

  That last sentence snapped through the air like a whip.

  Varric relaxed. Slightly.

  Alric looked at Saezu. "Do you accept this place?"

  Saezu looked up at the man who had exiled him at birth, then welcomed him back with a leash. He didn’t answer immediately. He saw through it. This was not a reunion. It was a performance.

  "I accept," Saezu said, because it was too early to say anything else.

  The feast that followed was not for celebration, but politics. A hundred dishes. Musicians in every corner. Wine that flowed like rivers. And Saezu—seated near the King, under the watchful eye of every lord in the kingdom.

  Varric didn’t speak to him. Hadric asked probing questions. Leontes offered jokes with the edge of a blade. Saezu answered carefully, measuring each word, each nod. He had no allies here.

  Not yet.

  As the feast wore on, a whisper reached his ear. A servant slipped something into his hand beneath the table. A note. Scrawled in hurried ink:

  "Meet me in the eastern gallery before moonrise. Trust no one. – F"

  Fenric.

  Saezu read it twice, then folded it and slipped it into his sleeve.

  Across the hall, Hadric was watching him.

  At moonrise, Saezu slipped away. The eastern gallery was empty save for cold stone statues and faded battle banners. Fenric waited near a broken window, his armor half-unbuckled.

  "Why call me here?" Saezu asked.

  Fenric didn’t answer immediately. He lit a lantern and held it low.

  "Because your brothers are already moving against you."

  Saezu felt no surprise. Only a cold confirmation.

  "They fear your name. They fear your face. And if you make even one mistake, they’ll bury you in a dungeon and no one will speak your name again."

  "So why warn me?"

  "Because I fought beside your mother once," Fenric said. "And I owe her."

  A pause. Then:

  "Your training starts tomorrow. But what you’ll need to survive won’t be taught in the yard. It’ll be learned in shadows, in silence. I’ll send you names. People you can trust. Very few."

  Saezu nodded.

  Before he turned to leave, Fenric added, "Watch Hadric most of all. That one smiles only when he’s planning to bleed someone."

  Back in his chamber, Saezu stood at the window and stared at the moon.

  The city below was quiet, but it felt like a quiet before something broke. Already, his instincts buzzed like a storm was rising.

  He took the letter from Mirelle—the one sealed with the lion. He broke the seal and opened it.

  Inside were four words:

  "They will betray you."

  No signature.

  Just truth.

  He folded it, placed it beneath his pillow, and laid down without sleeping.

  He had returned.

  But his war had just begun.