By dusk, Lusian stepped out of the infirmary.

  The air carried that metallic, restless scent of nights before rain, and the distant tolling of the Academy bells blended with murmurs slithering through the corridors like invisible serpents.

  The central courtyard was crowded with students. Some spoke in hushed tones; others barely concealed the morbid thrill of forbidden gossip.

  "They say Duke Douglas massacred them all—even the children…"

  "No, it was his wife. The Thunder Sorceress."

  "Whoever it was… best not cross that family."

  Lusian lowered his gaze.

  He walked slowly, his right arm bound in a sling, his free hand buried in the pocket of his coat, pretending not to hear. But every word pierced beneath his skin—cold and sharp. Collective fear carried a different weight when it was your surname on everyone's tongue.

  Above the Academy towers, the sky burned in amber and violet hues. The sunset gilded the stained-glass windows of the main building while the wind dragged dry leaves across the marble steps. Lusian paused for a moment, breathing steadily.

  The light fractured across his face, dividing his identity in two: one born in Kuria, the other dragged from a world that no longer existed.

  Something in the air had shifted.

  An omen. An invisible tension running through the walls like contained lightning.

  The Denisse had fallen… and with them, the kingdom's balance of power.

  Lusian felt it with chilling clarity: the story was beginning to move.

  And no matter how hard he tried to remain on the margins, he was part of its current.

  An heir of cursed blood in a world that measured the worth of a life by the magnitude of its magic.

  He closed his eyes for a brief moment, letting the wind's murmur drown out the voices around him. The thought formed—simple and raw, like a mantra burned into his mind:

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Survive.

  I just have to survive.

  The Price of Truth

  Royal Palace of Aldenor – Throne Hall

  The echo of boots rang against marble as General Steve Erkham strode to the center of the hall.

  He knelt before the throne, his cloak still stained with dust and dried blood.

  "Your Majesty," he said, voice low and firm. "The northern operation has concluded. The Denisse family was captured by Douglas forces. They are now in custody, awaiting trial for high treason… without distinction between the main and cadet branches."

  King Felipe regarded him in silence.

  His gaze was that of a man who had witnessed too many wars and knew some victories cost more than defeat.

  "Evidence?" he asked, barely moving his lips.

  Erkham extended a sealed case.

  "We found chests filled with imperial gold. Documents bearing the emblem of the White Dragon. Direct orders to destabilize the north and ignite a civil war. And… names, my lord. Names of other houses involved."

  A murmur rippled through the court like sudden flame.

  The king broke the seal and began to read. His expression hardened with each passing line.

  "They were granted lands, honors, the protection of the crown…" His voice trembled with restrained fury. "And this is how they repay us? Like rats selling their own home to the enemy!"

  His fist struck the armrest of the throne, the impact reverberating through the columns.

  "Bring them before me."

  Guards dragged the prisoners to the center of the hall.

  Craig Denisse, the younger heir, could barely remain upright. His face was smeared with soot and tears.

  "Your Majesty!" he cried, collapsing to his knees. "I knew nothing! I swear it! My father hid everything… By the time they pulled me from the Academy, it was already too late. I could do nothing."

  Felipe regarded him with a calm that froze the blood.

  "We shall see whether that is true."

  He ordered the monks of the Temple of Sangus to be summoned.

  Servants extinguished several torches, and soon the hall filled with the scent of sacred incense. The monks entered in procession, clad in crimson robes and black masks, bearing a small statue of the God of Truth.

  They placed it at the center of the summoning circle and began chanting in the ancient tongue.

  The runes carved into the marble floor ignited with golden light.

  The air grew heavy, as if the entire hall were holding its breath.

  "Commence the Unmask," commanded the High Monk.

  The first to be questioned was Lorenzo Denisse, eldest son of the traitorous duke.

  The young man trembled as the glow enveloped his body.

  The king spoke in a low voice—almost compassionate, yet edged with steel.

  "Tell me, Lorenzo… did you know of your father's atrocities?"

  Lorenzo swallowed.

  "Y–yes, Your Majesty… but I… I am a victim. He forced me. I did not wish—"

  He did not finish.

  The light of the circle flared crimson, and a harrowing scream shattered the silence.

  Lorenzo collapsed to the floor, convulsing, as the statue of Sangus exhaled a cold radiance.

  The spell had detected the lie.

  The gathered nobles recoiled in horror.

  The king did not look away.

  With terrible calm, he murmured:

  "Then… there is nothing more to discuss."