The moon hung low over the capital of Levian, veiled by a mist that clung to the towers like secrets left unsaid. Inside the royal citadel, torches burned low, casting shadows like claws along the marbled walls. It was the hour when the world held its breath.
King Lucen Hale of the Blue Banner was dead.
Or so they claimed.
A royal decree was dispatched before sunrise: "His Majesty passed peacefully in his sleep." No physician was summoned. No autopsy permitted. By noon, the Red Crown's delegation had arrived unannounced at the palace gates, their crimson banners fluttering like a warning.
They brought with them a sealed document—a supposed royal succession order, signed with Lucen's sigil, naming Sovereign Kael Vireon as interim ruler. The ink was still fresh.
In the Hall of Flames, where truth was once preserved in magic-bound glass, the Red Crown's mages extinguished the last of the bluefire lanterns. With them, the final glimmers of truth faded into darkness.
Meanwhile, far from the palace, in a forgotten wing of the Royal Archives, a young man stirred.
Leon Vael had not slept. The death notice, delivered on a wrinkled scroll by trembling hands, still sat untouched beside his desk. Instead, Leon stared at a weathered tome—one the Red Crown had ordered burned weeks ago.
He flipped the page and froze.
There it was. The king's true final decree. Hidden in plain sight, bound under a false title, guarded by misdirection.
"They lied," he whispered.
And in that moment, beneath the dust and silence, the first ember of rebellion was born.