Alden’s perception flitted across the days like a stone skimming over a vast, dark lake—brief moments of clarity followed by stretches of oblivion. Days bled into nights, their edges blurred and indistinct. He moved aimlessly between the bed and the chair by the great arched window overlooking the city and bay below. A nurse or doctor would sometimes enter, their voices no more than whispers at the edge of a dream. Occasionally, an official would visit, their presence more tangible but no more significant. Even Empress Serkai came, her visits rare and informal. She spoke softly of Elkianara, weaving fragments of her daughter’s new life into the heavy silence.

Those stories were pinpricks of warmth, echoes of the time Elkianara had spent with him in the days after he regained consciousness. He had been quiet during her presence, yet her words and actions remained singularly vivid in his mind, a brilliant contrast to the shroud of his existence. Serkai’s visits carried an echo of that same warmth, a fleeting reprieve from the suffocating void.

But the warmth never lasted.

Grief had hollowed him out, leaving behind a fragile shell. His memories of that night at Fairwood Manor—the sounds, the sights, the screams, too painful to confront but too vivid to ignore. The blade, the attacker’s lifeless eyes, his parents’ desperate shouts—they swirled like ghosts in the shadows of his mind, tethering him to a past he could neither face nor escape.

He existed in a haze, his senses dulled, his thoughts fractured. The room was his entire world—a gilded cage that felt at once expansive and confining. Smooth, ornate walls decorated with intricate tapestries and carvings seemed to press inward one moment and recede the next. The finely crafted furniture blurred into shapeless shadows, irrelevant to his stagnant existence. Time within the room stretched and folded on itself, a looping spiral without beginning or end.

Moments arrived and disappeared like shards of a broken mirror, fleeting glimpses of reality within a sea of disorientation. Occasionally, he noticed the sky beyond his window—golden light pooling across the pale Umbralumaran skyline, spilling like molten gold over the city’s spires. Sometimes he caught the faint murmur of life beyond the palace walls: the distant toll of bells from the bay, the soft hum of airships carving lines across the horizon. These fragments came unbidden, disconnected from any coherent narrative.

Weeks passed—or was it days? Alden couldn’t tell. He drifted, untethered, adrift in his own mind.

Most of the time, he sat by the window, his green eyes dull and vacant. The view beyond the glass was stunning—a panorama of light and life that should have stirred something within him. But it brought no solace. His gaze never wavered from the horizon, yet he saw nothing. His hands lay limp in his lap, pale and still except for the faint, rhythmic twitch of his fingertips—a reflexive movement, as if his body sought to remind itself of its own existence.

One evening, the monotony fractured. Voices, faint but distinct, broke the oppressive silence. At first, they were no more than a murmur, muffled by the heavy door, but gradually, the words pierced the haze that enveloped Alden like sunlight breaking through fog. Two attendants were speaking in hushed tones just beyond the threshold, their conversation intended for no ears but their own.

“…still haven’t found the messenger the Empress dispatched that night…”

A pause, the words dangling in the air like loose threads waiting to be pulled.

“So? You think a messenger could cause whatever happened?”

“No, no, that’s not it. They’re saying it might have been the speeder—those new models with arcane cores. Duke Lucian was known for his extensive wards. You know what they’re whispering? Some kind of unexpected reaction to the new core. They’re running safety tests on them now, re-evaluating the whole series.”

Another pause, deeper and heavier, as if the air itself resisted the weight of the next words.

“Duke Lucian was too skilled for that kind of mistake. I don’t think it was a mistake.” A sharp inhale. “Someone knew.”

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The final words were barely audible, laced with a hushed dread that demanded secrecy.

“Then what? That it wasn’t an accident? Do you know what you’re suggesting—”

“Shh, not here.”

A soft rustle of fabric, hurried footsteps, and then silence. The whispers dissolved into the vast stillness of the corridor, leaving Alden alone once more.

But their words remained, an unrelenting echo reverberating in his mind.

Someone knew.

The phrase pierced through the fog, sharp and merciless, like bloody stakes driving into his flesh and anchoring him to the present. The haze around Alden shattered. The fragments of his stupor fell away like brittle glass, leaving a raw, pulsing awareness in their wake. Grief and emptiness—the familiar weights that had numbed him—shifted, replaced by something far sharper.

Someone knew.

The thought slithered through his mind, venomous and undeniable. The comforting lie he had clung to—that the tragedy at Fairwood Manor had been random, chaotic—was gone. The pieces fit together now with ruthless clarity. A messenger had been sent. Someone had intercepted the message. Someone had exploited that breach to deliver destruction. It wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t senseless. It was deliberate.

Alden’s heart began to pound, the rhythm faint at first but building with each passing second. His breathing quickened, his hands trembling as anger surged through his veins like molten fire, burning away the lethargy that had imprisoned him. The white etchings on his arms flared faintly, pulsing with light, while the black lines seemed to drink in the surrounding glow, a dark contrast to the heat rising within him.

In his mind, the fire grew, an inferno consuming every thought, every fragment of his shattered self. The will to act took shape, feeding the flames. He would hunt those responsible. He would tear through every corner of the galaxy to find the ones who had taken everything from him. If it meant burning the world to ash, he would burn it. If it meant scorching the stars themselves, he would do it.

And then, like a voice carried on the wind, Vaelus’s words surfaced from the recesses of his memory.

A fire consumes, and when it has burned its fuel, there is nothing left but ash. Even stars burn down in time.

The inferno slowed, its ravenous flames cooling to a simmer. Alden’s rage did not vanish, but it changed. It solidified, tempered into something hard and unyielding—something that would not consume but would endure. The fire did not die; it became a cold, steady flame, waiting patiently for the moment to strike.

His breathing steadied, the tremor in his hands fading as they clenched into fists. His gaze, once vacant and dull, sharpened with a fierce determination that gleamed like tempered steel.

He could hate.

And for the first time in months, Alden moved with intent.

The room was bathed in soft morning light when the attendant entered. She balanced a tray of tea and fruit in her hands, her steps brisk but routine. She expected to find Duke Fairwood as she always did each morning—hunched in bed, his thin frame slack and pale, his green eyes half-glazed and unseeing as they stared into the middle distance. Every day was the same: gentle prodding to coax him from bed, reminders to bathe, to dress, to eat. He complied, but only mechanically, his movements as lifeless as the hollow boy she had come to pity.

She didn’t mind the work. On the contrary, there was something tender in her care for him, a quiet hope that her efforts might someday help him heal. And if that day came, if the young Duke emerged from his shadow, perhaps her loyalty and diligence would be remembered.

But today was different.

She stopped short as her eyes swept the room. The bed was empty—and made. Her heart skipped a beat, panic rising in her chest. A kidnapping? But no, a kidnapper wouldn’t have made the bed, nor left the room in such pristine order. Her gaze darted to the wardrobe. The outfit she had prepared for him the night before was gone from its rack. Then she saw him.

Alden stood by the mirror, his hands deftly adjusting the collar of his shirt. The morning light played over his chestnut hair and delicate features, illuminating the stark contrast between his slight build and the deliberate precision of his movements. He had bathed. He had dressed. He had made his own bed.

The transformation was startling, almost eerie. Gone was the listless boy she had tended for months, replaced by someone unfamiliar. His posture was straight, his shoulders squared. His movements carried an unshakable resolve that hadn’t been there before. It was as though the shadows of grief that had weighed him down had been burned away, leaving behind something leaner, harder, colder.

Her breath hitched as he turned to face her.

His green eyes met hers, and she froze. The dull emptiness she had grown accustomed to was gone. What burned in his gaze now wasn’t the warmth of hope or the flicker of youthful life. It was something sharper, colder. Purpose.

“Please inform Empress Serkai,” Alden said, his voice steady and precise. It was not the hesitant, fragile tone she had known. His words carried weight, cutting through the air like the blade he had become. “That Duke Fairwood requests a formal audience at her convenience.”