The corridors of the castle felt different tonight. There was an unnatural stillness in the air, a sense that something unseen lurked in the shadows, watching. Lysander moved through the dimly lit halls with the grace of someone who belonged there, his boots making no sound on the cold stone floor. His mind, however, was anything but quiet.

The conversation with Sibel and Valen had gone precisely as he had expected. Sibel’s ambition was her greatest strength, but also her most glaring weakness. She would continue to push, to make reckless decisions. In time, she would become her own undoing, leaving Lysander to pick up the pieces. As for Valen, his gruff demeanor masked a sharp mind, but he was predictable—too rooted in tradition to see beyond the immediate threats.

Tonight, however, something else demanded Lysander’s attention.

The envoy from the west had yet to reveal themselves publicly. It was unlike anyone with that level of influence to stay hidden for so long. That alone was enough to warrant caution, but Lysander couldn’t shake the feeling that their arrival was not mere coincidence. The timing was too perfect.

He reached the end of a long, narrow hallway, stopping in front of a door he hadn’t used in years. The hinges were old, the wood splintered in places, but it still stood tall, a silent sentinel guarding the secrets behind it.

He knocked twice—soft, but deliberate.

Moments later, the door creaked open, revealing a familiar face. Old and weathered, with lines etched deep into his skin, the man who stood there had the kind of appearance that blended into any crowd. He was unremarkable, which made him invaluable.

“Lysander,” the man greeted him, his voice low and raspy, as if he hadn’t spoken in days. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

Lysander stepped inside, pulling the door shut behind him. “I don’t have time for pleasantries, Morrin. I need answers.”

Morrin’s eyes, though dulled by age, still held a sharpness to them. He gestured for Lysander to follow him deeper into the room, where a small table sat cluttered with maps, documents, and strange trinkets from foreign lands.

“The envoy?” Morrin asked, already sensing the direction of Lysander’s thoughts.

Lysander nodded, his gaze narrowing. “What do you know?”

Morrin shuffled over to the table, his fingers brushing aside the papers until he found what he was looking for—an old scroll, brittle and yellowed with age. He unrolled it carefully, revealing a map that stretched across the table’s surface. The western lands, depicted in ink that had faded over time, still held their shape, the jagged mountains and winding rivers unmistakable.

“They’re not here for diplomacy,” Morrin said quietly, his tone grave. “They’ve come to watch.”

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Lysander’s brow furrowed. “Watch what?”

Morrin’s eyes met his, and for the first time, Lysander saw something close to fear in the old man’s expression. “They’ve come to watch the fall.”

Lysander felt a chill crawl down his spine. “The fall of what?”

Morrin sighed, turning away from the map. “Everything.”

The words hung in the air like a death sentence. Lysander had never been one to fall prey to superstition or vague prophecies, but Morrin wasn’t a man prone to exaggeration. If he was concerned, there was a reason.

“The envoy is connected to the Kurogane, aren’t they?” Lysander asked, piecing together the fragments of information.

Morrin nodded. “They’ve been stirring things up for months now, setting the stage. The Kurogane are just one part of their plan. But it’s not just them. There are whispers from the northern territories, too. Old enemies are waking, and the west is watching—waiting for the right moment to strike.”

Lysander clenched his jaw. This was worse than he had anticipated. It wasn’t just a matter of internal strife within the kingdom; outside forces were circling like vultures, waiting for the kingdom to weaken. And if the west was involved, it meant they had more than just a passing interest in what unfolded here.

“How long do we have?” Lysander asked, his voice cold and calculating.

Morrin shook his head. “That depends on how quickly the pieces fall into place. The Kurogane are making their move, but they’re not the real threat. The real threat is what comes after.”

Lysander’s mind raced. If the Kurogane were a distraction, then what was the true endgame? And how could he manipulate the situation to his advantage? The envoy’s presence indicated that something much larger was at play, something that went beyond the petty power struggles of the nobility.

“I need to meet with the envoy,” Lysander said finally, his voice firm.

Morrin raised an eyebrow. “That’s a dangerous game, even for you. They don’t deal with people like us. They’re beyond court politics.”

“I’m not asking for a negotiation,” Lysander replied. “I need to understand what they want. Only then can I turn this situation in my favor.”

Morrin sighed again, but there was a hint of resignation in his eyes. “I can arrange a meeting. But be careful, Lysander. The west doesn’t play by our rules. They don’t care about the kingdom, the crown, or even the Kurogane. They care about power—true power.”

Lysander smiled faintly, a glint of excitement flashing in his eyes. “Power is all that matters.”

---

Later that evening, Lysander found himself standing in a dimly lit chamber deep within the castle’s lower levels. The air was damp, the stone walls cold to the touch. This wasn’t the kind of place where official meetings took place—this was a place for secrets, for dangerous conversations.

The envoy waited for him in the center of the room, cloaked in shadow. Their figure was tall, imposing, and though Lysander couldn’t make out their features, he felt the weight of their presence immediately.

“You sought an audience with me,” the envoy said, their voice smooth but laced with an underlying threat.

Lysander stepped forward, unafraid. “I want to understand why you’re here.”

The envoy chuckled softly, a sound that sent a shiver down Lysander’s spine. “Why we’re here? My dear prince, we’ve been here for longer than you realize. Watching. Waiting.”

“For what?”

“For the moment when your kingdom falls, of course,” the envoy replied, their tone almost amused. “The moment when the old order crumbles, and something new rises from its ashes.”

Lysander narrowed his eyes. “And what is this ‘something new’ you speak of?”

The envoy stepped closer, their face still obscured by the shadows. “That depends on you, Lysander. You have the potential to shape the future of this kingdom—if you’re willing to embrace the inevitable.”

“I don’t care about inevitability,” Lysander shot back, his voice sharp. “I care about control.”

The envoy’s laughter echoed through the chamber. “Control? There is no control in chaos. Only those who adapt will survive.”

Lysander’s mind raced, trying to decipher the envoy’s cryptic words. They were offering him something, but what? And at what cost?

“Tell me what you want,” Lysander demanded.

The envoy’s voice dropped to a whisper. “What I want is irrelevant. What matters is what you want, Lysander. And how far you’re willing to go to get it.”

For a moment, Lysander hesitated. The weight of the choice before him pressed down on his shoulders. The envoy was offering him a chance—an opportunity to seize power in a way that no one else could. But it came with a price. A price he wasn’t sure he was willing to pay.

“I’ll consider your offer,” Lysander said at last, his voice steady.

The envoy tilted their head slightly, as if amused by his response. “Very well. But remember, time is running out. The storm is coming, and when it does, you will have to choose which side you stand on.”

With that, the envoy turned and disappeared into the shadows, leaving Lysander alone in the dark chamber.

He stood there for a long time, his mind spinning with possibilities. The storm was indeed coming. And when it did, Lysander knew he would be ready to face it—on his terms.