In the dimness of a dark room, a thin, naked man sits in a meditative position. The atmosphere is enveloped in dense smoke, which twists and dances around him. The smoke seems to have a life of its own, as if it were an ethereal being. It concentrates especially near the man's body, forming spirals and swirls.

The man keeps his eyes closed, his expression serene and focused. His skin gleams with an almost iridescent sweat, as if releasing something more than just water. Every drop of sweat seems to carry a vital energy, an essence flowing out of his body.

As the smoke approaches, it trembles and stirs, as if in tune with the man's breathing. He inhales deeply, and the smoke seems to merge with him, penetrating his skin, his pores. It's as if the smoke is seeking something within him, something deep and ancestral.

The man remains motionless, his spine straight, hands resting on his knees. He seems to be in communion with the universe, absorbing not only the smoke but also the mysteries of the cosmos. Each inhalation is an exchange, a dance between the material and the spiritual.

As the smoke is absorbed by his body, the man emits a soft, almost inaudible sound. It's as if he's whispering ancient secrets to the very air. His eyes remain closed, but his mind seems to be elsewhere, exploring dimensions beyond the reach of common senses.

And so he continues, in this state of transcendence, in the dark, smoky room. Sweat trickles down his skin, and the smoke dissipates slowly, as if it had fulfilled its mission.

The silence is broken when a servant gently knocks on the door. The wood creaks, and the meditating man startles slightly, but doesn't open his eyes. A servant enters with light steps, respectful, as if entering a sanctuary.

"Master," the servant says in a low voice, "I apologize for interrupting your training." He pauses, waiting for a response. The man merely grumbles, a nearly inaudible sound, but enough to indicate that he's aware of the servant's presence.

The servant proceeds, choosing his words carefully: "You asked to be notified immediately when someone from the royal family made a move." He nods, awaiting the man's reaction.

The Duke of the West finally opens his eyes, revealing deep, focused irises. His voice is calm but firm: "Who?"

The servant swallows hard, feeling the weight of responsibility. "The crown prince, sir. He left the palace tonight, accompanied by a retinue of guards."

The servant continues, choosing his words carefully: "I also have another piece of news. Late last night, a servant of Baron Lester came to inform that the baron wishes to have an audience with you."

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The Duke of the West furrows his brow and closes his eyes, his mind momentarily drifting from meditation. His slender body is still, but his mind is active, spinning like meticulous gears.

Baron Lester, a noble whose lands are intrinsically tied to trade. He would be eager for the outcome of the nobles' meeting regarding the new taxes in the south, scheduled to happen in a week. The Duke knows the baron wouldn't come to him if he were alone; he likely already secured the support of nobles who have commercial ties to his house. But that's still a minor issue.

The Duke of the West opens his eyes, revealing a sharp gaze. "Send a response message to the baron," he orders. "Tell him I am inviting him to a dinner in my quarters." The servant nods in agreement, ready to fulfill the order.

But the Duke doesn't stop there. "I want you to keep an eye on the Crown Prince," he continues. "I wish to know of everyone he comes into contact with in the days leading up to the meeting."

The servant nods, the responsibility weighing on his shoulders. He withdraws, leaving the Duke of the West once again immersed in smoke and reflections. Sweat trickles down his skin, but his mind is sharp as a blade.

At the same time, on the other side of the capital city...

The royal carriage advances majestically through the paved streets of the capital, the rhythmic sound of horse hooves echoing against the facades of residences. Crown Prince Alasdair of the royal house Kaxinawa, a young man with a penetrating gaze and imposing posture, observes attentively the coming and going of citizens, who bow in reverence at his passage. His eyes, however, reflect not only the urban splendor but also the complexity of his thoughts.

As the carriage rounds the grand central fountain, adorned with statues of ancient kingdom heroes, the crown prince allows himself a brief sigh. His brother, the second prince Eamon, occupies his thoughts, a cunning and ambitious adversary whose political machinations have caused not only a headache but also a palpable threat to his future reign.

In a moment of introspection, the crown prince ponders the fate of the kingdom and the role his brother plays in these power games. With a distant gaze, he caresses the signet ring bearing the emblem of the royal family, a symbol of his birthright and power. Few in the kingdom could imagine the plans forming in the heir's mind, plans that involve not only strategies and alliances but also a carefully orchestrated trap. A trap that, if successful, would ensure not only a smooth ascent to the throne but also the stability and prosperity of the kingdom under his rule.

Snapped out of his reverie by the firm voice of a guard, the crown prince adjusts his posture, preparing to face the reality that awaits him. "We have arrived at Count Murdo's mansion," the guard announces, his voice cutting through the silence that had settled in the carriage. The prince, with a resolute thought that "finally this matter will be settled," allows a confident smile to bloom on his face.

As he steps down from the carriage, his eyes immediately catch sight of the count's mansion. It's not an imposing structure, but its elegant simplicity speaks volumes about the power and influence that don't need ostentation to be recognized. Count Murdo, a figure of medium stature and a shrewd gaze, already awaits him, his expression carefully molded into a welcoming one.

Formalities are exchanged with the precision of a well-rehearsed dance, each word and gesture laden with hidden meanings. The count, with a deference bordering on subservience, leads the prince into his residence.

As they disappear behind the massive doors of the mansion, the scene fades away, revealing two men of common appearance beside a house near the count's mansion, dressed in simple servant attire. However, their gazes are anything but ordinary; they watch the prince with an intensity that belies their humble facade.