The heavy iron doors of Central Prison opened. Alden walked out. His boots struck the stone steps with rhythmic clicks, echoing against the damp walls.
Two rows of guards in polished breastplates snapped their heels together and bowed their heads in unison.
At the bottom of the stairs stood Captain Lut. His armor was scuffed from years of use, and deep creases lined the corners of his eyes from a lifetime of squinting into the sun. As Alden descended, Lut bent at the waist. His gauntlet ground audibly against his chest plate.
"Your Highness." Lut straightened. The motion was stiff. His gaze darted over Alden, checking for blood, dirt, or any sign of the interrogation. "Did everything go well?"
Alden didn't answer.
He stopped on the final step. It brought him eye-level with the Captain. He scrutinized the old man's face, tracing the gray stubble on Lut's chin and the familiar white scar running through his eyebrow.
Then his eyes dropped to the chest, then the flank.
He listened.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
'Eighty beats per minute.'
Too fast for a man standing still.
Alden's gaze hardened, examining the corner of the Captain's mouth. A faint spasm in the lip. The breath caught on the inhale—shallow, wet, like air bubbling through fluid.
'Must have coughed blood recently.'
The Prince's eyes slid shut. He swallowed, the movement of his throat sharp.
"Captain."
"Yes, Your Highness?" Lut leaned in, his hand instinctively finding the hilt of his sword.
Alden's hand drifted an inch from his side. His fingers twitched once, splaying open, before they snapped back into a fist against his thigh.
"It's nothing."
Alden looked past him at the distant spires, his expression neutral. "I want you to close all doors of the Emerald Castle tomorrow morning. Seal the gates for the next three days. Ensure nobody reaches me."
Lut blinked. His thick brows drew together. "Yes. Your Highness. I will ensure nothing gets to you." He paused, glancing around the empty yard. "What about today?"
Alden waved a hand, already turning toward the waiting carriage. "It's fine today. No need to take any measures yet."
Lut signaled the driver and pulled the carriage doors open himself. Once Alden was inside, Lut climbed up to the front, settling onto the bench beside the driver.
The wheels rattled to a halt in the courtyard of the Emerald Castle. Lut hopped down from the driver's seat, boots crunching on the gravel, and opened the carriage doors.
Limon was there.
The aide, pacing nervously in the gravel, rushed forward upon seeing the Prince. He fluttered his hands around Alden's arms without touching him.
"Are you alright, Your Highness?" Limon leaned in, searching Alden's pupils, then scanning his skin for sweat. "Do you feel nauseous? Should I call a physician?"
Alden kept walking, forcing Limon to trot backward to maintain eye contact. Lut fell into step three paces behind them, his hand resting on his pommel as his eyes swept the castle perimeter.
"I am fine," Alden said, glancing over his shoulder at the entrance. "But it's a good idea."
Limon stopped dead, his heels skidding in the gravel. He spun around, ready to bolt toward the Medical Wing.
"Limon," Alden said, not stopping. "Not today."
Limon halted abruptly, then scrambled to catch up, his brow furrowing.
"Go around to the Medical Wing tomorrow," Alden continued.
"Why tomorrow?" Limon asked, breathless.
Alden paused at the threshold of the main hall. He turned slowly, the corner of his mouth curling upward into a faint, dry smirk.
"I feel like I might get sick tomorrow."
Limon blinked. The tension in his shoulders dropped instantly, and he let out a long, ragged exhale. "Your Highness... you shouldn't joke about such things."
Alden's smirk vanished. "You do need to go to the physician tomorrow. Several times. I will give you a list of specific questions you need to ask them."
"What for?" Limon asked, puzzled.
A flat answer came back. "To create a paper trail."
"Alright. Understood." Limon straightened his back, a small smile breaking through his worry. "Your Highness, can I ask you something before that?"
"Go ahead."
Alden resumed his stride toward the study, with Limon following close on his left and Lut guarding the rear.
"How did you know the servant was lying?" Limon glanced up, waiting for an answer.
"It was thirteen beats faster."
"What was?"
Alden stopped, his hand resting on the brass latch. "His heartbeat."
With a shove, he pushed the heavy doors open.
Limon stared at his back for a moment before shaking his head. "Just tell me you don't want to answer," he grumbled. "Give me the list of questions."
He sighed, pulling a notebook from his vest pocket. Alden offered a curt nod to Captain Lut, who took up his post guarding the entrance, and walked into his study. Limon followed close on his heels, quill already poised over the paper.
[The Red Light District]
A woman huddled in an alcove where the light of the red lanterns couldn't reach, pulling her knees to her chest. She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, her fingers brushing against skin that was smooth and unmarred by the district's harsh years. At twenty-two, she had high cheekbones and wide eyes—features she tried to obscure with smeared soot and layers of shadow. Through the cracks in the peeling crimson shutters, she watched the street.
A carriage clattered into view. The polished lacquer gleamed against the district's grime. The wheels ground against loose cobblestones, halting with a jolt that splashed black sludge onto the walkway.
A man stepped out first. He wore the hardened look of a guard—Barris—his hand hovering near the dagger at his waist. His boots sank deep into the mire, and he winced, surveying the rooftops.
He tapped twice on the carriage door.
A boy stepped out.
She held her breath. He couldn't have been more than fourteen. His tunic was a rich, unblemished brown, the fabric stiff with gold threading, and his hair—a shade of pale gold—caught the lantern light like a beacon in the muck.
The boy lifted a boot, his nose wrinkling as he inspected a speck of mud on the toe. His pale green eyes narrowed, sweeping over the alley.
"It reeks," the boy complained. His voice was high, cutting through the low hum of the street. "Do they not clean this area? I would have never come here had Cordelia not been ignoring me."
Barris stepped quickly to block the view of a stumbling drunkard. He murmured something, trying to steer the boy toward the doors.
The boy shoved Barris's hand away with a sharp jerk of his shoulder. He marched to the entrance of the cottage, shoving the doors open with the careless entitlement of a child who had never encountered a locked gate.
As the boy disappeared into the entryway, Barris lingered outside for a second with his companion—Korb, a taller man with a tired, cynical set to his jaw.
"Babysitting duty," Korb muttered, spitting onto the cobblestones. "Look at him. Strutting like a rooster while we wade through filth."
"Keep your voice down, Korb," Barris hissed, though his eyes lingered on the clean steel of his partner's scabbard. "Just get him inside before someone slits his throat."
Korb kicked a pile of sludge, grimacing. "I bet Garrett isn't standing in shit right now. That lucky bastard won't shut up about his new post."
"Leave it," Barris warned, though his tone lacked bite.
"No, really," Korb grunted, his voice dropping to a low rumble. "Garrett swears Prince Alden is a monk. Never visits places like this. During the Frost freeze, he said Alden even sent hot meals to the gate guards." He shook his head. "While we freeze for a brat chasing skirts, that bastard serves a Prince who actually respects the men who bleed for him."
The woman froze. Her gaze snapped towards the guards.
"It's not just the food," Barris whispered, the envy in his voice shifting into something heavy with worship. "It's the strength. To serve a Swordmaster... a man who can use aura at seventeen..."
This time, she shivered.
"Stop it. You'll make me sick," Korb snapped. "Come on. Before the brat screams."
They hurried inside.
She smiled, whispering low. "Ah, as expected of my little Master... He was a bit strange last time, but..."
She hastily wiped her face with her hand before nodding. "Right. No matter what, he is my master now. Just like her..."
She waited a beat until the heavy doors clicked shut. Moving with practiced silence, she slipped away from the shutters and circled the building to a servant's side entrance she had unlatched hours ago; the door opened without a sound. She slid inside, testing the floorboards for creaks, and crept down the hall.
From the shadows, she peered into the stifling heat of the main room. The golden-haired boy was already standing amidst the smoke and the thieves, blinking. He tapped his foot, his chin lifted, waiting for a bow that wasn't coming.
Barris leaned in close to the boy's ear. "Young Master, please. Do you really wish to be here? If it is known to Consort Miriam, she would be furious."
The boy abruptly stopped, clenching his jaw. Then, he expanded his chest and glared at the guard.
"Mother won't know," the boy hissed, his voice cracking. "Unless you tell her. And if you do..."
He left the threat hanging. It was a clumsy display of power, but she saw Barris swallow hard.
Barris peeked helplessly at Korb, then back at the boy.
Korb cleared his throat, stepping forward. He didn't bow. He put on a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"In that case, Young Master, let me make a suggestion," Korb said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I was told there is a new flower here. A rarity. Untouched. The madam asks a price so high that none of these common filth dared to bid on her."
Her breath hitched. Her fingers dug into the dust of the floorboards until her nails scraped wood.
The boy's attention snapped to Korb. The fear of his mother evaporated, replaced by a leering interest. "Untouched?"
"The best in the district," Korb whispered low. "Fitting for someone of your... station."
The boy's lips curved. It was a smirk of ownership. He raised a hand to smooth his golden hair.
"Of course," the boy said. "It is only fitting that I use the best one. Go tell them I want her."
"As you wish, Prince Raymond," Korb said.
The name hung in the air. Prince.
She pressed a hand to her chest, feeling her heart hammering against her ribs. Barris shoved a patron aside to clear a path, his face set in a hard line. They were moving toward the back rooms. Toward the shadows.
Toward her.
[Emerald Castle, Aide's Office - Late Evening]
The oil lamp sputtered, casting flickering, uneven shadows across the Aide's Office. Limon sat hunched over the mahogany desk, the wood pressing hard against his elbows.
"...this one too," he whispered, the sound brittle in the silence. "They all lead toward the Black Market. Why?"
He picked up a stack of merchant testimonies, the parchment crinkling under his grip. He stared at the receipts, the heavy wax seals mocking him. Frustration mounted; he grabbed at his hair, tugging sharply at the roots.
To his right, the rhythmic, wet snore of Gilion filled the room. An hour ago, the man had collapsed, his cheek pressed against financial reports. A small pool of drool darkened the binding.
Limon ignored him. He leaned back, the chair groaning under the shift in weight.
"Start from the beginning," he muttered to the empty air. "What do we actually know?"
He began moving papers, physically forcing the chaos into piles of indisputable fact. He slammed the first document down: the Arcanum's legal ledgers of clean, orderly Bavarium purchases. Next, he placed the investigation reports from Iron Pass, detailing forged papers, illegal routing, and vanishing endpoints, all pointing to a shadow transaction.
He checked the wall calendar. Tower Master Hadrian had been comatose for three months. He reviewed the interrogation transcript. Logan Valecrest had maintained consistent testimony for three weeks.
Limon picked up Logan's transcript again. The man had been a wreck—sweating, shaking—but his confusion regarding the Black Market shipment had been genuine. Logan hadn't been acting; he had been lost.
Limon snapped his attention back to the Black Market ledgers. Too clean. Illicit trade was messy, yet these three merchants' testimonies aligned with geometric perfection.
Investing in false testimony to frame Hadrian would be illogical unless there was a deeper motive behind such an elaborate scheme.
He drew a timeline, the ink blotting slightly as he pressed down firmly.
Three months ago, Tower Master Hadrian fell into a coma. One month ago, Rosewick exploded. In the present day, documents from a black market surfaced during an investigation.
He followed the timeline down to Hadrian's name. A darker thought then clawed at him: Hadrian, a respected researcher, had no reason to destroy his legacy. Yet, his disciples testified against him while he was incapacitated.
The quill stopped moving.
'Wait... why didn't I consider this before?'
He reached for Hadrian's medical file.
'Tower Master's fall into a coma... was it natural?'
He forced himself to read the medical observations. Weakness in the extremities and difficulty walking were the initial symptoms. Later, paralysis spread from the hands and feet upward. The current state was comatose, with full-body paralysis and unresponsiveness.
A chill swept through him.
"Progressive paralysis starting from the extremities..."
Limon spun toward Gilion, ready to wake the man. But the deep, exhausted rhythm of the snoring made him pause.
He retracted his arm before crossing the room to the heavy oak cabinets lining the far wall instead. He flicked through the dividers—Trade, Personnel, Royal Health—until he landed on a black leather folio.
He pulled the record for the Late Empress Cassandra and walked back to the desk. Gilion was still slumped over the reports, oblivious. Limon shook his head and sat down, smoothing the document under the lamp light.
He scanned the faded ink. Numbness in the fingertips and toes. Gradual paralysis over two months, until her entire body went numb. Complete limb immobility.
The Late Empress, paralyzed for seven years, had succumbed to death three days ago. Tower Master Hadrian, paralyzed and comatose for three months.
Limon placed the reports side by side. The progression was identical.
'Could... could it be that I am overthinking? What if it's a new kind of disease...'
But tonight, he couldn't shake off his doubts. Alden had been poisoned today, and the attempt had almost succeeded. The walls seemed to be closing in on him.
"This isn't about Rosewick," Limon whispered, barely breathing the words. "This is much deeper than I thought."
The chair scraped loudly against the floorboards as he surged to his feet.
'But how can we verify?'
Poisons varied. A killer wouldn't use the exact same compound on everyone unless it was so perfect and untraceable that they kept getting away with it.
'The vial. I must check.'
Limon thought, 'If I'm too late, His Highness might be trapped within a massive conspiracy...'
He grabbed his cloak and strode out the door, moving rapidly into the hallway.
Alchemists didn't assassinate Empresses. They wouldn't dare target Crown Princes.
'Unless they are working for someone.'
Someone with money and power.
Dread coiled tightly in his gut. The corridors passed in a blur of stone and shadow until he reached the entrance of the Crown Prince's living quarter. Two guards nodded as Limon approached. He didn't slow down, breezing past them without a glance.
'The succession crisis. If Prince Alden fails the test, he will be removed from the heir position...'
He swept through the inner hallway, the remaining guards stepping aside to open the way for him.
'But I must keep Alden safe.'
He crossed the threshold, barely realizing he had already entered the Prince's study.
Limon had noticed Alden lock the drawer earlier, after placing the vial inside.
His hand instinctively reached for the handle, hooking his fingers around the brass latch and pulling slowly. The hinges whined in the quiet.
Click.
The drawer was unlocked.
Limon froze. Alden never left this unlocked.
"Why is it open?" he whispered to the silence.
The fear of losing the evidence tightened his chest. He scanned the room's shadows, searching for movement and a silhouette in the corner.
The air was still.
He turned back to look inside the drawer, but before he could see—
"What are you doing here, Limon?"
Limon's hand hovered over the open drawer, his grip tightening.