Prince Kael didn't rush the truth,he let it come to him the way rot always did slowly, inevitably, when you pressed in the right places.
In Valenreach's lower quarter, he followed a trail of small inconsistencies guards paid twice in one week, supply ledgers altered by careful hands, a tavern owner who went pale at the mention of Lord Eryndor's name. Kael smiled through it all, friendly, harmless, listening.
By the third night, he had proof, a sealed letter, hidden beneath the floorboards of a merchant's office.
Eryndor's crest pressed deep into red wax. Inside orders for blood shipments, movements of men sworn not to Lucien but to the coming council,names circled in ink. Dates Routes
A coup, not whispered now, but scheduled.
Kael read it twice, jaw tightening.
"So it's true," he murmured. "You're not just ambitious. You're impatient."
He burned the letter after committing every detail to memory, then mounted his horse before dawn. The palace gates loomed by nightfall.
