Two days remained until the festival.
The palace glittered more brightly with every passing hour, yet beneath its growing splendor something older stirred.
Kaelvryn felt it long, the Red Moon had not yet risen, its ominous glow still confined to prophecy charts and astronomers' careful calculations.
Its influence had already begun to ripple through him like an unseen tide tugging relentlessly at the shore of his control.
At first, the change had been subtle, a sharpened awareness.
Sounds carried farther than they should, whispers drifting across corridors as though spoken directly beside him.
The scent of candle wax from three rooms away felt almost suffocatingly strong. Even the rhythm of footsteps beyond closed doors seemed to echo inside his skull.
He had told himself it was merely stress. The festival, the council's growing hostility, the attempt on Valen's life, any ruler would feel strained beneath such weight.
But this… this was different.
It was hunger without form.
