"Go to the king now."
Lucas did not raise his voice when he spoke, yet urgency cracked through every syllable like lightning splitting open a storm.
The illusion woven around him flickered violently beneath the deepening crimson glow of the sky, his borrowed likeness of Kaelvryn destabilizing as the Red Moon's influence surged beyond expectation.
Valen did not hesitate.
The courtyard below had dissolved into uneasy murmurs, celebration replaced by collective uncertainty as the moon's unnatural hue intensified overhead.
Nobles stood frozen in clusters, their masks suddenly less playful and more ominous, as though the night itself had donned one of its own.
"Maintain order here," Lucas added sharply, already turning toward the inner corridors. "I will hold the illusion as long as I can."
Valen's gaze snapped toward him, "you cannot hold both."
"I do not intend to," he replied tightly. "Go."
