The palace stood above Greyhaven like a watchful giant.
White stone.
Golden spires.
High windows that reflected nothing.
Aren had never imagined he would walk its halls.
Yet here he was.
Clean.
Armed.
Summoned.
Two guards led him through endless corridors.
Painted ceilings.
Tapestries of forgotten victories.
Marble floors cold beneath his boots.
Every step reminded him:
This place was built on blood.
They stopped before twin doors.
Carved with lions and crowns.
A herald announced, "Aren Valewood of Blackmere."
The doors opened.
King Aldric sat on a narrow throne.
Not grand.
Not proud.
Thin.
Pale.
Wrapped in fur.
His hands trembled slightly.
Age.
Illness.
Both.
Around him stood the council.
Duke Harland.
Archbishop Morn.
General Caelis.
Eyes sharp as knives.
"Come closer," the king said.
Aren obeyed.
"You are… resourceful," Aldric continued. "You hear things. See things."
Aren said nothing.
Silence was still his armor.
"I need such men," the king went on. "Loyal men."
Harland smiled faintly.
Aren felt watched.
Measured.
"The realm fractures," Aldric whispered. "Draven gathers strength. Verrick plots. Even my sons quarrel."
He coughed.
Hard.
Blood stained a cloth.
"When I am gone," he said, "war will follow."
Aren's heart raced.
"You will serve me," the king declared. "You will spy. Report. Influence."
"And in return?" Aren asked quietly.
The room tensed.
Aldric raised a thin hand.
"Land," he said. "Title. Protection."
"Restoration of Blackmere."
Aren's breath caught.
His home.
Rebuilt.
Honored.
He thought of ashes.
Of his father's body.
Of running barefoot into darkness.
"Yes," he said.
The word sealed his fate.
Later, in the courtyard, Lysa listened.
"They're using you," she said.
"I know."
"They'll discard you."
"I know."
"Then why accept?"
Aren looked up at the towering palace.
"Because," he replied, "this is how I climb."
Lysa studied him.
And for the first time…
She looked afraid.