Caer Myrr.

  The City of Light and Stone. The capital of Kelthos shimmered beneath the midday sun as if forever poised to be admired. Massive walls, inscribed with ancient runes, embraced a city that sprawled across gentle hills and rolled down to the banks of the River Elandor.

  Above it all loomed the royal palace — not just a fortress, but a symbol. Magical braziers burned atop each tower, and the Phoenix sigil, etched in stone and metal, watched the kingdom with fiery eyes.

  Nysha Faelar moved across the rooftops with the practiced ease of someone who knew every gap and ridge. Her blue hair was tied into tight braids, her short cloak fluttered behind her, and her eyes missed nothing. By the time she landed near the West Gate, the royal medallion was already in her hand.

  The guards saw her. They did not flinch. They merely adjusted their grips on their spears and observed.

  “Lady Nysha Faelar, envoy of the Crown Agency.”

  The gate opened with the scrape of metal on stone. Before her stretched the Path of Flame — a pristine avenue flanked by carved columns depicting kings, battles, and ancient pacts. Atop each pillar, white fire danced endlessly without consuming a thing. Old bloodline magic.

  She passed among the Royal Guard, their dark helms reflecting her silhouette. She crossed the Inner Courtyard, where fountains whispered and rare blossoms bloomed — flowers found nowhere else in the realm.

  But she did not climb the grand staircase. Her destination was the Queen’s Pavilion.

  Circling the palace, she entered a corridor lined with columns twisted like petrified flame. The air grew subtly warmer — a constant reminder of the power housed within those walls.

  Two Royal Knights awaited her.

  “Lady Faelar,” said one with a brief bow. “You are expected.”

  The golden door opened. Nysha stepped inside.

  The interior of Queen Thalindra’s Pavilion was calm. Warm. The pale stone floor glowed with amber veins. At the center, a magical fountain sent up streams of silent, azure water. Servants glided by like shadows. The scent was of fresh flowers and delicate incense.

  A handmaiden announced:

  “Lady Faelar. Envoy of the Crown Agency.”

  The garden doors opened.

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  There, beneath the shade of blooming wisteria, sat Queen Thalindra at a white stone table. Tall and composed, silver hair falling over her shoulders with the grace of a living statue, she wore a dark blue gown embroidered with gold. Her golden eyes did not blink.

  A subtle heat radiated from her — not mere presence. Mana. The Phoenix bloodline pulsed around her, carefully restrained.

  Beside her sat a shorter, less remarkable figure — an advisor, perhaps. Nysha barely glanced her way.

  She knelt without hesitation.

  “Your Majesty.”

  Next to the queen sat Amyra Sayuri. A woman of modest appearance — smooth brown hair, pale skin, unassuming features. There was nothing striking about her at first glance. And that was precisely what made her dangerous.

  Captain of the Royal Guard. Rank 6 Master.

  Amyra looked at Nysha for only a second — a dry, focused instant that stripped the agent bare. A chill ran down her spine. Pure instinct.

  Queen Thalindra gave a faint, formal smile. But her voice was sharp as a drawn blade.

  “Rise, Lady Faelar.”

  Nysha obeyed, bowing with eyes lowered.

  “Bring me your report,” the queen commanded, lifting a porcelain teacup. Fragrant steam curled between them like a silken thread.

  Nysha took a breath.

  “Your Majesty… the heirs’ movements are accelerating. All major houses have chosen sides — or are close to doing so.”

  Thalindra said nothing, but her golden eyes narrowed slightly. Nysha continued:

  “Prince Bragol has secured the support of House Valtteri. His influence among some of the Royal Knights grows daily. Many see him as the natural heir… he cultivates the image of King Mandos — or rather, the legend crafted around him.”

  Thalindra set her teacup down with a soft clink. Her gaze, now fixed on Nysha, remained unblinking.

  “Princess Celina has built strong alliances among the Greater Houses. There are signs of cooperation with House Hawthorne and possibly scholars from the Mage Tower. She may already be thinking beyond the war… but that course must be… broken, or redirected.”

  The queen gave a subtle nod. Nysha hesitated. The next part required care.

  “And the third?”

  She paused briefly.

  “Prince Uren appears, on the surface, to lack support. But his network is vast. It was difficult to track all his movements… there are indications he’s infiltrated the Agency itself.”

  She exhaled, almost apologetically.

  “None of the major houses back him… yet. However, he seems to be courting the daughter of House Falwyn…”

  Before she could finish, a sharp, unexpected laugh echoed through the pavilion.

  “More likely he’s seducing one of House Falwyn’s young warriors,” said Amyra Sayuri, her wicked grin lighting up her plain face.

  Nysha blinked, confused.

  Thalindra answered with a tone that held a trace of amusement:

  “Uren has… preferences that do not align with expectation, Lady Faelar.”

  The color rushed to Nysha’s face. She lowered her head, ashamed at missing such a key detail.

  Amyra gave a biting look.

  “Don’t feel too bad. Some nobles have... unique tastes.” Then, glancing at the queen, she added, “Her Majesty speaks from experience, does she not?”

  Thalindra smiled sideways, a flicker of mischief:

  “Amyra is well-acquainted with such matters. She shares those… tendencies.”

  Amyra rolled her eyes.

  “Please, Your Majesty. Don’t out me so casually.”

  The levity passed quickly. Nysha resumed, composed:

  “Prince Fenrel has some support among the lesser houses, but none from the great ones.”

  The queen sighed, a flicker of weariness in her gaze.

  “My son is impulsive. Still too foolish.”

  Amyra took another sip of tea, voice laced with disdain:

  “And House Leonhardt backs Vermont. Leonhardt supporting Leonhardt. What a shock…”

  Nysha pressed on:

  “The great academies remain neutral. So does the Mage Tower — for now. The Temple… shows no sign of involvement.”

  “In your assessment,” the queen asked, calm and composed, “who stands closest to winning this contest?”

  “Bragol and Celina,” Nysha replied without pause. “The others seem more like distractions.”

  Thalindra shook her head slightly.

  “Don’t be hasty, Lady Faelar. In politics, power is not just strength or immediate influence. The current king is weaker than all the princes —” her tone turned cold, “— yet the power he holds over the realm remains immense. And Uren is a far better politician than Ghrian ever was.”

  Amyra set her cup down and looked directly at the queen.

  “And you, Your Majesty? Do you intend to support your son?”

  The queen’s gaze turned icy, almost distant.

  “I… do not intervene. The king has also chosen not to act. He prefers a less direct method of testing the candidates. War is not won by strength alone. Leadership, strategy, the ability to inspire and command — these are the true measures.”

  She looked out at the garden, where birds sang, oblivious to the game of thrones unfolding around them.

  “If the youn

  g princess were only a little older… even she might have a chance.”

  Nysha frowned slightly, puzzled.

  But no one offered an explanation.