Chapter 8 - The Betrayal in the Throne Room

The realization hit them like a physical blow.

Duke Malakor. The man who had stood by Rovik’s right hand for a decade, counseling him on war, peace, and governance, had been the mastermind behind the slaughter of the Northern Dynasty all along.

"He used Vane as a proxy to keep his own hands clean," Rovik muttered, his fists clenching so hard his knuckles turned white. "And he engineered your disappearance to ensure the First House could never lay claim to the dominion."

"We have to go back up," Aiel said, her eyes blazing with cold, calculated fury. "Before he realizes we found the ledger."

They didn't need to hurry—Malakor was already waiting for them.

When Rovik and Aiel stepped out of the catacomb stairs back into the inner bailey, the courtyard was eerily quiet. The royal guards standing at attention weren't Rovik’s elite vanguard—they were Malakor’s mercenaries, clad in dark steel armor, their pikes leveled directly at the doorway.

Standing at the center of the steps, leaning calmly on an ornate silver-headed cane, was Duke Malakor himself. His silver hair was impeccably groomed, and a thin, chilling smile played across his aged lips.

"Well," Malakor sighed, shaking his head gently. "I told Vane to burn that ledger. But greed, as always, proves to be a fool's undoing."

Rovik stepped in front of Aiel, his broadsword flashing into his hand with a lethal hiss. "You treasonous bastard," Rovik snarled, his voice vibrating with murderous intent. "You swore an oath to my father, and you served at my table."

"Power requires sacrifice, my boy," Malakor replied smoothly, tapping his cane against the stone. "The Northern Dynasty was weak. They believed in peace, in sharing the coasts with the low-tier packs. Stormhold needed a stronger hand—my hand. And when you refused to take a bride and unite the southern territories, I realized I needed to secure the bloodline myself. Imagine my surprise when I discovered the little princess survived in a marshland slum."

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Malakor raised his hand, and thirty archers stepped out from the shadows of the battlements, their black-iron crossbows drawn and aimed directly at Rovik and Aiel.

"Drop the sword, Rovik," Malakor commanded, his smile turning cruel. "Or watch your precious queen die a second time."