Chapter 5 - The Gathering Storm
Up above, the palace of Valerius was in a state of absolute lockdown.
Massive iron portcullises had been slammed shut across the grand gates. Royal guards patrolled the parapets with drawn crossbows, their armor gleaming ominously under the pale moonlight. Word of the catastrophe in the throne hall had already leaked past the thick stone walls, whispered in hushed, terrified tones through the cobblestone alleys of the lower city.
The crown rejected the princess. The true heir has returned.
In the royal war room, King Valerius paced back and forth across the thick Persian rug, his face twisted into a dark, murderous scowl. He had ripped off his heavy velvet mantle, leaving his linen shirt soaked with sweat.
Queen Eleanor sat stiffly in a carved wooden chair, applying a damp cloth to Aurelia’s bruised forehead. The princess was sobbing hysterically, her expensive gown ruined, her face pale and blotched with rage.
"Find her!" Aurelia shrieked, throwing a crystal decanter against the stone wall where it shattered into a thousand glittering pieces. "Find that filthy scullery rat and tear her apart limb from limb! Drag her through the streets behind a horse! Burn her at the stake!"
"Quiet, Aurelia!" Valerius snapped, whirling around with a snarl that silenced his daughter instantly. The king’s eyes were bloodshot and wild. He knew the danger better than anyone. A stolen crown was only as strong as the fear it inspired. If the people believed the gods had chosen a new sovereign—or rather, restored the old one—his entire twenty-year reign would crumble like a sandcastle at high tide.
"Father," Eleanor said, her voice dangerously calm, though her hands trembled as she folded the cloth. "The catacombs. She has nowhere else to go. If Roland is still down there..."
"Roland is a rotting old fool," Valerius spat, walking over to a heavy oak cabinet and pulling out a massive iron key. He unlocked a secret compartment, revealing a set of wicked, dark steel daggers coated in a dull, venomous sheen. "Send the Crimson Hounds."
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The room went dead silent. The Crimson Hounds were Valerius’s personal executioners—a ruthless band of mercenaries unbound by law, morality, or honor, trained in the darkest corners of the southern wastes to hunt down dissidents and leave no trace behind.
"Let them scour every inch of stone beneath this palace," Valerius whispered, his voice dripping with venom. "Bring me the crown. And bring me her head."
