The halls of Verathia’s grand palace had grown colder. Not by the temperature of the stone, but by the shift in power that rippled through the very bones of the kingdom. Alistair’s once calculated demeanour, his precise, controlled actions, had been replaced by something far more volatile. It was as if the prince himself had been swallowed whole by his obsession with Elara, the madness of his desire consuming him from within.
Elara knew she was running out of time. Every encounter with Alistair became more unnerving. His words, once laced with veiled threats, were now steeped in something darker, more desperate. She had heard the rumours, the whispers that travelled through the court like wildfire. The nobles sensed the change in their prince, and while many stayed silent, a select few had come to her in secret, their loyalty shifting as they witnessed Alistair’s slow unravelling.
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