As the sun’s rays bathed Grey-Rock, its light stretched across thousands of kilometers to the distant kingdom—where towering spires crowned elegant manors and well-furnished roads ran through its heart. Carriages without wheels glided past those drawn by horses, moving with quiet efficiency.

Within the kingdom itself, a grand castle stood at its center, its polished walls gleaming under the sun. It was patrolled by heavily armored knights and radiated a quiet, oppressive aura.

Its towering spires pierced the sky, while the kingdom’s banner—a great griffon with spear-like wings—flowed steadily in the wind.

A man stood within a spacious, well-furnished chamber, the details of the room speaking quietly of wealth and authority.

Polished marble floors reflected the light of chandeliers that hung in perfect alignment, while finely carved wooden furniture rested in deliberate symmetry. The air itself carried a faint scent of aged wood and refined oil, suggesting both care and long-standing prestige.

He faced a large window, gazing outward in silence.

His presence alone carried weight—an oppressive aura that seemed to press against the room itself. A broad frame stood beneath a cape patterned like a lion’s mane, the fabric falling with a heavy elegance against his back.

His expression remained neutral as he observed the bustling citizens below. The low hum of Resonance drifted through his ears, mingling with the sharp clang of weapons from knights sparring in the training grounds beside the castle.

A low sigh escaped Alavric’s lips as he returned to his desk, settling into the chair with a practiced, natural elegance.

“A year and four months,” he whispered, leaning back into the leather.

His mind easily summoned the chaos of the past few seasons—undoubtedly the most tumultuous of his reign. From the clash between Kaelthorn and Baldric—a conflict so devastating it left the peasantry whispered of a spreading plague—to the exhausting redistribution of power among the Seven Main Houses, the crown had felt heavy. Yet, none of those geopolitical tremors weighed on him quite like his daughter’s expedition four months ago in pursuit of the “Ghost.”

*To think my proud daughter would return in such a state…* he mused, a flicker of genuine somberness crossing his features.

She had been led by the Royal Procession, flanked by Vane, who had guarded her since her first breath. Despite the unsettling shift in her fiancé’s demeanor upon their return, Alavric had assumed the mission was a success. He had predicted she would find Daren Redwyn—the Ghost in question—extract whatever thrill or information she sought, and inevitably dispose of him. He had expected her to return slightly heartbroken, perhaps, her singular source of interest extinguished by her own hand.

His prediction had been a grave miscalculation.

The moment she crossed the castle gates, the change was total. She had ignored her mother, Castilla—the very person she usually ran to first. Most shocking of all to the court was her silence; she didn’t boast of her findings to the Royal Council or seek a captive audience for her exploits.

Instead, she moved with heavy, hollow steps, her expression darkened by the shadow of a woman who hadn’t slept in weeks. She had retreated to her chambers, emerging only for meals or the rare, mandatory royal functions she couldn’t evade.

Castilla had exhausted every maternal plea to learn what had transpired in Grey-Rock, only to be met with cold silence or a turned back. The rejection had left the Queen drowning in a sea of guilt; no matter how composed she appeared in public, Alavric saw the cracks. He knew she blamed herself for goading him into sanctioning the expedition in the first place.

She didn’t know the truth: he had intended for his daughter to go the moment his web of spies—masked as knights and maids—delivered word of her interest.

Alavric had tried to offer comfort, but it was a fruitless endeavor given her isolation. Occasionally, he would sit outside her heavy oak door, attempting to coax a word from her. When he failed—as he always did—he would mask his presence, tricking her into believing he had departed.

Only then, in the silence he left behind, would the sounds drift through the wood: muffled sobs, screams of incoherent rage, and the name “Daren” whispered alongside apologies to someone he deliberately didn’t want to uncover the identity.

It was then he realized the depth of his error.

He didn’t regret using his daughter as a pawn to prune the useless child of Redwyn line; it should have been a masterstroke. His daughter would have gained the excitement she craved, and he would have eliminated a potential shadow-threat to his credibility as a King in one fell swoop. What he regretted was the magnitude of the failure he now had to carry: a traumatized heir, a broken wife, and a looming threat that still bore the Redwyn name.

He slumped further into his seat, massaging his temples. “I suppose he was right after all.”

He recalled Redwyn Evendur’s warnings regarding the search for his son. After all he had boasted about the infallibility of his plans when Evendur had failed catastrophically in his attempt to erase his son’s existence and retrieve the Ring.

He had recently stormed into his personal chambers to rub the catastrophic results in Alavric’s face, though beneath that tempest of anger, Alavric could tell the man was just as shaken, if not more. It also explained why Evendur had been scarce lately; he was likely already weaving new plans in the dark.

A groan left Alavric’s lips, louder this time. “And now, one of his tedious sons returns. Ugh…” A low, dry chuckle escaped him. “I wonder what could draw one of those battle-hungry freaks back from the Abyssal Plains? Twenty-five years in that hellscape…”

Alavric leaned forward, a sharp, predatory smirk playing on his lips. “I wonder how his two daughters will feel when they discover they have not one, but five brothers they’ve never met. Perhaps I should pay my good friend a visit, after all.”

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep