The palace of Aurelia glowed under moonlight.

  Its marble spires shimmered with lanterns. Music drifted from high balconies. Gilded carriages rolled through its front gates as nobles stepped out in robes that glittered like riverlight. Tonight, the Emperor hosted a private court banquet.

  And among the guests—quietly, without escort—walked Karl.

  ---

  The moment he entered the palace foyer, he felt it.

  Pressure.

  Not physical, but social. Cultural. Political. The air itself was heavy with status, with expectation. Every nobleman turned to appraise him. Every smile was measured. Every nod, rehearsed.

  He had been dressed in a black formal coat with crimson cuffs. Thalgrenn’s simplified crest was stitched discreetly into the collar. Not a royal insignia—just a polite reminder of who he used to be.

  He was shown into the great hall, where a feast stretched across a single long table of burnished wood.

  At the far end sat the Emperor.

  ---

  The Emperor of the Empire was neither young nor old. His face bore no crown, but his posture was one. He wore navy silk robes, his white hair tied back, eyes half-lidded and unreadable.

  Karl bowed as tradition demanded.

  The Emperor raised a hand.

  “Prince Karl of Thalgrenn. Welcome to Aurelia.”

  Karl straightened.

  “I’m honored, Your Majesty.”

  “You must be tired from your journey,” the Emperor said. “I trust your accommodations have been sufficient.”

  “They have.”

  “Good.”

  Silence fell. And then—almost casually—the Emperor gestured for Karl to take a seat.

  ---

  The dinner began as a display.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  There was venison in honey glaze, spiced lentils with crushed nuts, steaming rice wrapped in boiled grape leaves. Wines from five provinces were poured. Dancers swirled in silent performance behind translucent silk curtains.

  No one spoke of politics.

  But everyone thought of it.

  Karl’s brother, Prince Alven, sat two seats away, surrounded by ministers and strategists. He wore blue and silver, his armor ceremonial, his speech sharp.

  When he caught Karl’s eye, he didn’t smile.

  Karl nodded once.

  That was all.

  ---

  Later, when the plates had been cleared and music drifted lower, the Emperor requested Karl remain for a private word.

  They stood in the Hall of Voices, beneath the painted dome of Aurelia’s founding.

  “I’ve spoken with your brother,” the Emperor said.

  Karl said nothing.

  “He believes Thalgrenn must be restored. He claims the northern revolutionaries will not stop unless the royal line is reinstated.”

  Karl remained quiet.

  The Emperor stepped closer.

  “But you... I wonder.”

  He turned.

  “You have no fire in you.”

  Karl blinked.

  The Emperor’s voice was calm, almost gentle. “You have no hunger. No ambition. You came here because you were summoned. Not because you sought it.”

  Karl didn’t deny it.

  “I’ve read reports,” the Emperor continued. “You live quietly. Your ‘followers’ cause chaos, yet you avoid it. You do not speak of revenge. You do not speak of leadership.”

  Karl spoke now. Quietly.

  “Because I’m not interested in war.”

  “Then what are you interested in?”

  Karl hesitated.

  “I just want to live.”

  The Emperor looked at him long and hard.

  “Then what are you doing in a game of kings?”

  Karl met his gaze. “Trying not to lose.”

  ---

  Back in the villa, the players were not at rest.

  They were organizing.

  ---

  Three players had returned from the Blackvein Bazaar with a map sketched on old parchment.

  “Three entrances. Two patrol points. One illegal apothecary, and one guy who sells refurbished flintlocks.”

  “Do we have enough silver?”

  “Not yet. But we’re close.”

  Another player had spent the day watching Alven’s villa from a nearby rooftop. He had cataloged guard rotations, weapon types, estimated reaction time.

  “He’s got twenty men,” he said. “Half in full gear. They’re not elite, but they’re loyal.”

  “We don’t need to fight them all,” another player whispered. “Just him.”

  The old soldier frowned. “We’re not assassins.”

  “We’re liberators,” came the reply. “We’re choosing the right storyline.”

  The group went silent.

  Then someone said, “Think about it. If he dies, the Empire has no choice but to support Karl.”

  No one noticed the shadow that passed the alley.

  ---

  But the shadow didn’t linger.

  Because tonight, nearly all of the Empire’s information network—especially the Ravens—was focused on the palace.

  They had tripled the guard.

  Every corridor, every servant, every whisper.

  All eyes were on Karl.

  Which meant—for once—the players moved completely unseen.

  ---

  At the palace gates, Karl stepped into the night air, alone.

  The Emperor had said one final thing before he left.

  “You are not like your brother.”

  Karl had asked, “Is that good or bad?”

  The Emperor had not answered.

  ---

  Far from the gold and velvet, in the shadowy quarters of Aurelia’s veins, a stolen flintlock changed hands.

  “Payment?” the merchant grunted.

  The player handed over a pouch of pilfered silver.

  “Target?”

  A pause.

  Then—

  “A prince.”

  ---

  And above them all, on a high tower roof, a Raven finally looked away from the palace and toward the city’s slums.

  He frowned.

  He felt something shift.

  But he didn’t know what.