---
Morgan's Cabin
A long line of ants marched toward the cold bowl of pottage left on the table. The air was chilly, wisps of wind sneaking through the broken door. The room was silent and empty—a testament, perhaps, to the mission completed by the three men Awin had sent. Or so they were meant to believe.
A hooded Mahalia stepped inside. The ants scattered as she dropped into a chair and propped her feet on the table.
"They're late," she muttered, standing again. She didn't want to admit it, but she was restless. Everything had gone according to plan so far—which, ironically, only made her more nervous. What would happen when it was finally over? If it was ever over.
She had known Awin would send Cham, Sike, and Arrow—his attack dogs, collectively known as Demise—after Morgan Khantel. And she had let them catch the woman, because that was the smart thing to do.
"Is it really?" she muttered aloud, her nerves prickling.
Heavy footsteps echoed outside. She looked up, straightening. Arrow entered, carrying a very much alive—and very disgruntled—Morgan in his arms.
"You're late," Mahalia said dryly.
"Apologies, Your Highness. It took some time convincing Cham and Sike to let me bury the body."
"I understand," Mahalia replied, her tone thoughtful. She turned to Morgan, who stared around, dumbfounded.
"What's going on?"
"Hello, Morgan," Mahalia said calmly. "I'm sorry about what happened with Demise. I would have preferred we met under better circumstances. But for your safety, Awin has to believe you're dead."
"Demise?"
"That's what those three are called," Mahalia gestured dismissively toward Arrow. "I've been trying to contact you ever since L'Oracle de la Reina—our first meeting."
She paused. "I need your help, Morgan. But the role you'll play… it's no small thing."
Still bewildered, Morgan dropped into a chair. "So… you need my help?"
"That day, you said your mother worked at Zajey."
"Yes, she did—that's also where she met my father. He worked there too," Morgan chuckled bitterly. "I have a lot to atone for."
"Your father worked there? What did they do?"
"My mother was a low-level warden. She did some awful things. And my father… he was apprentice to the Master of the Alchemies."
"Tyvard? Your father worked directly under Tyvard?" Mahalia's posture sharpened.
Morgan looked away, ashamed. "Yes. And there's something else you need to know. The book you were looking for in Porto Jamon—the one banned by the Crown? My father wrote it."
"He wrote it under a pseudonym. For him, that was his way of atoning for what he did. When they found out he was the author… he was privately executed."
Mahalia's eyes narrowed. "If your father wrote the book, do you still have a copy?"
"I can get my hands on the manuscript. If I sneak into my family home."
"You're helping in ways greater than I imagined," Mahalia breathed.
Arrow, who had been dozing near the wall, suddenly stirred. "So you've no need for her?"
The question startled Morgan, and Mahalia shot Arrow a sharp look.
"If I may, Your Highness," Morgan said, "I can help you."
Mahalia chuckled softly. "Yes, I know. Why else do you think I went through such lengths to fake your death? I'm aware of your desire to atone for your parents' sins—and it serves my purposes too. So… how about a partnership?"
Morgan nodded, visibly moved.
"Now that Morgan Khantel is dead, we can't have you walking around as him. Morgan—or should I say Kafka—do you speak Jamonian?"
---
A Lounge in Hillian House
Golden rays snuck through the blinds into a warm, cozy room. Melinda shifted in bed, a dreamy smile on her face. Beside her, Awin stirred, eyes still closed but eyebrows slightly furrowed.
"Morning, Melinda," he said drowsily, rising from the bed.
He pulled on his clothes with a grim, cold expression. Melinda watched him, studying every movement with obsessive interest. For a moment, guilt bloomed in her chest—Ethera would never have approved of this. But she pushed the feeling aside. Awin, once unattainable, was hers now. At least, that's what her delusions told her.
"This is the last time we'll be seeing each other," Awin said abruptly.
She blinked in surprise, then gave a short, bitter laugh. "Really? Because of Mahalia?"
Awin froze for a second, then continued dressing. "What are you going to do about it?"
She shrugged. "It's not like I can do anything. I'm just wondering why you're so obsessed with her. Why must it be her? She doesn't love you, not like I—" She stopped herself.
"Not like you do?" Awin turned, mockery flickering in his eyes. "She's my wife for a reason."
Melinda tried to speak, but he cut her off.
"You know, my mother's lady-in-waiting used to say the same thing about cake," he said, stepping closer, brushing her hair with cold fingers. "She'd tell me cake took too long to make, too many ingredients. She told me to make do with bread. It was easier."
He leaned in slightly, no affection in his touch.
"I did make do. But no matter how often I ate bread, I'd always choose cake when I could."
He paused.
"Melinda, you are bread. And my wife… is cake."
The silence that followed was thick with humiliation. Melinda's jaw tightened as Awin walked out without another word—or glance.
"This is the last time we'll be seeing each other."
That's what he said. Mahalia chuckled to herself. Because Awin always ate bread.
---
Occident Coast
Syra stirred her tea, watching the creamy swirls like a hurricane in a cup. The sight calmed her.
From the balcony, she had a perfect view of the estate grounds. On the other side of the house, Adelaide was pacing and muttering to herself.
Syra sipped from her cup, amused. She didn't need to hear what Adelaide was saying—her sister's self-important rambling always followed the same script.
Colin, Adelaide's husband, crept behind her with the grace of a man too used to hiding things. His face was a portrait of raw malice. One sudden shove—violent and merciless—and Adelaide stumbled forward.
Back, knees, and face met the brutal geometry of the stairs.
With a sickening thud, she landed.
Syra didn't flinch.
She took another sip.
"I won't say I didn't see this coming," she said quietly, almost cheerfully.
Soon, a maid's scream echoed through the halls. Colin appeared with the rest of the household, putting on a spectacular show of panic. His anguished face was almost convincing.
Syra smiled.
She had no plans to tell anyone.
Not after all the years Adelaide spent cutting her down, piece by piece. No, she'd let the show go on. Let the audience cheer for the villain with the best costume.
---
Easteford – Hillian House of Recreation
Hillian House was the most illustrious and most visited establishment in Easteford—if not the entire continent. It catered exclusively to the needs of nobles, and one of its more discreet services was the secret room.
As the name suggested, the secret room was not common knowledge. Only a select few knew of its existence. It was a place for clandestine meetings—private, soundproof, and buried beneath layers of hush money and denial. It was so secure, in fact, that four separate treason attempts had been planned there. Not that anyone knew. After all… it was the secret room.
Tonight, its occupants were none other than Rivan Ceria and Jaslin Heris.
Jaslin examined the room, her eyes trailing over the cherubim art carved into the walls, the lush purple carpet, the faint lavender scent that lingered in the air. She watched as Rivan leaned casually against a wall, clearly testing its thickness with a satisfied smirk.
"How did you know about this place?" she asked, still taking it all in.
Rivan shrugged. "I didn't. Zachary told me about it."
Jaslin blinked, visibly taken aback. "And how did he find out? Please tell me he didn't get it from Awin—because if that's the case, he probably knows we're here."
"I doubt it. Zachary's not that careless."
Jaslin narrowed her eyes. "Alright. Then why are we here?"
Rivan's tone shifted. "Mahalia sent a signal this morning. It's time to begin the takedown."
Jaslin gasped. So it was really happening.
The takedown—a long-brewing plan to dismantle Awin's core faction in the court and replace them with loyalists to Mahalia.
Rivan continued, "Our intel shows that out of the twenty-four members of the king's court: five are loyal to Sir Milton—and thus Mahalia—seven are neutral, and twelve are Awin loyalists."
"And we're targeting his three main pillars," Jaslin said, voice lowering. "Who's first?"
"Mirabel Constance."
"The Chancellor of Social Affairs?" Jaslin blinked. "I didn't even know she supported Awin."
"That's because her smokescreen is impeccable. Publicly, she runs a welfare organization. But according to my sources, she's been trafficking for the slave market. A chunk of the profits ends up in Awin's personal account."
"That's… disgusting," Jaslin muttered, sipping her wine.
Rivan made a face.
"What was that about?" she asked.
"What do you mean?"
"You made a face. A weird one."
"Oh, I was just fearing for my life, seeing as you're drinking again."
Jaslin raised a brow. "What?"
"The last time you drank," Rivan said, hugging himself in mock horror, "my modesty—"
"It was one time!" she snapped, laughing. "Are you ever going to let that go?"
"Are you suggesting I should only bring it up after it happens a dozen times?"
Jaslin rolled her eyes. "You are going to be the death of me."
"I've been told worse," Rivan replied, smirking.
They left the room, still teasing each other, stepping into a quieter hallway of Hillian House.
"You say you're scared of me, but I'm terrified of your competitive streak," Jaslin said. "Remember the debutante ball? 'Just a kiss, right?'" she mocked in a deep voice, mimicking him before dissolving into laughter.
Rivan blushed—ears, neck, everything. But his smile faded as his eyes caught something that soured his mood.
Jaslin followed his gaze.
There, down the corridor, a disheveled Melinda was escorting a man through a back exit. The man—though disguised—moved like King Awin. And considering this section of Hillian House was used for illicit trysts… well, the implications weren't hard to piece together.
Melinda turned to head back to her room, only to find herself face-to-face with Rivan and Jaslin. All three of them froze, the tension thick enough to strangle.
"Melinda?" Rivan said softly, the vulnerability in his voice catching Jaslin off guard.
"Leave me alone," Melinda snapped, hurrying toward her room.
But Rivan stepped forward. "Why would you do this to yourself? You're better than this."
Jaslin turned to him, recalling the time he'd spoken of unrequited love. She realized then—Melinda had been the one. And this wasn't just about jealousy. It was about watching someone you once loved unravel into something unrecognizable.
Melinda groaned. "For heaven's sake, Rivan. I don't love you. I don't owe you anything."
"But you owe yourself at least some respect," he said, fists clenched.
"And who are you to say that? My lover?" Her voice was sharp, bitter. "It's bad enough she followed me here, but now you're judging me too?"
Jaslin stepped forward, eyes glinting. "Wow. She's really full of herself."
Melinda looked stunned.
"Rivan Ceria," Jaslin continued, "these are the women you fall for? Conceited manipulators? I swear, you can do better."
"Excuse me?" Melinda barked.
"You must be so deep in your own delusions to think he came here for you. News flash—he didn't. He just pities you. You're not some grand romance. You're just… tragic."
Melinda's jaw dropped.
"He talks about you the way people talk about bad dreams—confused, unsettled, trying to learn something from the mess. And you're over here thinking he still loves you?" Jaslin scoffed. "Pathetic."
"How dare you—!"
"Oh, forgive me," Jaslin said sweetly. "Should I show more respect to the king's mistress?"
She turned to Rivan, who was too stunned to speak.
"Let's go."
And with that, they left—Rivan in stunned silence, Jaslin with her pulse thudding loud in her ears.
---
An Alley in the Slums
A carriage rattled along the narrow, cobbled road. Inside, a noblewoman with thick brown hair glanced up from her newspaper and peered through the window.
"Stop!" she called out.
The coach halted sharply. She stepped down with elegant precision.
At the end of the alley, slouched beside a pile of refuse and scorched trash, was a shivering woman. She clutched a book in a foreign script, her lips pale and trembling.
"Girl, what are you doing here?" the noblewoman asked.
"I have nowhere to go," the girl muttered, barely audible.
"Tut tut tut. Poor thing," the woman murmured. "Madame Mirabel will take you in."
She crouched down slightly. "What's your name?"
The girl looked up, her lips curling into a knowing smile.
"Kafka, Madame. That's my name."
---
Meanwhile
Onboard the ship, the crew broke into a chant as they neared the Easteford harbor. After a week at sea, land was at last within reach.
"Finally… I'll see you".
Zachary stood at the rail, watching the coastline draw nearer, a strange calm in his chest.
He didn't know why—but somehow, it felt like coming home.
---
To Be Continued