Prince Rowan arrived without warning.
Trumpets sounded at dawn. Banners unfurled from the palace walls. Crowds gathered despite the cold.
The king's youngest son had returned.
Rowan rode through the gates on a white horse.
Golden hair.
Silver armor.
A smile made for crowds.
He waved like a hero.
Aren watched from the shadows.
He saw the tension beneath the charm.
The sharp eyes.
The careful movements.
This was no careless prince.
That evening, Rowan hosted a feast.
Music filled the great hall.
Wine flowed.
Nobles laughed too loudly.
Aren stood behind a pillar, listening.
Observing.
Learning.
"Valewood," a voice said.
Aren turned.
Rowan stood before him.
Up close, his smile faded.
"I've heard of you," the prince said. "My father's shadow."
Aren bowed. "I serve the crown."
"Do you?" Rowan asked softly.
He leaned closer.
"Or whoever wears it next?"
Aren met his gaze.
"Whoever protects the realm."
Rowan laughed.
"Careful answer."
They walked along the balcony.
Below, the city slept.
"I need men like you," Rowan said. "Men without old loyalties."
Aren felt the trap.
"And what do you offer?" he asked.
"Power," Rowan replied. "When I am king."
"When," Aren repeated.
Rowan's eyes hardened.
"My brothers are weak," he said. "My father is dying."
Truth.
Cruel and simple.
Days later, rumors spread.
One prince bribed generals.
Another courted priests.
Another armed mercenaries.
The royal family fractured.
Lysa warned him.
"Stay neutral."
"There is no neutral," Aren answered.
"Only survivors."
One night, a sealed note arrived.
No sigil.
No name.
Meet me at the western tower. Midnight.
Aren stared at it.
He knew.
Whatever waited there…
Would decide his future.