May 17.

“Your Majesty! Your Majesty! The Second Princess! The Second Princess has cut into the city with Captain Haidra!” A cluster of nobles crashed into the gilded royal hall like startled birds, and under the throne a minister jolted—his quill slipped like a falling feather.

A tide of gasps rose in unison, fear spread like frost at dawn—everyone felt the end was near.

“Be clear! Into the city or cut into the city?” Paris slapped the arm of the throne and stood, his voice ringing like metal.

The noble blinked, thoughts skittering, then corrected himself. “They entered the city... but the Second Princess looks furious. She’s heading straight for the royal castle. I fear for Your Majesty...” He didn’t finish, but the hall knew his meaning like shadow knows a blade. Paris’s little schemes fooled no one. Who sat the throne mattered less to them than their own power—under Paris, their hands reached further. Why risk their necks for sentiment?

“Velledo. Recall every elite in the Royal Capital. Move.” The rare strain in Paris’s voice carried like a winter wind. Velledo didn’t dare stall; she ran downstairs, footsteps beating like drums.

Beside the throne, Hippo stood with his spear, a black tower in armor. Under the helm, his crimson eyes tightened, like a hawk’s before the strike.

Whoosh, whinny—

Thoom—

No need for words. The war god had arrived.

“Who goes there?!” A palace guard captain, newly promoted, barred Talant at the gate like a gatepost against a storm.

Talant trembled with rage first, then action—her pink fists clenched till the knuckles cracked. “Bastard... so even the guard captain is one of his men now?”

The streets still wore familiar stones, but faces had turned strange—seven in ten were masks she’d never seen. Above the palace, the repairs showed like scars on old bark; a breeze shifted, and Talant caught the iron tang of blood.

“You don’t recognize this princess?! I’m Talant! Royal blood! You blind fool!” Her shout carried all her grievance, bitter as ash. The captain’s eyes went cold, ready to snap, when Kailon came forward in a red robe like a spill of wine.

He traded a few quiet words, then produced a sealed letter like a talisman. The captain read, bowed low, and hurried to pull the gate wide as a canyon.

“Welcome back, Prince Talant,” Kailon said, a smile painted on like lacquer. “Why so sudden? You should’ve sent word. His Majesty would have rung the welcome bells to honor your northern march.”

Haidra’s face dimmed, the disbelief stark as winter branches. “Kailon... you too...”

“Captain Haidra, in formal settings, please call me Marquis Kailon.” His tone was cool, like water over stone.

Talant’s mouth curled, her face a frost mirror. “Fine. Looks like His Majesty paid you well. What great deeds lifted you from envoy to marquis?”

Kailon offered no answer, only a gesture like a silk curtain parted.

“Hmph.” Talant’s armor glinted like stormcloud steel, and at her waist the gold-hilted sword flashed like a sun shard. She sniffed coldly and shouldered past Kailon toward the high halls.

Haidra shook his head, pain first, then duty—he gathered a handful of elite confidants and followed Talant into a palace made strange.

Kailon watched them go, eyelids drooping like dusk. Melancholy pooled on his face, thin as smoke.

Crack—

Talant stepped into the royal hall. Hippo, once a black tower barred from entry, had been “pardoned” and now strode within the great hall. He bore the realm’s highest honor, the title of Royal Paladin.

Paris had proclaimed to the realm: Captain Hibo was cleared of old charges, his strength must serve the king. With the “slaying of the rebel chief” as his laurel, he was raised to an exclusive knight.

On the throne, Paris propped his head with his left hand. His crown burned bright as a noon sun. He smiled, eyes fixed on Talant’s beauty like a jeweler on a rare gem. “Little sister Talant, long time no see.”