Aetheron stepped out onto the high balcony, the cold wind whipping his cloak. In his arms, he held the boy—Azeal.
Below him, thousands of people waited in the dark. Aetheron lifted the child high. "People of Solthera! The gods have taken our Queen, but they have given us a new star! I present to you, Prince Azeal Vaeltheron! The heir to the Seven Kingdoms!"
The city exploded. Thousands of torches were lit at once, turning the night into a sea of gold. The people didn't see a Drayen boy; they saw hope. They didn't know the shield they were celebrating was forged from the greatest lie in history.
But as the cheers echoed, a black raven took flight from the lower districts, heading North.
In the obsidian spire of Zhalver, Draeven Zareth felt the ripple in the magic. He had expected a weak point, a daughter he could exploit. The news of a Prince tasted like poison on his tongue.
"Azeal Vaeltheron," Draeven growled to his shadowed advisors. "They think a child can stop what is coming. They celebrate a birth, but they have only signaled the start of a longer funeral. If Solthera has a Prince, then Zhalver has a target."
The war for the Seven Kingdoms had not ended. It had only just found its new center.