The heavy oak doors of the Great Hall slammed shut, the sound echoing like a thunderclap. King Aetheron stood at the center, his face a mask of cold fury. Beside him, Lord Kaelor and Lady Seraphine looked on with pale faces and trembling hands.
"Where were you?" Aetheron's voice was low, vibrating with a dangerous edge.
Vaelora stepped forward, her head held high despite the tension. She knew the truth was their only shield. She told him everything—the midnight ride, the speed of the Luminars, and the black, lifeless castle they had seen in the North.
"Zhalver," Aetheron whispered, the name sounding like a curse on his lips. He turned his gaze toward Azeal, his eyes burning. "You took her to the doorstep of our greatest enemy? Do you have any idea what you've done? One scout, Azeal! One shadow-wraith could have ended both of your lives before you even realized you were being hunted!"
Azeal opened his mouth to defend himself, but the words died in his throat. He had never seen his father this terrified.
"They didn't know, Aetheron," Kaelor intervened, stepping between the King and the Prince. His voice was calm, a steady hand in the storm. "To them, Zhalver is a ghost story. How can we blame them for wandering into the dark when we've spent ten years telling them the sun would never set?"
Aetheron's shoulders slumped, the fire in his eyes fading into a weary sadness. He looked at Vaelora. "Go to your chambers, Vaelora. Now."
She hesitated, looking at Azeal, but a sharp nod from Lord Kaelor forced her to move. Once she was gone, Aetheron turned back to Azeal. "Come with me. We need to speak. Alone."
He led Azeal into a private study, a room filled with ancient maps and scrolls that smelled of dust and time. There were no guards here, only the two of them. Aetheron sat down, looking older than Azeal had ever noticed.
"You saw the Black Citadel tonight," Aetheron began, his voice devoid of anger now. "You saw the place where hope goes to die. Draeven Zareth is not just a rival King, Azeal. He is a man who traded his soul for the power to destroy everything we love."
For the next hour, Aetheron spoke of the war, the Zarethian Trial, and the blood that had been spilled to keep Solthera golden. He didn't speak as a King to a subject, but as a father warning his son about the monster under the bed. Azeal listened in silence, the weight of his heritage finally settling on his shoulders. He realized then that his midnight ride wasn't a game; it was a walk through a graveyard.