Night had deepened over the palace of Ivanova, wrapping its towering spires and marble corridors in a quiet, watchful silence.
The torches lining the walls burned low, their flames wavering as though stirred by unseen breath.
Shadows stretched long and thin across the stone floors, and the air carried the faint scent of incense and ancient wood.
King Ivan walked alone.
His steps were measured, deliberate, yet there was a weight in them that had not been there before.
The dream Ariana had described lingered in his mind, vivid and unsettling—the flames, the presence, the undeniable sense that something had awakened.
He reached the great doors of the chapel.
Two guards bowed silently and pulled them open.
The heavy wood creaked softly, revealing the dim interior beyond.
Candlelight flickered against stained glass windows, painting the floor in hues of crimson and gold.
