The moon hung like a silver sickle over the Imperial Capital, casting long, distorted shadows across the North Wing. Inside the dusty archives, the air was thick with the scent of old leather and the metallic tang of blood. Vaelin was having a coughing fit, his frail frame shuddering against the back of his chair.
Livius didn't move to help him. It wasn't out of cruelty, but out of respect. Vaelin was a man of immense pride, a keeper of history who refused to become a footnote before his time. Instead, Livius quietly poured a cup of herbal tea, infused with a drop of his own mana—a golden shimmer that acted as a temporary stabilizer for the old man's failing lungs.
"Drink," Livius commanded softly.
Vaelin took the cup with trembling hands, the warmth color returning slightly to his gray cheeks. "You're wasting your strength on a dying man, Livius. That mana... it's the blood of a god. You should be hoarding it for the storm that's coming."
"A king who cannot protect his only friend is no king at all," Livius replied, his voice devoid of emotion, yet the words carried a weight that made Vaelin's eyes mist over. "Besides, the 'storm' you speak of is already here. My brothers are no longer content with glares and insults. Alaric has started hiring mages from the Black Continent, and Kaelen... Kaelen is hunting."
Vaelin set the cup down, his gaze drifting to the hidden compartment in his desk where the portrait of Livius lay. "They are looking for the 'True Heir,' Livius. The rumors of a child with the Dragon God's perfect traits have begun to leak from the inner palace. They think it's a myth, a ghost story meant to keep them in line. But they are terrified."
"Let them be terrified," Livius said, his golden eyes flashing in the candlelight. "Fear makes people predictable. Predictable people are easy to manipulate. While they search the high towers and the noble villas for a rival, I will be the shadow under their feet."
Vaelin reached out, his bony fingers brushing the boy's sleeve. "Promise me one thing. When you finally step into the light... do not let the throne turn you into them. Do not let the gold blind you."
Livius looked at the old man, his expression unreadable. "I don't want the throne, Vaelin. I want the peace that comes when the rot is burned away. If sitting on that chair is the only way to hold the torch, then I will sit. But I will never be one of them."