Meanwhile, deep within one of the sun-drenched chambers of the royal palace in Savadra, Consort Amielle sat across from her husband, her eyes shadowed with disbelief. The soft flutter of silk curtains did nothing to ease the heavy tension between them.
"Did you know that Father signed a pact with your brother Alaric?" she said, her voice trembling with barely restrained anger. "He sold Northem to his firstborn and called him Emperor."
Her tone hardened. How could King Heimdal do such a thing?
Across from her, Prince Reuben sat motionless, his face an unreadable mask. Whatever flicker of ambition had once burned in his eyes was extinguished along with the loss of his legs.
"Alaric is still Father's firstborn," he said flatly. "He merely returned the throne to its rightful heir."
Amielle let out a weary sigh. The man before her was not the same proud prince she had once married. The fire that once drove him to defy the odds, to dream of kingship, had dimmed into quiet resignation.
