Night fell over Gondar like a silk veil soaked in blood. The great city, so vibrant by day, now whispered in secrets. Beneath its golden domes and ancient towers, darkness moved with purpose.
In the wine-scented halls of a noble estate on the city's edge, cloaked men and veiled women gathered. No guards announced this meeting. No royal decree sanctioned it. This was a council of shadows—the traitors.
At its center stood the Emperor's brother, his expression hard, jaw tight with mounting frustration.
"The Emperor has allied with the south," he snapped, slamming his goblet down. "He's shifting the tide. The army is mobilized. The people believe in him again."
A noblewoman in crimson leaned forward, her eyes sharp. "And whose fault is that? You promised he would falter. You said his rule was too fragile to survive this war."
"He was fragile!" the brother barked. "Until he found that phantom prince! Now he struts around like some divine warrior."
