The next morning.
The sun had barely crested the horizon when the whispers began.
By midmorning, the whispers had become shouts.
From the highest spires of the royal palace to the narrowest alleys of the capital, news spread like wildfire that was carried on trembling tongues.
The king was dead.
Servants spoke first—eyes wild and voices trembling.
They had been the ones who'd awoken in the middle of the night, slumped in the hallways like discarded dolls, their dreams disturbed by Clara's lingering spell.
They woke not to silence but to a scream—high, raw, and broken.
It was Velric.
When they rushed toward the voice, they found him crumpled in the ruined resting chamber of the king, clutching Lorian's mangled corpse in his arms, sobbing uncontrollably, and crying of demons—screeching the word again and again until it branded itself into every ear.
