The winter wind clawed at the palace walls, rattling shutters and moaning through narrow corridors. Even inside, the air was sharp enough to sting the skin. Frost crept over the edges of the high windows, turning the glass into pale, jagged lace. Lanterns along the hallway burned low, their flames shivering in the draft, as though the palace itself was holding its breath.
Arinya's footsteps echoed softly on the polished stone floor, the hem of her deep crimson robe whispering with each step. She moved quickly, her hands tucked into her sleeves for warmth, though the cold wasn't the only reason her pulse quickened.
She had been summoned.
The message had come from a servant she didn't recognize—thin, nervous, eyes darting like a cornered animal. He had bowed, handed her the folded note, and vanished down a side passage before she could ask a single question.
And now, she was walking toward the eastern wing—an old part of the palace rarely used, save for storing dusty archives and relics of previous dynasties.
The corridors here were different. The air smelled faintly of cedarwood and timeworn parchment. Shadows seemed to pool deeper in the corners, and the silence pressed in heavier than the rest of the palace. The torches on the walls burned with a faint hiss, casting shapes that wavered across the faded murals.
At the end of the hallway stood a set of double doors carved with curling motifs of clouds and dragons, their eyes inlaid with black obsidian.
A single figure waited there.
It was Chancellor Vorin.
Arinya slowed. She hadn't spoken to Vorin since the last court assembly—a heated debate over the Emperor's new decrees that had left several officials red-faced and muttering after they'd left the hall. The Chancellor had been unusually quiet that day, his sharp tongue restrained, his gaze assessing.
Now, as he turned toward her, she felt that same assessing gaze again—measuring her, weighing her.
"Lady Arinya," he said, his voice a smooth low note in the cold air. "You came."
"Your note was… unexpected." Her own voice was careful, steady. "What is so urgent that it couldn't wait until the council meeting?"
He studied her for a long moment before opening the carved doors.
Inside was a narrow chamber lit by a single brazier in the center, its flames licking lazily at the air. The warmth was immediate, but so was the unease. On the far wall, shelves were stacked with rolled scrolls, lacquered boxes, and sealed jars of ancient ink.
Vorin gestured for her to enter.
She did—though her instincts warned her to keep her back to no one.
As the doors shut behind them, the Chancellor didn't sit. Instead, he walked toward one of the shelves and slid a small wooden box from its place. He set it on the low table between them, then carefully opened the lid.
Inside lay a folded piece of yellowed paper.
"This," he said quietly, "was found in the archives two nights ago."
Arinya leaned forward. The paper was brittle, the edges crumbling slightly where the ink had eaten into it. The handwriting was elegant but hurried, the brushstrokes uneven, as though written in haste.
She read the first line—and her stomach tightened.
The Emperor is not who we believe.
Her eyes flicked up to Vorin, but his expression was unreadable.
She read further. The letter spoke of concealed origins, of a hidden pact sealed before the coronation, and of a "shadow council" pulling the strings of the throne. The writer claimed to have witnessed something in the imperial chambers—something that would "unravel the false crown."
But the letter ended abruptly. No signature. No date.
Arinya set it down slowly. "This could be a forgery."
"It could," Vorin agreed, "but it was stored among records from the previous reign—untouched for decades. I doubt anyone has had access to it until now."
Her mind raced. The implications were dangerous—not just for the Emperor, but for anyone who dared to speak of such things.
"Why show me?" she asked at last. "Why not bring it to the council?"
Vorin's lips curved—not in amusement, but something darker. "Because the council is no longer safe."
The brazier popped, sending a thin thread of sparks upward.
She searched his face for a lie. "You think there are traitors among them."
"I know there are." His tone left no room for doubt.
For a heartbeat, neither of them spoke. Arinya could hear the distant howl of wind against the stone.
Then Vorin leaned closer, his voice dropping even lower. "I also know you've been watching the court more carefully than you let on. You've noticed the missing records, the quiet disappearances. And… the change in His Majesty's behavior."
A chill swept over her that had nothing to do with the winter air.
"Yes," she said, her throat tight. "But observation is one thing. Accusation is another. If you're wrong—"
"I'm not."
His certainty was unnerving.
Vorin closed the box and slid it toward her. "Keep it. Hide it. And trust no one—not the courtiers, not the guards… not even the royal scribes. If they learn you have it, you won't live long enough to regret it."
She hesitated. Taking this meant stepping into a game where every move was a potential death sentence.
But the truth—if it was truth—was too dangerous to ignore.
She slipped the box into her sleeve.
Vorin straightened, pulling his cloak tighter around his shoulders. "When the time comes, I will call on you. Until then, act as though nothing has changed."
And with that, he left the chamber, his footsteps fading into the cold hall beyond.
Arinya stood alone, the weight of the wooden box pressing against her arm like a brand.
Outside, the wind screamed through the palace eaves.
Somewhere deep inside, she knew the whispering storm had already begun.