# Chapter 799: A Prince's Dilemma
The petrified log was a coffin, its hollowed interior smelling of damp decay and ancient resin. Nyra huddled inside, knees pulled to her chest, the rough wood scraping against her worn leathers. Every sound outside—the rustle of wind through skeletal branches, the distant hoot of a night predator—was a potential herald of her death. The cold that seeped into her bones was more than the chill of the ash-choked night; it was the frost of Kaelen's final, incandescent sacrifice, a memory burned so deeply into her psyche it felt like a physical part of her had been amputated. Grief was a luxury she could not afford. Fear was a liability. All that remained was a razor-sharp, crystalline purpose.
She had to warn Soren. But the King would be anticipating that. A direct approach was suicide. The capital would be on lockdown, every gate watched, every patrol on high alert. She couldn't get to him. She needed a lever, someone inside the machine who could pull the right strings. There was only one person who fit that description, one person whose shared history might outweigh the gilded cage of his title. Her fingers, numb and stiff, fumbled at her belt. They closed around a small, unadorned cylinder of dark metal, no larger than her thumb. It was a Sable League emergency transmitter, a one-shot device that bypassed all conventional channels, broadcasting on a quantum-entangled frequency that was theoretically untraceable. It was a gamble that could bring a rescue party or a death squad.
Activating it, a faint, blue light illuminated the cramped space, casting her face in stark, ghostly relief. The holographic interface shimmered to life, its glow a tiny beacon in the oppressive dark. Her thumbs moved with practiced speed, typing a short, frantic message, using a cipher she and Cassian had invented as children, a silly game of spies that now felt terrifyingly real. *The King wears Valerius's face. The grove was a trap. Kaelen is dead. They are all puppets. It's a lie. All of it. Trust no one.* She paused, her thumb hovering over the send icon. This was it. The point of no return. Hitting send would paint a target on her back not just for the Withering King, but for the entire Crownlands if her message was intercepted. She thought of Soren, moving through the city with Lyra, completely unaware of the catastrophe that had befallen his other half. She thought of Kaelen's body, left to rot in that blighted grove. She pressed the icon. The device pulsed once, a soft chime that was swallowed by the night, and then went dark, its internal matrix fried. Now, she could only wait and hope the Prince remembered the boy he once was, before the crown became a cage.
***
Hundreds of miles away, in the heart of the Crownlands' capital, Prince Cassian stood before a sprawling tactical map. The air in the command center was cool and sterile, a stark contrast to the chaos unfolding on the dozen screens that lined the circular room. The low hum of servers and the quiet, efficient clatter of analysts at their workstations created a symphony of controlled urgency. The map before him was a masterpiece of military intelligence, a three-dimensional projection of the city and its surroundings, dotted with glowing icons representing troop movements, patrol routes, and points of interest. At the moment, a pulsing red icon dominated the display, marking the Ancient Grove.
"Your Highness," a voice cut through the hum. General Marus, a man whose face was a roadmap of old campaigns and whose uniform was starched to the point of rigidity, gestured to a central screen. "We have the preliminary report from the Inquisitors on-site."
Cassian turned his gaze from the map to the screen. It showed a grainy, heat-sigil recording of a massive energy detonation. The scale of it was staggering. "What in the seven hells was that?"
"According to High Inquisitor Valerius's field report," Marus said, his tone flat and professional, "it was a terrorist attack. A coordinated strike by a Sable League cell led by the rogue operative, Nyra Sableki." He tapped a control, and the image shifted to a still of Nyra, pulled from an old Ladder promotional file. She looked fierce, defiant. "They were attempting to weaponize a pre-Bloom artifact. The Inquisitors intervened, but the terrorists triggered a self-destruct rather than be captured."
Cassian felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach. Nyra? A terrorist? It didn't fit. The woman he knew, the woman who had sparred with him in the Ladder, who had debated philosophy with him in quiet corners of the palace, was many things—cunning, ruthless when necessary, fiercely loyal—but she was no anarchist. "And the blast?"
"A Gifted operative, one Kaelen Vor," another advisor, a sycophant from the Ministry of Information named Vane, chimed in. "A known associate of Soren Vale. He sacrificed himself to destroy the evidence and allow Sableki to escape. A fanatical last stand."
The narrative was being woven with terrifying speed. It was clean, simple, and damning. Terrorists. Fanatics. A threat to the stability of the Crownlands, contained by the righteous and heroic Inquisitors. Cassian could already see the headlines being printed, the public addresses being drafted. He watched as footage rolled, showing Inquisitors in their polished silver armor securing the perimeter of the grove, their movements precise and theatrical for the cameras. They were already spinning this as a victory.
"What of Soren Vale?" Cassian asked, his voice carefully neutral.
"Unaccounted for," General Marus reported. "His diversionary group in the lower districts has gone dark. We believe he is attempting to rendezvous with Sableki. We have Wardens and Inquisitors combing the sectors he was last seen in. It's only a matter of time."
The knot in Cassian's stomach tightened. Soren, too. The two people in this world he considered friends, apart from his duty, were being painted as enemies of the state. He knew Soren. He was a man forged in hardship, driven by a desperate love for his family. He would never willingly be part of a plot that would endanger the Crownlands. This was wrong. All of it.
Just then, a soft, almost inaudible chime emanated from a small, discreet device on Cassian's personal console. It was a sound he hadn't heard in over a decade, a tone reserved for one specific, untraceable channel. His heart hammered against his ribs. He excused himself with a murmured word, stepping into the relative privacy of a small alcove shielded by a holographic display of troop deployments. He activated the receiver. The text scrolled across the screen, the familiar, childish cipher instantly translating in his mind.
*The King wears Valerius's face. The grove was a trap. Kaelen is dead. They are all puppets. It's a lie. All of it. Trust no one.*
Cassian read the message three times. Each word was a hammer blow, shattering the carefully constructed facade of the official report. *The King wears Valerius's face.* Not a metaphor. A literal statement. The Withering King, the entity they all feared as a distant threat, was here. It was wearing the High Inquisitor. The grove wasn't a terrorist attack; it was an ambush. Kaelen wasn't a fanatic; he was a casualty. And they were all puppets. He looked back out at the command center, at General Marus, at Vane, at the analysts diligently tracking the "terrorists." Were they puppets, too? Or just fools dancing on a string they couldn't see?
"Your Highness?" General Marus's voice pulled him back. "We are recommending an immediate city-wide lockdown and the issuance of a Level One Warrant for the capture of Nyra Sableki and all known associates. We must make an example. We cannot allow this Sable League aggression to go unpunished."
Vane was already nodding enthusiastically. "The public will demand a strong response. The narrative of the Inquisitors as our saviors is resonating strongly. A swift, decisive action against the remaining conspirators will solidify that perception and reinforce the Crown's authority."
They were closing the net. They were building a cage of lies and steel around his friends, and they were using his own authority, his own name, to do it. He was the Prince. His word could make this happen, or it could stop it. But to stop it, he would have to challenge the Synod, challenge the official narrative, challenge the word of High Inquisitor Valerius himself, based on a cryptic message from a woman now branded a terrorist. The political fallout would be immense. He would be seen as weak, as compromised, as a traitor to his own people.
He stepped back into the center of the room, his face a mask of cold composure. "Proceed," he heard himself say, the voice sounding distant and foreign. "Issue the warrant. I want them found."
The words tasted like ash in his mouth, but he had to play along. To act now would be to sign his own death warrant and achieve nothing. He needed more information. He needed to understand how deep the rot went.
As if on cue, an aide approached, carrying a sealed document on a silver tray. The wax seal was not that of the Crownlands, but of the Concord Council itself—a tripartite seal of the Crown, the League, and the Synod. It was rare, it was absolute, and it superseded even his own authority as Prince.
"Your Highness," the aide said, his voice low. "This just came through via priority courier. It is a Concord Warrant."
Cassian took the document, his fingers feeling the unfamiliar, chilling weight of it. He broke the seal and unfolded the thick, vellum paper. The text was stark and formal, written in the precise, impersonal script of the Concord bureaucracy. It named Nyra Sableki as the primary perpetrator of an act of war against the Concord. It named Soren Vale, Lyra, and even the late Kaelen Vor as co-conspirators. And at the bottom, below the signatures of the council representatives, was the final, damning clause.
*By the authority vested in this council by the Concord of Cinders, the individuals named herein are declared enemies of the state. All Crownlands assets are hereby authorized and commanded to engage and terminate on sight. No quarter is to be given. No trial is to be afforded. This warrant is effective immediately.*
He looked up from the paper, his eyes scanning the room. General Marus was watching him with an expectant, hawk-like gaze. Vane was practically vibrating with self-satisfied importance. The analysts were oblivious, focused on their screens. He was holding a death sentence in his hand. A kill-on-sight order, sanctioned by the highest power in the known world, for his friends. The message from Nyra echoed in his mind. *Trust no one.* He looked at the warrant, then at the faces of the men waiting for his command. The cage was not just being built around Nyra and Soren. It was snapping shut around him, too. He had to choose. Duty, or friendship. The crown, or the man he used to be. The weight of the vellum in his hand felt heavier than the crown he was destined to wear.