The city of King's Landing never truly slept, but it certainly stirred differently after the night of the Anchor's theft. Rumors ran like wildfire through alleys and taverns—strange lights, men felled without wounds, and whispers of a shadow that moved against the crown itself.
Aurelian moved unseen among the rooftops, his cloak blending with the night. The Veil Anchor pulsed faintly at his side, a steady heartbeat of power. It had recognized the danger here, and he knew more Anchors would be drawn like moths to flame.
Elayne followed him silently from below, using the network of narrow streets and hidden alleys to stay in step. She had learned quickly: in Westeros, discretion could mean the difference between life and execution.
Far above the city, in the Red Keep, King Robert's successor paced within the solar of the Small Council. Lord Varys, ever silent until necessary, had delivered the reports of the missing Anchor. His whispers held tension like coiled steel.
"The prince from the shadows," Varys murmured, his eyes calculating. "He moves faster than our best men can follow. And he leaves no trace, save for terror."
"Then we send dragons," one councilor growled, though unease shadowed his words. "Or open the gates of war."
Varys's thin lips curved into something that was almost a smile. "Dragons, my lord… do not chase shadows lightly."
Meanwhile, Aurelian stood above Flea Bottom, feeling the pulse of the city, the ebb and flow of fear, greed, and power. Magic was faint here, twisted and buried beneath stone and steel, but the Veil Anchor acted like a beacon, calling him toward hidden truths.
"They're already hunting us," Elayne said softly from the shadows, her voice barely audible. "The gold cloaks are not going to forget what happened last night."
Aurelian nodded. "Nor will the crown. But they are blind to what they chase."
He turned his gaze eastward, toward the river and the open lands beyond. Something larger was moving in the world, beyond crowns and kingdoms—something that would not wait for permission.
The next day, Aurelian moved deeper into the city, using the Anchor's presence to sense danger and opportunity alike. He had learned that Westeros's streets were a web of whispers, and information could be manipulated as easily as steel.
At a market square, he felt it—a pull unlike any before. Not fear. Not magic restrained. But recognition. Another fragment of the Veil, older than even Nightbloom itself, hidden beneath the city in secret chambers untouched for centuries.
Elayne frowned. "That's not good. The crown will have eyes on it too."
"Yes," Aurelian agreed, eyes narrowing. "Which is why we need to move quickly."
They descended into the undercity, where tunnels ran beneath cobbled streets and forgotten aqueducts. The air was thick and stale, scented of damp stone and history. Here, the Veil pulsed with urgency.
Aurelian traced the signs, following the pull like a hunter. At the end of a narrow corridor, he found it: a carved stone pedestal embedded with the sigil of the Old Ones. A second Anchor, throbbing with restrained energy, waiting to be claimed.
As he approached, the air shifted. Steel kissed stone, and a voice came from the shadows.
"You should not be here," Ser Alric Vayne said, stepping forward, blade drawn but careful, respectful in posture. "I warned you last time. Now… this is no longer simple curiosity."
"I am not here to play your games," Aurelian replied. Shadows rippled at his sides, coiling like living things, ready to strike if needed. "I am here to secure what your king does not understand."
Vayne's gaze flicked to the Anchor, then back to Aurelian. For a moment, the two measured each other, predator and equal, shadow against steel.
"Then you leave me no choice," Vayne said quietly.
The tension broke not with blood, but with light. The Veil Anchor pulsed, erupting in emerald brilliance that filled the chamber. Shadows and stone seemed to shiver. Aurelian extended his hand, drawing the power of the relic into himself.
Vayne fell back, shielding his eyes, yet he did not attack. Respect, fear, and calculation held him in place.
When the glow faded, Aurelian held both Anchors now, their power humming beneath his fingers, merging with his own shadow. The undercity was quiet, but alive—threatened, yes, but unbroken.
Outside, the first birds of dawn began their cries. Above the Red Keep, candles flickered faintly, signaling unseen eyes watching the city's heart.
Aurelian stepped from the tunnel, Anchors secured, and looked toward the rising sun.
"Elayne," he said, voice low, "the game has begun in earnest. Westeros is awake. And it knows nothing of what waits in shadow."
Elayne's hand tightened on her sword. "Then we better make sure it doesn't find us first."
And far above, unseen in Nightbloom, Queen Maleficent felt a pulse of power. Her son had struck deeper than even she had anticipated.
The prince of shadows had entered the lion's den.
And the lion had yet to roar.