King's Landing never forgave intrusion lightly, and Aurelian could feel the city closing around him like a coiled serpent. The streets teemed with life, yet beneath the noise lay tension sharp enough to cut stone. Every glance, every whispered word, was a potential threat—or a clue.
Elayne moved beside him, her instincts attuned to the pulse of mortal danger. "We can't linger," she said. "The gold cloaks are organized now. They'll have patrols in the tunnels, the streets, everywhere."
Aurelian's eyes swept the horizon, catching the rising smoke from the Red Keep. Not fire, not yet, but something slower—calculated. The crown had begun its response, subtle but precise. He felt the tug of the Anchors in his possession, each one vibrating faintly, warning him that the city's balance was shifting.
"They think they can control magic with fear," he murmured. "They are mistaken."
A narrow alleyway provided the quickest path to their next target: an old merchant's archive rumored to hold scrolls detailing the hidden history of Westeros—ancient magics, forgotten relics, and secrets that had been buried under kings' laws and maesters' ink.
They arrived to find the doors barred, iron chains reinforced with crude wards meant to repel more than thieves. Aurelian knelt, tracing his fingers across the surface. His shadow deepened, stretching along the stone. With a whisper of power, the chains melted like wax under flame, leaving the entrance unbroken, unblemished.
Elayne's eyes widened. "You make it look easy."
"Because it must be," Aurelian said. "Subtlety is our shield here, not brute force."
Inside, the archive smelled of dust, ink, and age. Scrolls stacked on shelves, many brittle, others preserved with minor enchantments. His fingers hovered over the edges, feeling for wards, traps, and the faint hum of relics nearby.
A single scroll called to him. The ink shimmered faintly in candlelight, not ordinary ink but runes of preservation—magic older than the Andals or the Targaryens.
"This," he said, reverently, "is the story the crown hopes no one remembers."
As he unrolled the scroll, the room shivered. A shadow detached itself from the corner, moving with unnerving grace. A figure stepped into the dim candlelight—a woman dressed in flowing black, her eyes a storm of green and silver.
"You shouldn't be here," she said, voice like wind through trees. "Magic of this age does not forgive trespass lightly."
Aurelian met her gaze evenly. "Neither do I."
She tilted her head, studying him carefully. "A prince of Nightbloom… I wondered if you truly existed outside myth."
Elayne stepped forward, hand on her sword. "And who might you be?"
"I am Lysara," the woman replied. "A protector of what men would call forgotten. But it is more than that. I guard knowledge… and balance."
The Veil Anchors pulsed again, stronger now, as if responding to Lysara's presence. Aurelian felt the air thicken with unspoken recognition—these Anchors were not merely objects. They were sentinels, and she was one of their chosen guardians.
"You have disturbed the first of many veils," Lysara continued. "The crown and others will come, drawn by the Anchors. They will not stop until either you are destroyed… or the city burns."
Aurelian rolled the scroll carefully. "Then I will not fail. Not here, not now."
Lysara's lips curved faintly, almost approving. "Ambition suits you, prince. But ambition alone will not protect you."
Before anyone could speak further, a scream rose from the street above—a signal. Footsteps pounded on the stairs, frantic and numerous.
Elayne drew her sword. "They've found us."
Aurelian's shadow stretched, swirling across the walls and floor, coiling like living armor. "Then we remind them why the shadows are not to be trifled with."
Outside the archive, the streets were alive with the gold cloaks, torches casting long, dancing shadows. Their captain barked orders, unaware that the hunter they sought was already standing among them, unseen, prepared, and waiting.
And deep within the scroll-laden room, the green-and-gold eyes of the prince of Nightbloom burned with intent: he would not merely survive Westeros. He would make it remember.
The city had been warned.
The hunt had begun.
And the shadows were closing in.