King's Landing had woken to a restless dawn. The streets were quieter than usual, as though the city itself sensed the unseen hand that had moved through its alleys the night before. Merchants whispered nervously in the marketplace; guards shifted uneasily at their posts. Even the birds seemed hesitant to take flight.
Aurelian stood on a narrow ledge overlooking the city from the tower where he had claimed the Veil Anchor. His eyes, green and gold, traced the rooftops and streets below. Every movement of the city was like a note in a song he alone could hear.
Elayne joined him silently, her gaze following his. "The crown won't take this lightly. Vayne will be relentless now."
"They underestimate what they cannot see," Aurelian replied. "They think in steel and orders, not in shadows and foresight."
Below, the Red Keep began to stir. Servants hurried about, candles were lit in the chambers of the Small Council, and the city's rulers prepared to respond. Somewhere deep within the Keep, Ser Alric Vayne conferred with the Hand of the King. His expression was unreadable, but the tension in his shoulders spoke volumes.
"They've struck at our very veins," Vayne said. "A prince of shadows, moving unseen. The Anchors are no longer dormant. If he gathers them all…"
The Hand's face paled. "Then we are powerless before him."
Vayne's jaw tightened. "We are not powerless. We respond. We hunt. We control the narrative."
Meanwhile, Aurelian descended from the tower, moving through the alleys with Elayne at his side. The city's pulse was chaotic now—fear, rumor, and superstition running like wildfire.
Their next target was a hidden archive beneath the old sept of Baelor, rumored to house records of every Anchor ever placed in Westeros. To the crown, it was merely ancient history. To Aurelian, it was the key to understanding how power had been hidden and controlled.
They reached the old sept as dusk began to fall, the shadows lengthening, wrapping around them like old friends. A faint shimmer in the air marked the wards protecting the chamber. Aurelian stepped forward, placing his hand on the stone door. The Anchors thrummed in response, harmonizing with the ancient magic.
Elayne watched him carefully. "If you misstep…"
"I will not," he said calmly. "The Anchors guide me."
The door slid open silently, revealing a chamber lined with scrolls and tomes. Dust hung in the air like a faint perfume of time. At the center of the room was a pedestal, inscribed with runes that pulsed faintly with restrained power. Another Veil Anchor rested upon it.
Aurelian approached, feeling the hum of energy. He extended his hand, and the Anchor responded immediately, a small pulse of green light connecting with the ones he already carried. The three were beginning to resonate as one.
But before he could secure it fully, a voice echoed from the shadows.
"You should not have come here," Ser Alric Vayne said, stepping into the chamber, sword in hand. Behind him, two gold cloaks flanked the doorway, wary but ready.
Aurelian turned slowly, letting the shadows coil around him. "And yet, here I am. The Anchors call me, not you."
Vayne's eyes flicked to the pulse of magic in the room. "You play with forces you do not understand. Do you know what these Anchors are truly capable of?"
"I know enough," Aurelian said. "And I know that if the crown touches them first, Westeros will bleed. I will not let that happen."
The shadows surged at his feet, stretching toward the cloaks. A green light flared as the Anchors resonated, casting the chamber in an unearthly glow. The gold cloaks stumbled back, their training useless against the force they could not see.
Vayne's gaze hardened. "So it comes to this."
Aurelian's eyes met his, steady and unwavering. "It comes to what must be done."
With a swift motion, he merged the Anchors' power, sealing the chamber and weaving protective wards that extended beyond the sept. Any attempt to interfere would be met with resistance far beyond mortal strength.
The gold cloaks fell silent, the shadows recoiling just enough to allow them to retreat.
Vayne stepped back, calculating, still unyielding. "This is not over, prince."
Aurelian's shadow shifted around him, stretching long and sharp. "No, Ser Vayne," he replied. "This is only the beginning."
Outside, the night of King's Landing deepened, but the city was different now. Unseen, unmeasured, it had been touched by power it could barely comprehend.
And far away, across the Sunset Sea, Queen Maleficent's dark wings spread. She felt the pulse of the Anchors, and the faint smile on her lips betrayed one simple truth: her son was moving exactly as she had foretold.
The game in Westeros had begun in earnest, and the shadows were no longer silent.