Rowan could feel it everywhere.
Even behind closed doors, even among his supposed allies.
Whispers. Hints. Glances that spoke of allegiance elsewhere.
The palace, once a symbol of his power, now felt like a cage.
Every corridor echoed with imagined footsteps.
Every servant seemed to hesitate before entering a room.
Edric had returned quietly.
"Your control is gone," he said softly.
"You cannot command fear that Aren wields. And loyalty? It is a fragile thing now."
Rowan clenched his fists.
"I am still prince!" he shouted.
"Only in name," Edric replied.
Outside the palace, the streets were quiet, but not peaceful.
Merchants and citizens moved cautiously.
Soldiers obeyed—but only half-heartedly.
Even Draven sympathizers hesitated to act.
Aren's spies, hidden in plain sight, fed him constant updates.
Rowan's movements. His plans. His council's discussions.
Every word, every glance, every hesitation recorded and analyzed.
Late at night, Rowan paced his private chambers.
"I will strike back," he whispered.
"But how, when fear follows every step I take?"
A shadow moved silently along the wall behind him.
Not a person. Not a threat visible.
A reminder: Aren's reach was everywhere.
The prince realized the truth.
Greyhaven was no longer a city he ruled.
It was a city under Aren's invisible hand.
And the whispers would continue until Rowan either surrendered completely—or perished in the attempt to reclaim control.