Dawn crept in slowly.
Not with warmth, but with a grey, indifferent light that spilled across the floor through the tall, arched windows.
But Lord Typhon had not moved.
He still sat on the edge of the bed, hunched, hollow, silent.
His hands rested in his lap now, fingers limp and red from the long night. Strands of dark hair clung between them, torn free in his frenzy. His scalp stung beneath the mess of tangled locks, but he welcomed the pain.
Anything to feel something other than the grief.
The fire had long died. His breath misted faintly in the morning chill, but still he did not stir.
The world outside had awoken.
Birds chirped. Hooves echoed faintly in the courtyard. Servants whispered past his door.
But inside this chamber, time stood still.
His eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with exhaustion, yet wide open, staring blankly at the floor as though it might speak to him.
Every time he blinked, he saw his father kneeling.
Every time he breathed, he heard the chains.
He had pulled his hair all night.
Trying to pull the pain out.
Trying to forget that helpless little boy who had done nothing.
But morning had come, and the pain remained.
So he sat, eyes burning, jaw locked tight, wrapped in a grief that refused to loosen.
The door creaked open with a gentleness only Eugene ever managed.
He stepped inside quietly, a silver tray in hand, a steaming cup of blood tea resting upon it, the one blend Typhon could stomach on mornings like this.
The room was dim, heavy with the weight of unspoken grief. The fire was out. The air still.
Eugene's eyes softened at the sight of his Lord, disheveled, sleepless, a few torn strands of hair stuck to his cheek.
He said nothing at first.
He approached slowly, setting the tray on the small table near the window, the porcelain clinking softly.
"My Lord," Eugene said, voice gentle, "the sun has risen."
Typhon didn't move.
Eugene stepped closer.
"The servants are asking after you. They do not wish to intrude, but... they need to see you, even for a moment. Just to know their Lord still stands."
Silence.
Then a slow blink from Typhon, dry, tired.
Eugene knelt beside him, eyes calm, voice steady.
"You do not have to speak. You do not have to smile. But you must rise, even if just to remind them that The Lord's spine has not broken."
He reached for the tea, lifted the cup carefully, and held it out to Typhon.
"My Lord, Drink. Let this be your first breath of the day."
Typhon's gaze dropped to the cup. His fingers twitched.
A long pause.
Then, slowly, painfully, he reached out and took it.
He did not drink. But he held it.
And for now, that was enough.
***
The golden sun streamed through the high glass windows of Shem court, casting light on polished floors and robed officials seated in a crescent around their king.
King Ahab stood, tall and commanding, his deep voice echoing across the chamber.
"Hivities has honored our Contributions. we shall send more, but they'll pay thrice the worth. Desperation makes men generous, and I see no reason why Shem should bleed without profit."
There was a murmur of approval, and Advisor Uru quickly scribbled notes, nodding with pride.
Then—
A sudden chill
The flames in the wall sconces flickered violently, though no wind has passed.
A figure, cloaked in dark obsidian, appeared in the grand entrance, his boots echoing loudly as he stepped into the court uninvited.
The court fell still. So still it felt unnatural.
King Ahab's face darkened.
"You filthy mage," he bellowed, slamming his staff to the ground.
"What are you doing on my land?"
The cloaked figure did not flinch.
"How dare you sneak into my court like a rat in daylight?"
The guards surged forward, spears raised, but with a single casual flick of his fingers, the mage sent them crashing back, bodies flung as if weightless, weapons clattering against the marble.
Gasps rang out. One of the nobles screamed.
Advisor Uru rushed to stand before the king , arms wide as if to shield him.
"My liege, let me—"
The mage ignored him, and with a second flick, Uru was thrown to his knees, the wind knocked from him.
The mage finally stepped closer, raising a dark velvet box, its silver seal glinting in the light.
He dropped it at the king's feet like a curse.
"A gift," he said coldly. "From Queen Dalia. For your... consideration."
The box pulsed faintly, something unnatural locked inside.
King Ahab didn't stoop to touch it.
His voice was ice. "If this is a threat—"
"It's a promise," the mage cut in.
"Laced in silk. Open it. Or don't. Either way, the boy will still be cold by nightfall."
With that, the mage turned, walking through the chaos, untouched, as if he had never been there.
The court stood frozen.
And at the king's feet... the box waited.