[ELYRIAN ROYAL PALACE – GRAND BANQUET HALL – NIGHT]
Crystal chandeliers pour light over velvet tables heavy with roasted meat, spiced wine, and golden fruits from the south. Laughter fills the hall rich nobles in silk and jewels clinking glasses, toasting victories that haven't happened yet. At the high table sits King Darius of Elyria: tall, silver-haired, blue eyes like the sea. His brother Kael's empty chair beside him is the only quiet thing in the room.
A side door opens. A pale messenger in black livery slips through the crowd, leans to the king's ear.
MESSENGER
(whisper)
Sire… the eastern front. Prince Kael is dead. The entire fourth legion forty thousand men were frozen solid by a mage. Not a survivor.
Darius's goblet pauses mid-air. His face doesn't change, but the knuckles whiten.
DARIUS
(soft)
I see.
He stands. The hall quiets instantly.
DARIUS
The banquet is over. Everyone out. Now.
Murmurs ripple, but no one argues. Servants usher nobles toward the doors. Within minutes the hall is empty except for the long table, flickering candles, and the king.
Darius climbs the curved stair to his private solar. A young maid dark hair pinned tight, uniform crisp waits at the door.
MAID
My lord? Is everything all right?
DARIUS
Bring me my generals.
She bows and vanishes.
Minutes later, five generals file in armored, grim, already sensing the storm. They line up before the king's chair.
Darius doesn't sit.
DARIUS
My brother Kael is dead. Killed by an unknown mage. Forty thousand soldiers frozen to death where they stood. Bodies shattered like glass. Who gave the order to attack the eastern border again?
Silence. Sweat beads on brows.
GENERAL 1
(trembling)
My lord… attacking Velhem's border was a sound plan. Weaken their lines, draw out their strength. Who could have predicted a mage powerful enough to slaughter an entire legion including Prince Kael? Perhaps… perhaps it was one of their people.
He lifts a shaky finger, pointing across the room.
At the far end stands a thin man in plain robes unassuming, middle-aged, eyes downcast. One of the teachers from the old world. The one who stood beside Monaki and the Principal when the school was ripped through the rift.
Darius turns slowly to the maid still standing in the shadows.
DARIUS
Kill him.
The general's face drains of color.
General
Please, Your Highness forgive me! I swear I had no idea this could happen…
The maid moves without hesitation. Her hand slips under her skirt, draws a slim dagger sheathed against her thigh. One fluid step. The blade flashes slits his throat clean, then plunges into the soft belly. Blood sprays in a hot arc. The general gurgles, collapses.
The other generals don't flinch. They've seen worse. Seen it often.
The maid gives a small nod. Two more maids appear from a side door silent, efficient. They drag the body away, mop the tiles, vanish again. The blood is gone in seconds.
Darius turns to the teacher.
DARIUS
Do you know who did this?
TEACHER
(voice steady, but eyes flickering)
No, sire. But I will find out.
DARIUS
You have a week.
He waves a hand. The generals bow and file out.
The rift-teacher is last to leave.
[ALLEY BEHIND THE PALACE – LATE NIGHT]
He walks alone through the twisting backstreets, hood up, breath fogging in the cold. The city hums beyond the walls, oblivious.
He stops at the base of a crumbling old tower half forgotten, leaning like a drunk. He climbs the spiral stair, boots scraping moss slick stone. Halfway up, his hand catches on a jagged metal spike protruding from the wall. It tears a fingernail. Blood wells.
He pauses, stares at the red bead, then brings the finger to his mouth. Chews the torn nail free. Spits it out into the dark.
At the top: open platform, wind whipping. A girl fourteen, maybe sits on the edge, legs dangling over the drop. Thin dress stained at the hem, hair wild. knuckles white on the stone. One more step and she'd be gone.
The teacher shrugs, walks to the opposite side, pulls a cigarette from his pocket, lights it with a match. Tobacco smoke curls into the night.
He exhales, watching the city lights below.
A thought drifts in, slow and cold.
VISION SPELL.
[A Forbidden. Blood-fueled spell. One life for a glimpse of what you want to see.
He glances back at the girl.
She noticed him and stare back also.
The cigarette glows faintly as he takes another drag.
He smiles small, private, ruthless.
The wind carries the scent of tobacco.