MALRIC
In the silence that was left behind after Scarlett's laughter faded into the corridor, Uncle Zander approached him and clutched his shoulders loosely.
It was a simple gesture. Almost casual.
Yet Malric felt the weight of it immediately.
The last time his uncle had ever done such a thing had been when Malric was five years old and had experienced his first assassination attempt.
The memory returned with disturbing clarity.
The corridors of the Arctic Keep had once been immaculate—walls of pale stone polished until they gleamed like frozen moonlight. That night, however, the white corridors had turned into something else entirely. The attack had been swift, brutal, and completely unexpected. A servant boy had carried a blade beneath his cloak, slipping through the guards with the silent efficiency of someone who had trained for the moment his entire life.
