The week leading up to the eighteenth birthday of the "Ghost Prince" felt like the breath before a scream. In the Imperial Capital, the air was thick with a humidity that didn't come from rain, but from the sheer density of mana being gathered by the Great Houses. They had converged upon the city like vultures to a dying beast, bringing with them their private armies, their court mages, and their deepest anxieties. The "Provisional Council," led by the Guardian Family, had officially announced the Trial of the Sword. Since no "legitimate" heir had stepped into the light to claim the Blood Oath, the Council argued that the Dragon God's throne was vacant, and thus, the strongest warrior among the nobility should take the crown to prevent the empire's total collapse.
Livius stood on the rooftop of a nameless tavern in the Gray District, his black hair whipping in the cold wind. He looked toward the central palace, which was illuminated by thousands of magical lanterns. It looked like a crown of fire sitting atop the hill, but to Livius, it looked like a tomb. He could feel the pulse of the city—it was frantic, terrified, and hungry. Through the "Specter's Eye" network, he knew that the Duke of the South, the last of the major corrupt players, had arrived with a fleet of airships, claiming he would be the one to pass the Trial.
"They're so desperate to find a king that they're willing to invent one," Livius murmured. He reached into his cloak and pulled out a small, jagged piece of obsidian—the "Key of the North Wing." It was the only thing he had left from his childhood home.
Behind him, the space seemed to ripple as Cian stepped out of the shadows. The clerk looked thinner than he had months ago, his eyes rimmed with red from sleepless nights spent forging documents and intercepting Imperial ravens. He held a leather-bound case tightly against his chest.
"The preparations are complete," Cian said, his voice raspy. "The portrait Vaelin painted... it's already been moved into the secret gallery behind the Throne Room. The Nexus agents have infiltrated the palace staff. At the stroke of midnight on your birthday, every magical light in the city will be tied to your heartbeat. When you walk, the city will glow; when you stop, the world will wait."
Livius turned to look at his friend. "And the Council? Are they still convinced the Ghost is a myth?"
"They're terrified he's real, but they're betting he's a coward," Cian replied with a grim smile. "The High Inquisitor has doubled the guard at the archives, thinking you'll try to steal the records. He doesn't realize you already are the record. Livius... once you walk through those doors, there is no going back to the shadows. You won't be the 'Wraith' anymore. You'll be the target."
"I've been a target since the day I was born, Cian," Livius said, his golden eyes flaring with a sudden, intense heat that made the air around him shimmer. "The difference is that now, I'm the one holding the bow."