The silence of the palace at dawn was broken only by the heavy, rhythmic thud of combat boots against polished marble. Prince Alaric did not pause for the bowing servants or the frantic, whispered questions from his royal advisors. He moved through the grand corridors like a storm that had not yet decided where to land, his jaw set in a grim line that told everyone around him — do not talk to me right now.
Silas remained tucked securely against his chest, wrapped in a dark tactical blanket that hid the blood and grime of the Northern wasteland. One of the younger maids saw them and promptly dropped her cleaning bucket. Nobody stopped to help her pick it up. Everyone was too busy getting out of Alaric's way.
"Your Highness, the medical wing is prepared—" one advisor started, jogging sideways to keep up with the Prince's long strides. Alaric did not even look at him. "No."
"But sir, the healers are already "No." There is a protocol for
