The Berkimhum Palace groaned beneath the weight of unrest.
High arches and glass-tiled domes shimmered in early dusk, but the council chambers stank of impatience. Perfumed nobles murmured behind lace-gloved hands. Generals beat fingers against the lacquered tables. Scribes scribbled false calm into scrolls that would never be read.
They were waiting for a ghost.
The Mad Prince.
The child who had supposedly died in the Dark Continent—a fate that swallowed legends and spat out bones. They scoffed behind closed doors. A miracle, they called it. An exaggeration. A fabricated tale cooked by grief and the desperation of war.
"No man returns from demon hands," one of the old lords hissed under breath. "Not unless they sold their soul to something darker."
They didn't say it aloud, but many believed it.
Atlas Von Roxweld—if alive—was no longer a boy.
And perhaps no longer human.
But while the council bickered in marble shadows, Lara stood alone at the highest floor, at her room.
