A WEB IN INTRIGUE

The heavy oak doors of the Grand Hall groaned open. A cold wind surged through the chamber. All eyes turned as two armored soldiers emerged from the shadows, dragging a young man cloaked in grey. With brutal efficiency, they thrust him forward, forcing him to his knees on the polished stone floor.

The young man's face remained veiled in shadow, but the weight of his predicament pressed visibly upon him—his shoulders bowed, his posture a silent echo of defeat. Yet there was no mistaking the tension in the room. The entire court, cloaked in silence, watched with baited breath. At the far end of the hall, seated on a throne carved from obsidian and bone, King Torin surveyed the scene with the cold detachment of a blade unsheathed.

"Who is this?" the King demanded, his voice cutting through the stillness like thunder rolling over a battlefield.

The Captain of the Guard stepped forward, his armor glinting under the flickering torchlight. His face bore the weight of many battles—lined with age, honor, and the scars of loyalty.

"Your Grace," he said, bowing stiffly, "this man was caught at the city gates. He carried strange documents, and he refused to offer a name. He claims to be a merchant, but his story is riddled with holes. We believe him to be a spy."

Gasps and murmurs stirred among the courtiers. Lord Marcellus, always sharp-eyed and shrewd, leaned forward, his voice like a blade in silk. "And what proof do you offer, Captain? Speak plainly."

The Captain's jaw tightened. "We found messages written in a cipher no scribe could decipher. His presence near the palace walls was no accident."

Lord William, ever quick to judgment, stepped toward the prisoner, his eyes gleaming with the thrill of accusation. "Let him be brought forward."

The soldiers hauled the prisoner to his feet. He moved slowly, not from injury, but with the careful grace of someone measuring every step. Then, the flickering light caught his face—and the court fell into hushed awe.

Emerald eyes met King Torin's, unwavering and defiant. They gleamed like gemstones, burning with a quiet fire that refused to be extinguished. The young man's features were a sculptor's dream, a strong jawline, high cheekbones, and skin kissed by the sun. His dark, wavy hair cascaded around his face in disheveled elegance, and though bruises marred his jaw, his beauty was undeniable.

Torin leaned forward on his throne, tension etching into his jaw. Those eyes... they unsettled him. They saw too much.

"Who are you?" the King growled.

The captive's lips curled slightly, as if amusement flickered behind his mask of calm. "Lucian," he lied, voice smooth and lyrical.

A flicker of recognition lit in Lord Marcellus's eyes. He had seen that face before, a shadow in Queen Lyra's court. Aiden, the whisper in the walls, the blade in the dark. Aiden, Queen Lyra's loyal assassin.

"I am but a merchant," Aiden said aloud, his voice cracking under the weight of exhaustion. "I come from the Crimson Isles, seeking trade."

"Lies!" Lord William barked. "His very eyes betray him! He is a spy—no, a saboteur sent by Queen Lyra to rot us from within."

King Torin's gaze lingered on Aiden for a moment longer, his expression unreadable. Finally, he leaned back and issued a single command:

"Lock him up."

The words echoed like a gavel strike, final and without mercy.

As the guards dragged him away, Aiden's defiance faltered. His emerald eyes, once glowing with rebellion, dimmed with a flicker of despair. The murmurs of the court followed him like a funeral procession, but his gaze never wavered—it remained fixed on the King.

Torin did not flinch.

---

From a shadowed corridor, Malen watched in silence, his heart pounding a violent rhythm against his ribs. Aiden.

The sight of him being hauled away had turned cold dread to stone in Malen's gut. This was no mere arrest. It was a political move. A calculated strike. And if Aiden had returned... it meant the Queen was ready to play her next piece.

Malen's breath caught. He couldn't stay here. Not now. Not while the gears of something greater were already turning.

With one last glance toward the Grand Hall, he turned and fled through

the palace corridors, disappearing into the field.