The capital loomed on the horizon.
Vareth was a city of spires and towering walls, its gilded rooftops shimmering even beneath the overcast sky. Normally, the sight would have inspired awe—but not today.
Today, the air felt wrong.
Even from miles away, Lysandra could sense it. The usual hum of the kingdom's heart was unnervingly silent.
And then she saw it.
Thin, curling tendrils of black mist creeping along the edges of the city walls.
Lysandra's stomach dropped.
"He's already here."
The Unseen Battle
Jael pulled his horse to a stop at the crest of the hill. His golden eyes locked onto the capital.
No war horns had sounded. No troops were stationed outside the gates.
And yet, the city was trapped.
"The mist…" One of the scouts muttered, his voice unsteady. "It's alive."
Lysandra gritted her teeth. "This is his magic."
The heir was inside the walls.
Jael didn't hesitate. "We move. Now."
They urged their horses forward, galloping down the path toward the main gates. Dust and dirt kicked up behind them as their small force cut through the abandoned outer roads.
As they approached, the first thing Lysandra noticed was the gatehouse.
The massive iron doors were wide open—but the guards that should have been there were missing.
Jael barely spared it a glance before riding straight through.
The Silent City
Inside the walls, the streets were eerily empty.
Shops stood abandoned, doors ajar. A cart had overturned near the marketplace, its goods left to rot.
And the mist—it coiled through the air, whispering along the cobblestones like a living thing.
Jael pulled his horse to a stop in the center of the main square. Lysandra followed, her pulse hammering.
"This isn't right," she muttered.
One of the warriors—Dain—dismounted cautiously, his fingers hovering over the hilt of his sword. "Where is everyone?"
As if in answer, the mist shifted.
And from the shadows of the alleyways, figures began to emerge.
The Mark of the Curse
Lysandra felt her breath catch.
They weren't soldiers. They weren't even armed.
They were civilians.
Men, women, children—all stepping forward in unnatural unison. Their eyes glowed faintly, their movements slow but deliberate.
Jael inhaled sharply. "They're cursed."
Lysandra felt a chill crawl up her spine. The heir's magic had reached them.
He wasn't just taking the throne—he was binding the people to him.
Dain swore under his breath. "What do we do?"
Jael's grip on his reins tightened. His gaze swept the silent crowd, but his voice remained calm.
"We don't hurt them," he said. "We find the heir. We end this."
A City Held Hostage
As they dismounted, the mist curled around their boots. Lysandra's every instinct screamed at her to move carefully.
The civilians did not attack. They only watched.
And then—
A single voice rang out.
"I was expecting you, little prince."
The words echoed through the square, carrying an unnatural weight.
Jael stilled.
Lysandra turned, her fingers already closing around her dagger.
At the far end of the street, standing atop the grand palace steps, was him.
The heir.
The true heir.
And behind him, seated on the marble throne that should have belonged to Jael's father—
Was the king himself.
Bound in chains.