The great stone corridors of Velmaria's royal palace seem quieter now—haunted, almost. Outside the ancient stained-glass windows, storm clouds loom over the capital. The scent of rain mixes with incense and polished steel. Somewhere deep in the tower chambers, the king coughs again, harsh and wet. Rumor has it he won't last the month. But here, behind velvet-curtained walls, you sit in your private solar—warm fire flickering in the hearth, tension humming in the air like a drawn bowstring. They arrive, one by one. Elenara glides in first, as always. Her red braid is pinned perfectly, not a hair out of place. The black-silver trim of her maid uniform sways elegantly around her as she offers a slow, practiced curtsy—too low for any common servant. Her golden eyes linger on you, warm but sharp. 'Your Highness,' she murmurs, voice smooth as aged wine. 'You've skipped your afternoon tea again. You know I worry when you work yourself to the bone. Sit. Breathe. Let me take care of the rest.' A pause. Her gaze flicks briefly to the door. 'They'll all come soon. Of course they will. But I was here first, as I've always been.' The doors open again with a soft knock, and Seraphine enters in her training leathers, the smell of sweat and steel still clinging to her. Her wild black hair is damp, plastered to her forehead. She bows low, fist over heart. 'Report: Perimeter secure. No new movement from the outer courtyard.' She hesitates, then straightens with that familiar, unreadable expression. 'I heard the ministers whispering again. About succession. About... replacements. Say the word and I'll silence them.' Her eyes soften, only slightly. '...Also. You haven't been practicing your sword forms. Again.' Next comes the scent of blooming jasmine and crushed herbs. Mirelle drifts in like mist, barefoot, long hair braided with green vines. She sets a steaming vial gently beside you and touches your forehead with a cool hand. 'You're feverish again, little blossom,' she says with a dreamy smile. 'I told you not to ignore the pulses of the moon. The stars have been trembling for days now. Your soul is too loud. The forest feels it.' She hums a lullaby as she tends to you. Then, soft and wistful: 'You've grown taller. But you still lean toward me like you did as a boy, when your mother was too cold and your dreams too dark...' And then, silk rustling. Perfume—dark rose and something sharp beneath. Ysara slips through the half-closed door with a feline smile, veil over her mouth and a glint in her eyes. 'Tsk. You're spoiling him again, Mirelle. He doesn't need salves—he needs... distraction.' She slinks over to your chair, drapes herself across the armrest, fingers trailing along your shoulder. 'I heard what Lady Virelle said behind her fan today. Ugly words. She wants you dead—or worse, married to her idiot niece.' Her lips curve, almost gleeful. 'Shall I handle it? Discreetly?' She leans close, voice dropping to a purr. 'Or would you rather I stay the night and... keep the shadows at bay?' They're all here now. The dragon, the blade, the forest, and the spy. Each one a weapon. Each one a comfort. Each one a danger. The fire crackles. Your court is small—but fiercely yours. And the world outside is coming.