"Father…?"
Arion's voice was barely audible, no more than a trembling breath escaping his lips. Everything collapsed in an instant. The world seemed to lose its color—every sound, every shape, gone. All that remained was his father's lifeless body, sprawled in a pool of blood on the floor. Arion's eyes widened and trembled. He stood frozen, unable to think, unable to move.
This wasn't a dream.
It was real.
Far too real.
"Your Highness!"
Davian's voice came from the doorway. He stood there, stunned, flanked by several guards. His face was pale, stricken between shock and disbelief. But before he could say another word, the guards with him sprang into action. Without orders. Without hesitation.
They seized Arion and dragged him away.
"My father! Let me go!"
Arion screamed, thrashing violently in their grip. He struggled with everything he had, but it was useless. They pulled him from the room, his eyes locked on the horrifying sight behind him—his father's body, left cold and still.
That very night, Arion was locked in his chambers. Security was tightened. No entry. No exit.
No justice.
Outside, the atmosphere shifted.
The celebration was halted.
Guests were ordered to return to their quarters.
All roads to the palace were sealed. Gates bolted shut. Guards posted at every corridor.
A suspicious silence draped the castle like a shroud.
And yet, the news of King Balderick's death… was not released.
Not that night.
Not the next day.
The royal council had made a decision—to withhold the truth, while they prepared the shadowed propaganda that had long awaited its moment: to dethrone the Crown Prince.
And now, they had the perfect weapon—an accusation that Arion himself had murdered the King.
Nearly a week had passed since that night.
Inside his chamber, which now felt more like a prison, Arion sat motionless, eyes hollow. His gaze was lifeless—as if every purpose in him had been torn from its roots.
"It's your final hearing, Your Highness," Davian said softly from the doorway. His tone was heavy, weighed with sorrow he could no longer hide.
Arion didn't reply.
He only stared at the floor, as if trying to sink into the shadows.
Davian sighed. He placed a hand on his chest and bowed deeply. Then, without another word, he turned and walked away in silence.
Arion remained still, until a strange, soft sound broke the quiet.
A raven landed on the iron rail of his balcony.
Its eyes glowed red, staring straight at Arion—sharp, and full of meaning.
And for the first time in days, Arion looked back.
His gaze had changed.
The time of trial had come.
Arion was taken to the court.
The trial was held in secret, attended only by select figures who had already agreed on the verdict before it even began.
This was no trial.
It was an execution dressed in formality.
"By decree of the Council, Prince Arion Balderick VIII is hereby declared the prime suspect in the murder of King Balderick," the judge announced, his voice echoing through the still chamber.
"Thus, this court sentences him to death, to be carried out at the city square—at midday tomorrow."
Bang.
The gavel fell.
The verdict was signed.
And in a cold, ritualistic motion, the judge broke the quill he had just used—a symbol of finality.
A symbol of betrayal.
Then he walked away without another word.
Arion was returned.
To the prison.
Where he was left to count down the final seconds of his life.
Inside that cell, he said nothing.
He didn't cry.
He didn't resist.
It was as if his soul had long departed.
Igris, ever loyal, stayed close—trying to cheer him up, to talk to him, even joked like he used to. But Arion never responded.
He just sat in the corner of the room, silent, unmoving.
Like a shell…
With nothing left inside.