The skies above the Virelith Kingdom had the color of bruised steel.
Thunder rumbled high above as if the heavens themselves recognized what had returned to this land.
Kael Virelith rode at the rear of the royal convoy — black coat fluttering behind him, expression unreadable. His dragon cut wide arcs overhead, silent, cloaked in storm clouds. Its presence cast a long shadow over the towers below — a warning for those who knew what bonded beasts meant in old bloodlines.
The gates opened with an eerie groan, and the party rode in under the archway of House Virelith's ancestral palace — sharp-edged, unforgiving, and carved of obsidian.
The King of the Second Family dismounted first. The others followed with forced grace. Nobles murmured pleasantries to one another, feigning comfort. Behind every smile, something unspoken stirred — like ash beneath fresh snow.
Kael didn't linger.
He gave no nods, offered no courtesies.
Instead, he slipped through the side halls — past familiar statues, past guards who didn't meet his eyes — and vanished into the inner palace.
---
His Chambers
It had not changed.
That alone was enough to unnerve him.
The same dark-stone fireplace. The same crimson drapes. The same high window overlooking a courtyard that no one used anymore.
Kael shrugged off his coat and let it fall onto the old chair by the hearth. With a flick of his fingers, flames burst to life in the fireplace — casting long shadows across the room.
He stood there, watching the fire dance.
The silence pressed in.
And that's when the ghosts came back.
---
The Girl. The Man. The Night.
Two years.
He could still see her — the girl with the quiet laugh and storm-colored eyes. She was his age. She had been kind when the rest were cruel, had seen him as more than a disgraced heir. A servant girl who had never bowed, not truly — not to anyone but decency.
And he could still see him — all rough hands and protective instincts. A man who once told Kael, "Blood means nothing if your heart's rotten."
He'd died trying to stop what happened that night.
Trying to protect her.
And I still don't know which of my cousins did it.
His noble-blooded cousins.
They sat across from him this morning, smiling with silver tongues, sipping wine with unbothered hands — as if they weren't the kind of monsters who could break a girl and silence a witness.
Kael's jaw tensed.
The firelight flickered — just once — in rhythm with the rising fury inside him.
---
The Shift
He breathed.
Slow. Controlled.
Vengeance isn't the problem. Certainty is.
He couldn't act until he knew. Not just for justice — but for precision.
The realm watched him now, dissecting every word, every twitch.
Strike too soon, and he'd become the mad half-blood driven by ghosts.
Strike with proof?
Then he'd be unstoppable.
Kael moved to the desk.
Pulled out a blank parchment.
He uncapped his ink and wrote down names.
Every cousin who was present that season, two years ago.
Every one who stayed behind after the celebration.
Every noble who could've been there when the screams were muffled behind stone walls.
"I don't need an admission," he muttered.
"I need a mistake."
---
The Strategy Begins
He'd speak her name casually.
He'd mention the stablehand in passing — lie about how he died.
He'd say east side instead of west, and watch who corrected him.
Every twitch. Every breath. Every damn flicker in their eyes — he'd catch it.
Then he'd tighten the noose.
He'd send whispers through the servant halls — tales of a returned heir looking for ghosts. He'd watch who started to panic.
"They buried her," Kael whispered to the fire. "But they didn't bury me. And now I've come back with dragons."
---
The Ring
From the inside of his coat, he pulled a velvet pouch.
He opened it.
A silver ring.
Ornate. With the crest of House Virelith.
He'd taken it from one of their rooms, long ago — one of the cousins who had been there that night.
Kael turned it in his fingers, watching the way it caught the firelight.
"Let's see what happens," he said softly, "when I wear this at dinner."