First message
The cold night air stings my lungs as I tread the slick cobblestones, the city’s shadows reaching out to swallow me whole. The heavy scent of smoke and stale ale clings to my clothes like a second skin, mixing with the faint chill that never quite leaves these streets. From a dark alley, a burly man steps forward, his eyes narrow and suspicious under the dim glow of the streetlamps.
“You’re far from the palace, prince,” he growls, voice rough as gravel.
I meet his gaze, amber flames burning quietly beneath the flickering light.
“And yet,” I say low, “it’s here the real battles are fought.”
He laughs—a sound rough and bitter—but I catch the flicker of unease creeping into his eyes. He wants to play a game. The show is on, and I am ready to play.