The rhythmic thrashing of the helicopter rotors—wug-wug-wug—created a hypnotic, monotonous drone inside the cockpit. William rested his head against the cold glass window, his eyes staring down with a hollow gaze that didn't truly see.

  Down below, the Crownbelt spread out.

  The Capital of the Kingdom of Carta glittered like a giant jewelry box spilled over black velvet.

  The city's main arterial roads radiated golden-yellow light from streetlamps, flowing fast like rivers of lava dissecting residential blocks. Art-deco skyscrapers and ancient clock towers stood side-by-side, their windows twinkling, signifying a nightlife that never slept.

  On the eastern flank, the currents of the Great Seine River reflected the city lights like a cracked mirror splitting the capital in two: luxury and squalor. Yet from this altitude, everything looked deceptively beautiful.

  However, that beauty failed to touch William’s heart tonight.

  His mind was still left behind in the incense-scented wooden hovel on the mountain slope.

  Rajendra’s words replayed in his head like a broken cassette. About "forced ignorance." About being bait. About his father becoming a lonely shield.

  William sighed, a thin white mist forming on the cockpit glass.

  He imagined the faces of those "enemies within."

  Three Marquis ruling the waterways and trade.

  Seven Dukes ruling the land and military.

  They were all starving wolves draped in fine silk. All this time, William had only seen them as annoying old men at ballrooms. But now he realized, they were sharks circling his aging father, waiting for a single drop of blood to start the feeding frenzy.

  And William? He was merely a fattened sheep prepared to inherit that shark pool.

  Father... he thought wearily.

  The image of King George sitting alone in that silent white room made it hard to breathe. Was that his future? Sitting on a cold throne, holding the secrets of the apocalypse alone, while the people around him smiled falsely, clutching knives behind their backs?

  I want to run, his mind screamed.

  He wanted to turn this helicopter around. Go to the Wasteland. Go to an isolated island. Go anywhere as long as he didn't return to that gilded cage. He wanted to be like Arka—free, wild, uncaring of etiquette, living today for today.

  Yet, the helicopter continued its relentless advance, following its automated flight path.

  In the distance, piercing the capital's thin fog, the structure began to appear.

  Ironseat.

  The massive royal palace complex. Its iconic white towers soared high defying the sky, illuminated by spotlights from below making it glow eerily in the middle of the night.

  The building didn't look like a home to William.

  With sturdy ramparts and sharp architecture, Ironseat looked like a giant claw digging into the earth. A monument of absolute power designed for one purpose: gripping the necks of the Three Marquis and Seven Dukes to keep them subjugated.

  Seeing those white towers grow larger in his vision, William’s stomach churned.

  There, piles of documents awaited him. Stiff protocols awaited him. The judging stares of nobles awaited him. And now, the shadow of the apocalypse also awaited him there.

  William closed his eyes, letting the engine vibration travel through his exhausted bones.

  "Tired..." he murmured softly, his voice drowned by the engine roar. "Everything is so tedious."

  William’s consciousness seemed to stutter like a bad radio signal.

  He didn't remember how the helicopter landed. He didn't remember how his feet stepped down onto the pad, or how the palace servants bowed respectfully to him. Suddenly, he was already inside the belly of Ironseat.

  His feet dragged heavily down the long alabaster corridor connecting the royal private hangar to the main residential wing. His heavy footsteps echoed off the cold walls, the only sound in that silent hall.

  Until his sense of smell caught something.

  The aroma assaulted his nose before the figure was seen. The pungent, heavy, and ancient scent of frankincense. Unlike the soothing sandalwood incense at the Sagara house, this smell felt suffocating. The smell of death ceremonies. The smell of buried secrets.

  At the end of the corridor, under the dim spotlight of a crystal chandelier, an old smile awaited.

  Theodore Rhegalia.

  The old man stood tall with arms folded within the wide sleeves of his indigo robe. His wrinkled face looked like an untouched wax mask, with eyes holding darkness as deep as an old well.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  William was just about to open his mouth, perhaps to just nod wearily, when Theodore’s raspy voice preceded him.

  "Your Highness..." he greeted, his tone flat and emotionless, as if reading a grocery list.

  "Your flight to Salomos is scheduled in two hours. Prepare yourself."

  William’s steps halted abruptly.

  His blood boiled instantly.

  He looked down at his own clothes. His combat cloak was still dirty from the dust of Gate 134. The smell of sweat, dried blood, and wet forest still clung to his skin. He hadn't even touched warm water. He hadn't even closed his eyes on a soft mattress.

  And this old fossil was telling him to leave again? To Salomos?

  Damn it, William cursed internally. His teeth ground together.

  Without a word, William strode forward aggressively. He didn't return the greeting. He snatched the stack of documents offered by Theodore roughly.

  Snatch!

  William walked past the advisor without looking back, his shoulder deliberately brushing the air around Theodore. He quickened his pace, wanting to get away from that foul frankincense aura immediately.

  His mind raced wildly, connecting the red dots in his head.

  The incident at Gate 134.

  Empty logistics. Delayed backup. Conflicting orders. Who had the authority to manipulate military bureaucracy so smoothly without leaving a trace? Who could make guard battalions "blind" momentarily?

  It must be him, William accused internally, his eyes burning with hatred.

  Only someone with the highest administrative access could orchestrate a tragedy so precisely.

  William crumpled the documents in his hand.

  Theodore Rhegalia.

  Duke of Crownbelt. The Steward of the Capital of Carta.

  The man controlling the heartbeat of the capital's bureaucracy. The King's Advisor, his father's confidant for decades... and now, in William’s eyes, the prime suspect trying to kill him.

  "Just wait, Old Man," William hissed as he disappeared around the corridor corner. "I'll make sure your head is the next pawn."

  Everything happened in a blurry blink of an eye.

  William felt like a puppet whose control strings were pulled forcibly by time. His memories of a hot shower, servants measuring his body, and a lightning-fast briefing felt like damaged film reels—jumping and out of sync.

  Suddenly, he was standing on the VIP runway of Carta International Airport.

  His blood-and-dust-stained combat cloak was gone, replaced by a bespoke midnight blue suit wrapping his body with perfect precision. The expensive silk-wool fabric felt slick and cold against his skin, yet offered no protection whatsoever. He felt naked without armor.

  The strong runway wind slapped his now clean-shaven face, carrying the sharp scent of jet fuel.

  William looked up, transfixed by one structure dominating the night horizon.

  The Kal Kalagh Tower.

  The legendary navigation tower stood like a giant needle dropped by gods from the sky, piercing straight through the earth. Its height was nonsensical, as if defying the laws of gravity and the arrogance of the sky itself. Its structure was made of black steel and reinforced glass, spiraling toward its peak lost behind low clouds.

  Thousands of red and white indicator lights blinked along the tower's body, like a giant pulse. And at its peak, the main beacon light rotated slowly—a giant cyclops eye shooting a solid white light beam for hundreds of kilometers, slicing the night darkness, guiding every airship and plane entering Carta airspace.

  Intimidating grandeur. A symbol that Carta was always watching.

  "Your Highness."

  A smooth baritone voice broke William’s awe.

  William turned. Beside him stood Randa, Carta’s Minister of Foreign Affairs. The man looked dapper with greased hair combed neatly back and a diplomatic smile that never reached his eyes.

  "The plane is ready for take-off," Randa said, pointing to a small private jet whose engines were already purring softly.

  William swept his gaze around the jet. Empty. No escort troops. No diplomatic staff. No handmaidens.

  William’s eyebrows furrowed sharply.

  "Huh? I am alone?" he asked, a tone of disbelief seeping into his voice.

  Randa nodded respectfully, his face flat without a guilty expression. "Correct, Your Highness."

  "Isn't this a diplomatic mission? There should be a delegation..." William protested, his logic rebelling.

  "Technically, yes. It is your duty as state representation," Randa cut in with a feigned apologetic tone. "However, direct instructions from Ironseat were very specific."

  Randa looked William straight in the eyes.

  "Ironseat requested Your Highness move alone. 'Without shadow, without burden', read the memo I received."

  William’s jaw hardened instantly.

  Without shadow, without burden. That was polite language for 'without witnesses, without protectors'.

  He was being sent into the lion's den in Salomos, alone, without adequate diplomatic protection. If he died there, or was captured, Carta could easily deny official involvement. Plausible deniability.

  William’s blood ran hot again. The image of Theodore Rhegalia’s wrinkled face appeared in his mind, smiling slyly behind frankincense smoke.

  Damn you, William cursed internally, his hands clenching inside the pockets of his expensive trousers.

  You really want me to die silently, Theodore.

  "Very well," William hissed coldly. He turned around, leaving Randa, and strode up the plane stairs toward his dangerous solitude.

  "I will play your game, Old Man."

  The private jet shot through the stratosphere, leaving white condensation trails in the fading night sky.

  Inside the luxurious leather-lined cabin, William sat alone. He poured a glass of scotch neat, letting the amber liquid burn his throat, trying to banish a cold that didn't come from the air temperature.

  Staring into the darkness outside the oval window, his mind drifted far to the west, imagining his destination: The Republic of Salomos.

  On William’s mental map, Salomos was a giant.

  If Carta was the old Europe full of history, magic, and complex feudal traditions, then Salomos was the representation of the noisy "New World." An industrial superpower worshipping efficiency, steel, and capitalist democracy.

  The country stretched vast on the western side of the continent. A land where factory smokestacks replaced magic towers, and ten-lane wide concrete highways replaced horse carriage dirt paths.

  Salomos directly bordered the Goldenpalm Desert—a barren yet oasis-rich territory ruled by Duke Ghandarvya. William snorted cynically. How ironic. To reach Salomos, he had to fly across the sky over the territory of one of the Dukes he suspected wanted to kill him.

  His destination was Ramsas.

  The largest metropolis in the western hemisphere. A concrete jungle that never slept. There stood the headquarters of the United Nations (UN) Council. An international diplomatic forum where the fate of the world was debated under the glare of camera lights and the bang of a gavel.

  "Eight hours," William mumbled, glancing at his expensive watch.

  Eight hours flying inside this metal tube, alone, heading to a global political nest without a speech script, without bodyguards, and without mental preparation.

  He downed his scotch roughly.

  The heat of alcohol on his tongue turned into the bitter taste of anger.

  He again imagined Theodore Rhegalia’s face. That flat old face, unreadable eyes, and that disgusting frankincense smell.

  "Damn you, Theodore," he hissed at his own reflection in the dark window.

  At this altitude of 40,000 feet, amidst the silence of monotonously roaring jet engines, William realized he wasn't truly alone.

  He was accompanied by his hatred.

  Anger and curses for that old man were the only loyal 'traveling companions' accompanying him slicing the night sky toward the west.