The palace would always whisper. The floors creaked with memories long gone, walls whispered secrets to the wind that moved through. But now, the whispers were different—no longer the memories of the past, but new voices born in fear and born for conspiracy. Whispers did not subside. They grew.

At first, there were only hesitant glances down corridors, the courtiers who would not say Melucia's name out loud, the servants who lit torches and hid knives under aprons. Now even the nobles were ...