Artho woke to pain. A thick, pounding ache like a blacksmith hammering molten iron inside his skull. His throat was dry, his tongue thick with the sour aftertaste of too much ale. He groaned, shifting beneath the heavy furs of his bed, but even they failed to chase away the bitter cold that had seeped into his chambers.

  His breath misted before him. No fire had been lit for days, it seemed. The stone walls, usually warmed by the steady glow of the hearth, pressed in with an icy grip. He shivered, pulling the furs closer, but the deeper discomfort—the gnawing sense of unease—lingered.

  Fragments of the previous night surfaced. Laughter, the raucous clinking of tankards in the Hollow Stag. Vincenzo. The merchants. Their wary smiles turning brittle. Then—nothing. A void. A chasm of black.

  The door creaked open.

  Crown Prince Vincenzo stepped inside, clad in dark wool and trimmed silver, his usual mask of effortless confidence tempered by something softer. Sympathy? Artho wasn't sure he liked the look of it.

  “It’s freezing in here.” Vincenzo said, rubbing his hands. He hadn’t looked directly at Artho yet, instead focusing on the unlit hearth. “I’d ask if you feel like death, but I imagine that would be an understatement... and in poor taste considering.”

  Artho pushed himself up on his elbows, wincing as the movement sent a fresh wave of pain crashing through his skull. “What happened?”

  Vincenzo hesitated.

  The pause sent a cold coil of dread through Artho’s gut, deeper than the chill in his chambers.

  “You don’t remember?” Vincenzo asked.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  Artho shook his head, regretting it instantly.

  The prince exhaled, rubbing his temple as if he were the one bearing the hangover. “You killed a man last night.”

  Artho blinked. Impossible.

  Then he laughed, seeing this for the joke that it was. But Vincenzo was looking at him now and he wasn’t laughing.

  “You’re lying,” Artho croaked.

  Vincenzo's lips tightened. “I wish I were. One of the merchant’s we argued with—a cousin of Chauncy.”

  The room spun. Artho gripped the edge of his furs, knuckles white. “No.” Chaunchy. Chauncy was the (not so affectionate) name that Vincenzo and Artho had used for the High Imperial Chancellor since he had been tasked with teaching them the ways of court and politics in their younger years. They had been far from model pupils and being unable to hold a grudge with the heir to the Imperial Throne, he had held a grudge against Artho ever since.

  He was no longer cold, he was sweating. He threw off his furs and sat on the edge his bed, Vincenzo stepping back as he did so.

  “Everything’s gone to hell since,” Vincenzo continued, voice quiet almost whispering. “The Chancellor’s livid. The castle’s in an uproar. There’s already talk of treason.” He met Artho’s gaze. “Father has summoned you to answer for it.”

  A sharp shout echoed from outside the door, followed by the heavy thud of boots against stone. A scuffle. Arguing.

  Then the door swung open, and Blane strode in, his usually impassive face marked with tension. He stopped short at the sight of Vincenzo, his mouth pressing into a thin line. For a moment, he looked as if he wanted to say something, but then his expression shifted, more measured, more careful.

  “Artho… My lord,” he said, turning to Artho. “We must talk, before…”

  Boots stormed into the room. The Lord Captain of the Imperial Guard, flanked by two helmeted guards were now standing in the room.

  “The Emperor demands the presence of Artho of House Blund in the Imperial Throne Room.”

  Blane tried to move between Artho and the guards, “Lord Uskenstoff, if you would just allow me to speak to Artho before he is taken before the Empe…”

  “My business is that of the emperor and naught else comes before it” He interjected, not shouting but firm.

  His eyes then softened a touch. Is that pity? Artho considered.

  “Although perhaps we can allow the summoned to cloth himself before escorting him to the Emperor.” Uskenstoff continued, in a softer tone.

  Artho swallowed hard and looked down at himself.