Renard slammed the door hard enough that the sconces rattled.

  “What was in that vial?” he demanded again, breath sharp, voice rough with something he refused to name. “What did you give me?”

  Lord Merris didn’t flinch.

  “Your Highness,” he said mildly, “it’s far too early in the morning to be in such a bad mood.”

  “The hell are you talking about?” Renard snapped, stepping closer. His fingers flexed at his sides like they wanted a throat to remember. “I drank it and the shadows— moved. Something spoke to me.”

  Merris raised one hand, almost lazily, and signalled to the guards outside.

  The double doors to the hall shut with a heavy, final sound.

  Locks clicked into place.

  Only then did Merris turn back to him.

  “Sit,” he said.

  Renard didn’t.

  Merris sighed, as if disappointed by etiquette rather than fury.

  “It was a gift,” he said, walking toward the small stove in the corner of the chamber. “And a test.”

  “A test of what?”

  “Of whether you are a prince,” Merris said, “or merely a boy pretending to be one.”

  Renard’s jaw tightened. “Answer me.”

  Merris opened a drawer and retrieved a small velvet case. Inside was a vial identical to the first—silver-capped, etched with a crescent swallowing the sun.

  He held it up between two fingers.

  “What you drank,” Merris said calmly, “was essence. In measured form.”

  Renard’s eyes narrowed. “Essence of what.”

  Merris’s gaze sharpened just slightly.

  “The Night Dragon.”

  The words landed like iron.

  Renard’s throat went tight. “That’s impossible.”

  “It’s forbidden,” Merris corrected. “Not impossible.”

  Renard took a step back without meaning to, as if his body had remembered fear before his mind allowed it.

  Merris set the vial down gently, as though it were sleeping.

  “You’ve heard the myths,” Merris continued. “Nyx, the Night That Walks.”

  Renard forced a laugh. It came out too thin. “So the Order… really worships The Nigh Dragon.”

  Merris placed a kettle on the burner and lit a rune beneath it. Blue flame curled up, quiet and hungry.

  “The Order is older than your father’s crown,” Merris said. “Older than the Empire’s name. When dragons fell and the world split, some fled into Veins and silence… and some learned to exist without needing either.”

  The water began to tremble. Steam kissed the air.

  Renard stared at the kettle. “Why give me that?”

  “Because you asked to be seen,” Merris replied simply.

  Renard’s fists clenched. “I asked to be respected.”

  “Respect is what men give,” Merris said. “What you want… is answer.”

  He reached into a wooden box and withdrew a flower.

  Nightshade.

  Its petals were deep violet, almost black, the edges bruised with darkness. Even in candlelight, it looked like something cut from dusk itself.

  Merris dropped it into the boiling water.

  The moment it touched, the steam thickened—sweet, bitter, intoxicating. The scent was floral, but wrong beneath it, like perfume poured over iron.

  Renard’s nostrils flared instinctively, and his stomach twisted.

  Merris waited until the water darkened.

  Then, from a second pouch, he brought out another bloom.

  This one was Larger. Heavier and Regal.

  The Queen of Night.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Its petals were pale at first—milky white with purple veins running through them like bruises under skin. Merris let it fall into the kettle.

  The mixture hissed.

  The steam became fragrant enough to feel like a hand on the throat.

  Renard’s skin prickled. “What are you doing.”

  Merris watched the flowers spin, softening, collapsing. The nightshade bled colour into the water until its petals turned translucent. The Queen of Night followed, draining slowly until it too became pale, lifeless fabric in the boil.

  When both flowers had surrendered their colour, Merris removed the kettle and set it on the desk between them.

  Steam rose in slow spirals.

  “Smell it,” Merris said.

  Renard stared. “No.”

  Merris smiled, patient. “Your Highness,” he said softly, “you already opened the door.”

  Renard’s pulse hammered.

  He leaned forward—just enough to prove he wasn’t afraid.

  And inhaled. The world tilted.

  Not dizziness. Not poison.

  Depth.

  Something reached through the breath itself and touched the inside of his skull.

  Renard’s eyes widened. His mouth opened, but the air refused him. His pupils rolled upward until only white showed.

  He collapsed where he stood, hitting the marble with a dead weight that did not belong to a living prince.

  The kettle continued to steam.

  The room continued to breathe.

  And somewhere inside Renard, the dark finally had enough space to speak.

  He woke standing in a palace that wasn’t the palace.

  The ceiling was endless.

  Not stone, it was like night sky.

  A starless sky stretched above him like a wound that refused to close. The floor beneath his feet shimmered like black water, reflecting nothing but his own silhouette.

  Renard looked down.

  His boots were gone. His uniform, too.

  He wore only a thin cloak of shadow, hanging off him like someone else’s idea of dignity.

  “Where am I?” he demanded.

  His voice didn’t echo in the void. It was absorbed.

  A soft laugh answered him.

  From the far end of the darkness, a figure emerged—slowly, as if she had always been there and simply decided to be seen.

  A woman. Beautiful in a way that made the word beautiful feel childish.

  Violet sheets draped her body like ceremonial cloth, sliding over her shoulders and arms as if gravity served her personally. Her legs were bare—but not fully human.

  Black scales climbed from her ankles up her calves, seamless as obsidian polished to mirror sheen. The scales caught a faint glow that wasn’t light, but moon-memory—cold and alive.

  Her hair was darker than ink.It was as black as a starless night.

  Her eyes held moonlight.

  Renard’s breath hitched.

  “Nyx,” he whispered, and hated that his voice turned reverent without permission.

  She tilted her head. The gesture felt predatory.

  “So,” she said, voice velvet over steel, “the little wolf finally comes to the den.”

  Renard forced his spine straight. “You’re in my head.”

  Nyx smiled. “No.”

  She stepped closer. Each footfall sent ripples across the black floor like reality was liquid here.

  “You are in mine.”

  Renard swallowed. “Why?”

  Nyx circled him slowly, gaze drifting over him as if reading his bones.

  “Because you are hungry,” she murmured. “And hunger is a language I speak fluently.”

  Renard’s jaw tightened. “If you think flattery will make me kneel—”

  Nyx laughed again, soft and musical.

  “You don’t kneel,” she said. “Not even when you should.”

  She leaned closer, her moonlit eyes reflecting him like prey.

  “That’s why I chose you.”

  Renard’s throat went dry. “Chosen… for what.”

  Nyx’s voice lowered, suddenly intimate. “For me.”

  Renard blinked. “What?”

  She turned, and the darkness behind her shifted.

  Images formed in the void like reflections rising from deep water—Alaric’s throne, Cyran’s quiet discipline, the starving outer districts, the war bleeding the continent, Kohler’s golden eyes like a knife.

  “You live in an empire built on conquest,” Nyx said calmly. “Held together by tradition, fear, and the illusion that blood can be washed away with ceremony.”

  Renard watched the visions.

  His anger sharpened into something colder.

  Nyx continued.

  “Your father is old. Your brother Cyran will rot himself into a martyr. Your little scholar brother will die to an idea he can’t hold in his hands.”

  Renard’s eyes narrowed. “And me?”

  Nyx stepped close enough that the air around him tasted like nightshade again.

  “You,” she whispered, “will become King.”

  Renard froze.

  A smile crept across his face before he could stop it.

  “Say that again.”

  Nyx’s expression didn’t change. “i can make you King… if you do something for me.”

  Renard’s gaze sharpened. “What.”

  Nyx lifted a hand and traced a circle in the air.

  Another vision surfaced.

  Arata.

  His blue veins beneath skin. His breath syncing with the world. The Veins listening back.

  Nyx’s eyes gleamed.

  “Make him lose control,” she said softly. “Make him burn. Make him angry enough to snap whatever fragile leash he still believes he has.”

  Renard’s smile faltered.

  “Why?”

  Nyx’s gaze hardened, a moon eclipsed.

  “That question,” she said, “is not yours to ask.”

  Renard took a slow breath. “I’m not your puppet.”

  Nyx sighed.

  Then she raised two fingers—and the world became pain.

  Renard dropped to his knees as agony tore through his nerves, like fire. Like his bones were being emptied. Like his blood had been replaced with cold void.

  He gasped, choking, clawing at nothing.

  Nyx crouched beside him, her voice quiet and almost bored.

  “You are very brave,” she murmured. “For something so temporary.”

  Renard’s vision blurred. Tears streaked down his face without his consent.

  “Stop—” he rasped. “Enough—!”

  Nyx leaned close. “Agree,” she whispered.

  Renard trembled. His pride shattered in his mouth like glass.

  “I—” he coughed. “Fine.”

  Nyx tilted her head. “Fine?”

  Renard gritted his teeth so hard his jaw ached.

  “I’ll do it,” he spat. “I’ll make him break.”

  The pain vanished instantly.

  Renard collapsed, panting, sweat pouring down his temples.

  Nyx stood, adjusting the violet sheets on her shoulder like none of it had mattered.

  “Good,” she said. “That is all I wanted.”

  Renard looked up, hatred alive in his eyes. “If I do this… you’ll make me King.”

  Nyx smiled faintly.

  “I don’t make kings,” she whispered.

  “I simply… remove what stands in their way.”

  The darkness began to fold.

  Nyx’s voice drifted away as the world dissolved:

  “Wake up now, little wolf.”

  “Go sharpen your teeth.”

  Renard came back with a violent inhale, body jerking as if he’d been dragged out of drowning.

  His lungs burned.

  His eyes watered.

  The room swam into his Vision.

  Merris stood over him, perfectly calm, kettle still steaming on the desk like a harmless cup of tea.

  Renard’s hands trembled.

  He stared at the minister like he was seeing him for the first time.

  Merris knelt slightly, polite. “Well?” he asked softly.

  Renard swallowed.

  Then his face went still.

  It was Cold, Calculating something.

  “Get me everything,” Renard said, voice low. “All records. All reports. All surveillance.”

  Merris’s eyes flickered. “On who, Your Highness?”

  Renard’s mouth curved, not in a smile, but in a moment of decision.

  “Cadet Arata.”

  Merris bowed. “As you command.”

  Renard’s gaze stayed fixed on the steam rising from the kettle, and for the first time, he understood something that terrified him:

  He had been claimed.

  And now, he had a job to do.