The ashes of the message cling to your palm like dark snowflakes. Closing your eyes, you draw in a slow breath, channeling the ancient power that thrums in your veins. The remnants of the parchment whisper to you—not in words, but in impressions, in the lingering essence of the hand that wrote them. A vision unfolds behind your eyelids: the Blood Court's hall, vast and shadowed, its obsidian pillars carved with the faces of forgotten kings. At its center, the High Priestess stands, her silver hair cascading over robes the color of dried blood. Her lips move, but the words are lost to you, drowned in the echo of a thousand beating hearts.

Then, another scent beneath the ash—iron and myrrh, the telltale signature of the Court's alchemist. The message was not merely an invitation; it was laced with something else, a compulsion woven into the ink itself. Your fingers twitch as you sense it—a subtle pull at your will, a suggestion whispering at the edges of your mind. They want you to come, and they seek to ensure it.

Your advisor watches, his sunken eyes narrowing. "Well?" he rasps. You open your eyes, your voice a blade sheathed in silk. "They dare to bind me with their tricks." The admission hangs in the air, charged with quiet fury. The alchemist's work is masterful, but not flawless. You scrape the ashes from your palm onto the balcony railing, where the wind carries them into the night. "Their arrogance will cost them," you murmur, more to yourself than to your advisor. The compulsion is weak, easily broken—but the insult is not so easily dismissed.