The ashes of the Blood Court's message drift from your fingers, carried away by the night wind. Your advisor watches in silence, his sunken eyes flickering with unease. Without a word, you stride back into the castle, the heavy doors groaning shut behind you. The grand hall stretches before you, its towering pillars casting long shadows in the torchlight. You approach the obsidian desk at the far end, where a fresh sheet of parchment and a quill dipped in dark ink await.

You begin to write, your hand steady, each stroke deliberate. The words form not as defiance, but as a measured response—a prince’s reply, not a subject’s plea. 'The Blood Court’s summons is noted,' you write, 'but my duties to my city and council take precedence. I will attend when my affairs are settled, and not before.' The ink glistens wetly as you sign your name with a flourish, the royal seal pressed beside it in wax the color of dried blood.

Your advisor steps forward, his cane clicking against the stone. 'Shall I summon your fastest courier?' he asks. You shake your head. 'No,' you reply, rolling the parchment tightly. 'This requires a more... personal touch.' You turn to the shadows near the hearth, where a figure has stood motionless the entire time—your spymaster, a lithe woman with silver-threaded hair and eyes like shards of ice. She steps forward soundlessly, extending a gloved hand. 'Deliver this to the mountains,' you command. 'Let them see it comes from my hand alone.' She bows and vanishes into the dark, swift as a whisper.

The castle feels heavier now, the weight of the Blood Court’s expectations pressing against its walls. But you are no puppet. You are the prince of this city, and your will is your own. The council chamber awaits, its sigils burning bright, and your guard stands ready at the doors. The night is far from over.