Without a word, you raise your hand and snap your fingers—a sound like cracking ice that echoes through the silent halls. Moments later, the heavy oak doors swing open, revealing three figures clad in black armor edged with silver. Your personal guard, the Night's Teeth, kneel in unison, their helms bowed. The tallest among them, Veyleth, removes her helm to reveal sharp features and eyes like polished onyx. "You summoned us, my prince?"

You turn the parchment between your fingers before extending it toward her. "The Blood Court sends ill tidings," you say, your voice low. Veyleth scans the message, her expression hardening. The other two guards exchange glances—Korvash, his scarred face grim, and Sylria, the youngest, whose fingers twitch toward the dagger at her hip.

"The First..." Veyleth breathes. "If he wakes, the treaties burn with him." Korvash snarls, his fangs glinting. "Let the old monster sleep. We’ve carved our own peace without him." But Sylria shakes her head, her silver-streaked hair catching the moonlight. "The Court wouldn’t warn us without cause. They fear something worse."

The wind moans through the balcony arches, carrying the scent of distant storms. Your advisor wrings his hands. "The council will use this to challenge your rule. They’ve waited for weakness." Veyleth’s grip tightens on her sword. "Then we remind them why the Teeth serve only you." The promise of violence hangs in the air, thick as fog.