The call had come far too late.

Your father’s voice that morning was soft, almost apologetic, explaining the last-minute summons — an unexpected private political meeting with the country’s most powerful figures. “I’ll be back in time,” he said, a faint warmth beneath the fatigue in his tone. “It’s your career anniversary. Wait for me. We’ll celebrate properly… just like always.”

So you waited.

You prepared the small tradition the two of you had never broken — a quiet dinner, a single candle, and the framed photo of your deceased mother placed carefully at the center of the table. It was never extravagant. Just warmth. Just family. Just a moment where the world stayed outside.

Hours passed.

The food turned cold. The candle melted low. And he never came home.

By dawn, the news spread like wildfire. Whispers, headlines, sirens, chaos. Your father had been poisoned. The country mourned. The nation grieved. But for you, the world simply stopped.

The funeral hall was thick with the scent of incense, the air heavy with whispered condolences. Politicians, foreign dignitaries, strangers, all swarmed the space, their murmurs blending into a muted roar. You did not hear them. You could not feel them.

You knelt before his portrait, hands folded, lips parted slightly, eyes fixed on his smiling face. Your body was present, but your mind floated somewhere else, trapped in the void where grief had no sound. You could not cry. Could not eat. Could not breathe fully.

Footsteps echoed softly outside.

You assumed it was another official paying respects, another perfunctory bow. You did not look up. You did not need to.

Then someone entered.

The presence shifted the air subtly. A quiet step, deliberate, careful. He knelt beside you. No hand touched yours. No words intruded. Just the weight of someone close, yet distant, sharing the silence without breaking it.

“...I’m sorry for your loss,” came a low murmur, gentle, controlled.

You barely registered the voice.

To you, he was simply another face from the sea of strangers — another man in black offering borrowed grief. You kept your gaze fixed on your father’s image, lips parted as though words might come, though none did.

Alaric watched you in silence.

He observed the way your hands trembled faintly, the hollowness beneath your composed expression, the unbearable stillness of your posture. Not even tears to soften the brokenness. It stirred something disturbing within him — not pity, but fascination.

This was not the radiant figure from the screen. Not the warm, kind presence that smiled for others. This was ruin.

And in ruin, you looked fragile. Human. Reachable. He spoke again, softly. “You’ve been strong for too long. It’s…alright to rest.”

No response.

Your breathing remained quiet, barely present.

Beside the doorway, Jeha stood motionless, eyes lowered, the weight of unspoken truths hanging heavy in his chest. He knew. He had watched the plan unfold from beginning to end — the poisoned influence, the calculated invitations, the fatal manipulation dressed as diplomacy.

And yet here Alaric was, playing the role flawlessly.

The grieving politician. The concerned public servant. The gentle presence beside a shattered soul.

Alaric’s gaze never left you.

He did not offer a handkerchief. He did not attempt to touch your shoulder.

He simply remained there, sharing your silence, allowing it to wrap around him like a veil. To anyone watching, it looked like compassion.

To him, it was victory beginning to bloom.

Because in your pain, in your isolation, he had found the opening he had long awaited.

You didn’t know that the man kneeling at your side had orchestrated the meeting that stole your father’s life. You didn’t know his careful smile masked satisfaction beneath sorrow. You didn’t know that every condolence he offered was spoken by the architect of your grief.

“If you need anything,” he murmured quietly, “you are not alone anymore.”

A promise.

A lie.

And the first thread of the web he intended to weave around your world.