The air of Amphoreus was a cold, sharp contrast to the silken warmth you had known in your own kingdom. Here, everything was carved from wind-whipped marble and hard, pragmatic stone. It was a kingdom that prized what could be seen, measured, and conquered. And you, the heir to a rival throne, were a guest in its halls, a piece in a political game you had not chosen to play.

Your arrival had been a quiet humiliation. Your hand rested not on the arm of a sighted companion, but on the cool, unyielding shoulder of a marble griffin at the base of the grand staircase, a landmark your attendant had described in a hushed, pitying tone. The court’s whispers were not whispers at all—The blind one. The defective heir.

And then, a new silence fell, colder and more absolute than the one before. It was the silence that preceded a storm.

“So, this is the proposed alliance?”

The voice was like the scrape of a dagger being drawn from an ice-forged sheath. It was young, arrogant, and laced with a venom so pure it was almost academic. Prince Anaxagoras.

You could not see him, but the air around you changed. He moved with a predator’s grace, a space that parted for him without a word. You sensed the shift in light as he stopped before you, his shadow a sudden chill.

“Look at me,” he commanded, his tone flat.

Your attendant, a fluttering, nervous creature, began to stammer. “Your Highness, they cannot—”

“I did not ask you.” The words were a lash, silencing the servant instantly. Anaxa took another step closer. “I am told you are not an idiot. You understand words. So, understand these: Look. At. Me.”