The Royal Aviary wasn't just ruined; it was violated. Moonlight, cold and sharp as judgment, sliced through the skeleton of the great dome, illuminating a mosaic of shattered crystal, dead exotic flowers, and cooling blood spread across the marble floor. This was the price of Lykandra's crown, paid generation after generation. The Solhallow curse, born from a witch's grief and grafted onto a god's corrupted blessing, ensured no Banehallow ruler died old and content. It demanded this: kinslaying, madness, a brutal pruning of the bloodline fought under the indifferent moon. The Throne Wars were ending again, leaving only predator and prey.
Alaric Banehallow, First Prince, breathed raggedly, the metallic taste of his own blood thick in his mouth. Pain radiated from a deep tear across his ribs where Kaedor's claws had ripped through armor and flesh. But beneath the pain, the curse burned – a dark, exhilarating fire promising strength, demanding dominance. He locked eyes with his cousin, Kaedor Ashfang, the final obstacle. Kaedor was a beast of muscle and fury, wounded and bleeding, driven by his clan's brutal creed and the relentless ambition of his mother, Magdra. But he was still standing, still dangerous.
Alaric's gaze flickered instinctively to Velryn Silverhowl. She stood near a fractured obsidian perch, a figure of lethal grace amidst the carnage. Her silver-etched crossbow was ready, her storm-grey eyes intense and focused. She was everything Alaric desired in a Queen – beautiful, intelligent, ambitious, skilled in the deadly arts of her clan. Her presence felt like validation, a shared understanding of the necessary ruthlessness required to claim power in this cursed land. He offered a taut smile; she returned it with a flicker in her eyes that he interpreted as partnership, ignorant of the venom beneath. Hidden beneath his tunic, the Hearthseed Locket, his mother Lysandra's sole legacy, pulsed with a faint, unnoticed warmth against his skin – a forgotten ward against a fate he couldn't comprehend.
"He falters, my Prince," Velryn's voice cut through Kaedor's harsh panting. "All rage, no sense. Magdra's puppet is almost cut free. End it."
Her words were the final spark igniting the curse's command. Kill. Rule. Kaedor roared, perhaps sensing the shift, and charged in a last, desperate explosion of Ashfang fury.
Alaric met him without hesitation. This wasn't battle; it was culmination. He moved with the lethal precision honed by years of training and curse-fueled instinct. Claws flashed, tearing air and flesh. Alaric evaded a clumsy swing, pivoted, and drove his own obsidian talons deep into Kaedor's side, seeking the heart.
Kaedor screamed, a wet, gurgling sound, staggering back, eyes wide with the shock of death. He stared down at the blood erupting from his side, then met Alaric's gaze with burning hatred.
The curse surged, demanding the final act of dominance. "Velryn!" Alaric commanded, turning slightly, wanting her witness to his absolute victory. "Behold!"
He saw her lower the crossbow she hadn't needed. But the expected look of shared triumph wasn't there. Her expression shifted, hardened, the intensity becoming analytical, predatory. Her lips curved into that sharp, cunning smile he'd seen before, but this time, it was directed solely, chillingly, at him.
Ice flooded Alaric's veins. Wrong.
Before suspicion could fully bloom, before he could react to the betrayal shimmering in her eyes, she moved with blinding speed. Her hand lashed out, the heel of her palm striking a precise nerve cluster high on his spine – a vulnerability mapped between them in moments of feigned trust, now used as a weapon.
Agony detonated through him. Paralysis locked his limbs instantly. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't defend. He collapsed to his knees, helpless, staring up at her in utter disbelief.
Then came the laughter – ragged, wet, but undeniably triumphant. Kaedor, miraculously still clinging to life despite the fatal wound, was laughing maniacally. He looked from the paralyzed Alaric to Velryn, and a look of dark, shared understanding passed between them. The alliance, the betrayal, planned and executed. Ashfang and Silverhowl, puppets dancing to Magdra's and Malakor's ambitions, using Velryn's closeness, her clan's manipulative grooming, to achieve what Kaedor's brute strength alone could not.
Velryn stepped back smoothly, presenting the kneeling Alaric to the dying Kaedor like a final offering. Her cunning smile remained fixed, her eyes glittering with cold satisfaction.
Kaedor, fueled by a last surge of sadistic victory, ignored his own imminent death. He staggered forward, raising his massive, gore-slicked fist, aiming not for a quick kill, but for a brutal, shattering end.
Trapped, paralyzed, Alaric watched the blow descend. Kaedor's horrid laughter and Velryn's beautiful, treacherous smile were the last things he perceived. Betrayed. Utterly. His world exploded into pain and then dissolved into cold, meaningless ash.