The royal palace had never been a place of rest, but for Alaric, it had now become a marble prison. While the city below buzzed with the noise of hammers and the voices of refugees, Alaric sat on his broken throne, feeling an inexplicable weight pressing down on him. It wasn't his physical wounds that pained him, but a silent "energy hemorrhage" draining his strength whenever he entered the throne room.
High above on the ceiling of the hall, amidst the corroded golden ornaments and the marble supports holding the structure (the main Barre Fixe of the palace), there was a "thread" of gray smoke visible only to those who looked closely behind the fabric of reality. Scepter, the treacherous minister, had not fled empty-handed; he had left an "idea" suspended there—a dark magic feeding on the pulses of the "Void Core."
Elianor stood near the large window, watching the purple sunset, but she noticed that Alaric no longer looked at her with the same focus. He kept raising his head toward the ceiling, his black eyes narrowing with suspicion.
"Alaric… you've been distracted for hours," Elianor said, approaching him and placing her hand on his cold, armored shoulder. "Is the crown hurting you again?"
"No, Elianor," Alaric replied in a low voice, his eyes still fixed above. "But I feel there is an 'eye' that never blinks above us. The palace is breathing strangely, as if there's a mine planted in the air, waiting for the moment my patience runs out."
At that moment, Azrael rushed in, carrying an ancient scroll made of swamp hides. "Alaric! I found a mention of this in the looted archives of Merlock. Scepter wasn't just a minister; he was known as the 'Architect of Specters.' He has the ability to suspend 'silent souls' in fixed places, acting as filters that absorb magic and transfer it to another dimension."
Suddenly, the hall shook. The smoky thread in the ceiling began to expand, turning into a small "hole" pulsating with a sickly yellow light. Scepter wasn't there in body, but his voice echoed through the hole like the whisper of demons:
"Build your city, oh King of Ash… build it with the strength of your arms, while I build my throne from the strength of your soul. Every time the number of refugees increases, and their hope grows, so too does the energy I steal from you through this 'bond' you forgot on the ceiling of your own home."
Alaric rose sharply from his throne and drew his sword, "Soulgloom." He pointed the blade toward the ceiling, unleashing a wave of black void that struck the hole, but the blow passed through it as if through a mirage.
"It's not physical!" Azrael shouted in warning. "It's an 'idea' suspended in the fabric of the place! Every time you attack it with your power, you charge it further. Scepter has tied the palace's stability to this magic; if you destroy the 'support' (Barre Fixe) it inhabits, the entire ceiling will collapse on our heads."
Alaric stopped, sweat beading on his forehead. He understood the trap now. Scepter had placed Alaric between two choices: either let him drain his power and monitor his movements, or destroy the palace's main support and kill the wounded and the forgotten inside.
Elianor looked at Alaric and saw in his eyes the fury mixed with helplessness. She stepped forward confidently, raised her blue shroud, and began weaving a different kind of magic. "If the support cannot be destroyed, then we can 'isolate' it. Alaric… don't attack the idea; instead, 'envelop' it with your silence."
While Elianor tried to contain the suspended magic, Scepter smiled from his distant hiding place. His trick had succeeded in preoccupying the king with himself, while the "caravans" that had entered the city carried within their ranks other eyes, ready to execute the next step of the internal coup.
The capital that had just seemed safe had now become a "trap" ceilinged with betrayal. The king who had broken the chains of heaven found himself bound by a "thread" on the ceiling of his own home.