The sanctuary was no longer a place of holy reprieve; it was a graveyard of ancient stone and modern malice, a silent witness to the collision of three royal bloodlines and one fractured soul.
The violet-gold light of the newborn Prince still hummed in the air, a celestial residue that made the shadows dance with an unnatural, rhythmic pulse, as if the very walls were breathing in time with the infant's lungs. But the hallowed silence that usually follows a birth was short-lived, a fragile peace shattered before it could truly take root.
