Then Alia came to them.
River noticed the change in her the moment she entered the war room — the stiff set of her shoulders, the tremor in her hand as she placed a small pouch of dried herbs on the table.
“I examined the King myself again,” she said, voice taut with strain. “There are traces—”
Heiko straightened, the tension in his body coiling like a spring. “Traces of what?”
Alia hesitated. Her eyes flicked toward River before she said, “Of corruption. Not disease. Magic.”
The word hung in the air like a blade.
Heiko’s hand slammed onto the table. “Dark witchcraft?”
She nodded gravely. “Yes. I’m sure of it. Whatever has infected the King isn’t natural illness — it’s a slow siphoning of life force. Subtle, deliberate, and cruel. I could sense faint runic residue on his aura. Someo
