The Gilded Palace was a place of secrets, whispers, and quiet treachery. Its walls were steeped in gold and shadow, an endless maze of opulence that only the highest of the high dared to enter. Its halls were a reflection of power, built on the blood of those who had come before, and yet, like all things born of wealth, it was destined to fall.

Aidana moved through it like a phantom, unseen, unheard. Her cloak, woven from the essence of dusk, rippled silently behind her as she navigated the marble floors. She was a visitor here, a stranger in a world of luxury and decadence. Yet none of this mattered to her.

The purpose of her visit was simple: to claim a soul.

The King of the Gilded Throne was dying. His body had been ravaged by sickness, his life force flickering like a candle in the wind. The physicians could do nothing; the priests offered empty prayers. He was waiting, patiently, for the inevitable. And when it came, Aidana would be there.

Her heart did not falter at the thought of the man who lay dying. She had done this countless times before. She was the Angel of Death, the harbinger of fate, the one who watched and waited while mortals clung to their fragile existence.

She paused in the doorway of the royal chamber, her gaze settling on the frail form of the king. His skin was pale, his breath shallow, but there was something about him that drew her attention. It was not his fear. Mortals were always afraid of death. No, it was something darker. Something she couldn't quite place.

The room was heavy with the scent of incense and dying light. She could almost taste the decay in the air. She had seen death in many forms, but there was something unique about this moment. Something... restless.

As she stepped forward, her fingers barely grazing the air before her, she prepared to take what was hers. The king's soul would be a quiet one, a fading light, slipping into the beyond without ceremony. She would take it, and the world would move on.

But then, the door slammed open.

A rush of cold air swept through the room, and the delicate scent of roses and death curled together. The silence shattered, replaced by a presence far more powerful than anything she had encountered in this gilded prison.

Aidana's eyes flickered toward the intruder, but she did not flinch.

He was a man draped in shadows, his crimson cloak trailing behind him like the promise of something broken. His eyes, dark as night, locked with hers for a moment too long, and she felt something stir deep within her—an awareness, a recognition she could not explain.

His scent was not one she was familiar with, but it was unmistakable—blood, old and fresh, like a wound that never healed. And yet, despite the danger he emanated, there was something almost... regal about him.

The man did not speak, but his presence filled the room. The advisors and servants in the corners of the chamber shrank back, a quiet terror rising in the air. But Aidana? She stood perfectly still.