Noctis Featherston smoothed the sealed letter against his palm and broke the red wax. The notice was short. His cousin had been impeached and jailed for raising a blade against the court fool — a man shielded by the ruby-tipped silver staff that marked his untouchable rank. Noctis read it twice. Somewhere out there, his stolen crown still waited. But first, this gift. He dressed in full royal cloth. Deep blue. Silver at the collar. Every stitch a quiet claim to the throne his cousin had taken from him. The tower rose in spirals of pale stone and bright tile, a fairy-book prison built for fallen nobles. Guards opened the door without a word. Noctis climbed. At the top, behind iron bars, his cousin stood waiting, pale and unshaven. "You came to gloat," his cousin said. Noctis only smiled and let the silence stretch. Then he set the broken-sealed letter on the sill between them. "I came to take back what is mine," he said. "You no longer hold the court. You no longer hold the guard. Tell me where the crown is, and I will speak for you." His cousin's jaw tightened. He turned to the window. He said nothing. Noctis walked out knowing the truth — his cousin would die in this tower before he gave up the last thing he could still hold over him.