A brittle wind rattled the high windows of the Purging Hall, where Leon knelt on a stained prayer cloth before a circle of stoic tutors. Snow whispered through shattered panes, drifts piling at the chamber's thresholds like spilled blood. Nora stood pressed against the heavy wooden door—summoned at dawn, shivering in silken disgrace gowns meant for Elsa—her wrists bound by velvet shackles that chafed her skin. She watched as tubed lancets hovered above his shoulders and temples.
“Breathe deeply, Your Highness," intoned Master Havelock, voice flat. “The purge must succeed."
Leon's golden eyes flickered with pain and fury. A drop of serum hissed as it met his skin; muscle spasms convulsed his frame. He snarled, but the tutors held him fast: four guards at each limb, collars biting into his
