The Prophecy of the Kings

Filler Chapter 3: Venice's POV

Venice's office was not like the rest of the Kohana Council. It was located deep in the lower chamber, far away from the warm, golden light of the sun. Instead, very little light came shining through the small windows that lined the top of the walls. The room was dimly lit, with flickering candles casting eerie shadows across the walls.

Despite the lack of natural light, the walls of Venice's office were still adorned with ornate tapestries and paintings, but these depicted scenes of darkness and danger. The air in the room was thick with a musty, old smell, and the silence was only broken by the occasional drip of water from a leaky pipe.

Outside of the caged window, the sounds of merchants haggling, carts clattering over cobblestones, and children playing in the alleys filled the air. The city was a hub of activity, with people from all walks of life going about their daily business.

Despite the lively surroundings, Venice couldn't help but feel a sense of foreboding. She knew that the council was a place of secrets and intrigue, and she was no stranger to the cutthroat politics of the ruling class. She had risen to power through sheer force of will and determination, but she knew that her position was always at risk.

As she sat at her desk, pouring over old documents and notes, she couldn't shake the feeling that someone was watching her. She glanced around the room, searching for any signs of intrusion, but found none. The shadows cast by the fading sunlight seemed to stretch and twist, playing tricks on her mind.

Venice took a deep breath, steeling herself for what was to come. She knew that she had to be careful, to watch her back and be vigilant at all times. Amare was full of dangers, both seen and unseen, and she was determined to survive and thrive in this unforgiving world.

Her mind raced with thoughts of the recent events, including her meeting with Rebene, who had appeared uneasy and nervous, and had mentioned rumors about her reputation circulating within the council. Although she couldn't believe that anyone would dare speak ill of her, she knew something was awry.

As she contemplated the recent events, Venice began to piece together clues that someone was trying to undermine her. She was becoming increasingly convinced that she needed to identify the source of the rumors and put a stop to them, lest her carefully crafted reputation be tarnished. She was resolute in her determination to protect her name and was willing to do whatever it takes to preserve her standing within the council.

For some time, Venice had been working covertly, manipulating the council's decisions to prevent Alex from obtaining his prophecy. She had always been careful in her approach, but now it appeared as though her plan was unraveling. Despite her cunning, it seemed that someone had uncovered her schemes, and Venice knew that she had to act quickly to maintain her control and influence over the council.

Determined to protect her carefully crafted plans and thwart any potential threats to her ambition, Venice's mind was consumed with thoughts of betrayal and power. As she plotted her next move, she knew that time was of the essence and that she needed to act swiftly.

With deliberate and purposeful movements, Venice reached for her quill and parchment, the cool surface of the quill's feather and the rough texture of the parchment beneath her fingertips. She pressed down with just enough pressure to make her words legible, her writing flowing seamlessly onto the page as she composed a message to the four Luminarian men. As she wrote her urgent message, Venice's quivering hand left a trail of jagged lines on the rough parchment. The sound of the quill scratching against the paper was like nails on a chalkboard, jarring and nerve-wracking. Her heart pounded in her chest like a drum, drowning out all other sounds in the room. The coolness of the quill's feather felt like an ice cube against her clammy fingertips, and the rough texture of the parchment was like sandpaper, rubbing her nerves raw. Every stroke of the quill felt like an eternity, each word a weight on her chest, suffocating her with anxiety.