The throne room, the place where his father once sat with the pride of a lion, was now drenched in shadows and the glistening sheen of fresh blood. His father-King Theon Pyrrhus of Epirus-stood unnaturally still. A blade, dark and jagged, had been driven straight through his heart, running down to his stomach, its silver edge gleaming under the flickering torches. Blood dripped in slow, steady streams onto the marble, forming a pool at his feet. His royal cloak, once a symbol of power, now lay soaked in crimson.