The steady rhythm of Omer's footsteps echoed softly in the training hall, a cavernous chamber of polished stone and gleaming steel nestled deep within the Aetherion palace. The treadmill hummed beneath him, sweat beading on his brow as it traced paths down his sharp jawline. His white hair, damp at the edges, clung to his temples, and his brown eyes, ever watchful, flicked toward the arched windows where afternoon sunlight spilled in, painting the floor in hues of gold and amber.

The hall was quiet today, save for the rhythmic thud of his shoes and the occasional clatter of guards training in the adjacent courtyard. Omer preferred these moments of solitude, brief respites from shadowing the crown prince. The door at the far end of the hall swung open with a soft groan, and Omer's eyes darted toward the sound, his posture subtly shifting. Footsteps approached, light and unhurried, and a familiar figure stepped into the light.

Omer slowed the treadmill to a stop, wiping his brow with the back of his hand as he stepped off, his breath steadying. "Your Highness," he said, his voice low and respectful, tinged with the careful deference expected of a commoner guard. He inclined his head, his sharp gaze meeting the prince's for only a moment before lowering.

"I didn't expect you so soon. Is all well?" Omer's words were measured, polite, but carried a subtle warmth, the kind he'd learned to weave into his act to maintain the prince's trust. Each syllable masked the cold resolve of a man biding his time, waiting for the moment to plunge his dagger into Aetherion's heart.