Page 101

The first advisor hesitates, his fingers hovering near the parchment as he seeks Maereth’s approval. He looks up, but his focus collides with Cael’s gaze. Terror ripples through his frame, his knuckles whitening as he pulls his hand back from the desk.

“I cannot place my seal upon this charter if Cael forces a legal veto,” the counselor states, his voice fracturing while he retreats a full step from the desk. “The enemy is already at our borders, and this political delay leaves our defense units without a unified command.”

The second advisor moves in tandem with his companion, pulling his frame back into the shadows. He folds his arms across his chest and closes his leather folder with a decisive thud.

Maereth drops her quill. It clatters on the desk, black ink spattering across the unrolled parchment and the front of her dress. She shoves her chair back, the iron legs screeching against the floorboards. She rises to her full height, her composure shattering while her chest heaves with a jagged breath. Her face twists into a sneer that exposes her teeth while she turns her attention to Cael.

“You allow a mute stone statue to dictate the boundaries of your courage?” She points a finger at the parchment on the desk. “You mistake his stubbornness for wisdom. He surrenders our defenses while our enemies march toward us.”

She turns her venom to Elara, stepping around the corner of the desk to close the physical gap between them.

Elara’s heart sinks, stepping back while the memory of Maereth’s previous attempt to harm her batters against her skull. The gesture mirrors the physical violence she endured within the castle walls of Veyrenn, where King Eric targeted her with similar cruelty. Weakness spreads through her limbs, her knees trembling while the weight of that old terror resurfaces to rob the air from her lungs.

Cael intercepts. He stands between them, offering no other warning than his menacing demeanor. Keeping his eyes fixed on his stepmother, he extends his free hand behind his back to find Elara. His fingers slip into her palm, his thumb pressing against her knuckles to absorb the tremor in her grip.

Maereth’s steps falter, her wide eyes staring into her stepson’s face. With a sneer, she shifts her stance to glare at Elara over Cael's shoulder. “And you arrive here to preach of economic ruin, carrying the blood of Aline. You are a hostage from a foreign kingdom, sent to this castle to honor a contract born of your mother’s desperation. You possess no authority within these walls to lecture my council on the survival of my realm.”

“Sign the documents,” Maereth turns and commands the lords, her hand slamming onto the mahogany surface once more. “We strike Zahraan, or we prove ourselves as weak as the heir.”

The two advisors stand frozen behind the desk, their hands hovering over their closed leather folders. The first lord clears his throat, his voice trembling while he faces the queen’s mounting fury. “Your Majesty, we must urge caution. The southern vanguard cannot sustain a defense campaign without the treasury’s immediate release of emergency coin for the garrison supplies. We cannot sign this charter under these conditions.”

Maereth opens her mouth to deliver a response, her features twisting with rage at the open defiance.

The doors burst outward, the impact rattling against the stone walls of the private quarters to fracture the tense silence. A breathless military messenger plunges into the chamber, his leather chest guard stained with melted frost. His fingers grip the doorframe to support his weight while his gaze darts across the assembly.

“Your Highnesses,” the messenger pants. “The perimeter lines have collapsed. The battalion you sent has failed. Troops from Omar are mobilizing near the southern shelves. Their advanced scout units have crossed the outer markers, advancing directly toward our valley gates.”

The first counselor drops his leather folder, the parchment sheets sliding across the polished oak to flutter to the floorboards. Hartwell’s hand grips the pommel of his longsword until his leather glove creaks in the sudden stillness. The two senior advisors pivot their torsos away from the writing table, their bodies stiffening while they fix their stare on Queen Maereth. A hard grin touches her lips while her chin rises to meet their silent accusation.

The parchment charter on the desk flies to the floorboards, the pages scattering while the first iron bells toll from the palace towers. Deep, metallic notes shake the masonry beneath their boots. Below the quarters, the corridors fill with the din of mobilizing defense units. The rhythmic clank of plate armor and the hurried shouts of captains ring up the stairwells while the palace shifts into a defensive panic.

Cael fixes his gaze on Elara, his features tightening while the messenger’s words fill the quarters. Elara sways, the color draining from her cheeks in unison with the grim weight that takes hold of Cael. This gathering carried no intent to legalize a future campaign. The assembly served only to mask an execution already set in motion.

Cael pivots back to face Maereth. What have you done? his fingers demand, the fluid force cutting the air. You sent those men to their deaths without the authorization of the crown.

Maereth’s wide eyes of rage slowly melt into a smile of satisfaction.

“I execute what is necessary for this realm, securing the future of your titles,” Maereth states, her voice lowering while her gaze drifts to Elara. “This conflict is the correction Riverath requires. Our people deserve a sovereign who wields a sword, not a queen who remains a helpless ornament defined by glimmering accessories.”

Cael’s hand leaves Elara’s, attempting to take one step forward until Hartwell steps in between.

A hard tension locks Cael’s frame, his knuckles turning white while he fixes his gaze on the queen. His fingers curl into fists at his sides, his jaw tightening under the weight of his anger. The force radiating from him halts Maereth’s smile, the focus in his eyes answering the strike against Elara’s worth without a single sign.

Hartwell throws his weight into the space, his palms pressing flat against the chest of Cael’s tunic to hold him back. “Your Highness, no. The gates. The vanguard requires your presence at the perimeter wall right now.”

Elara watches the back of Cael’s tunic, her fingernails digging into her palms to stem the rising terror. This dark despair echoes her childhood fears, blurring the edges of the corridor. She stands frozen while the sound of the alarm bells echoes.

Cael relaxes under Hartwell’s pressure, a hard tension locking the muscles of his neck while he turns to Elara, blocking the sight of the rushing advisors. She looks up at him, swallowing while the group moves out of the private quarters together.

Hartwell steps to the center of the corridor, his head turning while he barks orders to the passing guards. “Secure the eastern barricades! Bring the heavy shields to the main gate courtyard!”

Cael intercepts an advancing knight who carries a standard issue longsword. He places his hand on the man’s iron pauldron to halt his stride, forcing the guard to look directly at him. Cael guides the knight toward the narrow window slit overlooking the lower courtyard, using his physical stance to center the man's attention on the target zone below.

Form a defensive line at the lower archway, he signs, his chest expanding with a steady breath. Split the archer units into two flanks to cover the ridge. Hold the perimeter wall until the reserve units arrive.

The knight tracks the movements, his expression hardening while he absorbs the instructions. He strikes his armored fist against his breastplate in a silent salute, turning to execute the deployment. With his defense instructions finalized, Cael pivots himself back toward where Elara stands.

“Cael?” Elara whispers, her eyes searching his.