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His mind spins so rapidly, Cael barely notices his surroundings until he stops dead on the threshold of the council chamber. His father and stepmother are already seated at the end of the large table.
Cael rushes toward the council chamber, his sister and Elara close behind. King Raelith looks frail, his gray hair spilling over his shoulders in disarray and his breathing shallow, but he has forced himself into an artificial posture of authority. High-ranking vanguards, royal knights, and the palace advisors are gathered around the perimeter, their faces tense. Kaera and Elara stand close beside Cael, their joints locking with shock and concern as they witness the sick king risking his life to maintain his public position.
Cael’s jaw tightens into a rigid line as his eyes lock onto his father’s pale, trembling frame. A sharp wave of protective anger crashes against his chest. He told his father to remain in his bedchamber. To find him here, surrounded by the calculating gazes of the advisors and the cold, unbothered presence of Queen Maereth, makes the air in the chamber suffocating.
He forces a breath through his lungs, his broad shoulders squaring as his fingers curl into tight fists to hide his knuckles. Beside him, he registers Elara standing against the tension, while Kaera’s hand reaches out to grasp her sleeve in shared dread for their father’s safety.
Not waiting for an invitation or a word of greeting from the council, Cael breaks his stasis and steps forward. His heavy boots thud forcefully against the stone floor, drawing every tense face in the chamber directly to him. He bypasses Queen Maereth, offering her no glance as he places his tall frame at the head of the massive table.
His gloved hands strike the dark wood to unroll the parchment maps of the southern border checkpoints. The guards and advisors step forward and take their own seats, ready to begin the meeting.
Cael raises his hands, his fingers beginning to move with rapid speed as he takes control of the assembly, leaving his weak father to simply watch from the end of the table. You belong in your quarters. This burden is mine to carry, not yours. Let me protect your strength while you heal. Never once has Cael scolded his own father, but the overwhelming events make him think less.
He avoids every gaze in the chamber.
“Son, I handled Omar before. I understand his tactics. His manipulation. His plea to gain power and support from us,” King Raelith says, his voice soft but tone is firm. “Please, let me handle this before I care for my health.”
Hartwell stands straight, though he does not defend King Raelith or his case this time. Queen Maereth’s gaze pierces Cael, eyes widening with anger. “Do not speak to the king in such manner. Especially not in a council chamber.”
“I am not Cael’s King, I am his father,” he firmly tells her, before facing Cael again. “This once, Cael. accompany me. Though I want to be the head of the conversation.”
Cael’s frustration fades, his shoulders relaxing at his father’s gentle tone. The note of pleading in his voice. Swallowing his previous emotions, he inclines his head. There are three empty seats near him. one by the right, two across to King Raelith’s left. They are saved.
Cael takes the empty seat next to his father, Elara and Kaera falling into the chairs to his right, their focus dropping straight to the surface of the table.
King Raelith places his trembling, bare hand over the edge of the southern border lines on the map. He looks across the gathered advisors, his voice a raspy murmur that carries a chilling authority. “We have forty-eight hours before Omar Zahraani and his personal escort arrive at our gates. He is coming to test our resolve at the negotiation table, and he is counting on our internal distraction to force a surrender of our territories.”
A senior vanguard advisor leans forward, his finger tracking the narrow mountain passes marked in faded ink. “If we pull the watchtower patrols from the eastern ridge to reinforce the primary gates, we leave our flank exposed, Your Majesty. Omar is a calculator. He will anticipate a heavy forward defense and look for the seams.”
Cael remains still beside Elara, tracking every movement of the advisor’s finger on the parchment. He raises his right hand, his gloved fingers tapping against a specific, secondary valley road tucked behind the eastern watchtowers.
He signs a single, rapid sequence of instructions. The eastern ridge stays populated. We split the second vanguard unit into the shadows of the lower valley. We surprise them if they attempt to circle the perimeter.
The senior vanguard looks up from the map, studying the prince's silent command before offering a respectful incline of his head. “A hidden forward defense. It will force Omar’s scouts to report an impenetrable line, keeping him at the negotiation table rather than risking a skirmish. A brilliant deployment, Your Highness.”
Lowering his hands back to the dark wood, Cael feels the stinging, heavy ache throbbing beneath his leather gloves. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches the slight movement of Elara beside him, her gaze kept low as she tracks the patterns on the tablecloth. He notes the way she straightens her spine, her delicate features locking into the exact, stern composure. Under the watchful stares of the court, her rigid posture shields his position, presenting a flawless front that masks her internal confusion.
The low, serious murmurs of the advisors continue to echo around the chamber, mapping out numbers, rations, and defensive formations. The air in the chamber remains freezing, but the collective focus stays anchored on the parchment. Slowly, the maps are rolled up and the heavy parchment is tied with leather cords. One by one, the advisors and high-ranking vanguards bow their heads to the royal family and exit the council chamber. Only Hartwell remains behind. As soon as the door shuts behind the last council member, the professional silence shatters.
“You arrogant, useless boy,” Maereth spits, her voice cutting through the quiet chamber like a jagged blade as she slams her palms against the dark wood of the table. She stands up, her sharp features contorted with a shameless, boiling anger as she points a trembling finger directly at Cael’s face. “How dare you barge in here and command this council? How dare you display your childish, chaotic defiance in front of the King’s advisors? You are a curse upon this crown, a silent embarrassment who thinks a few frantic hand gestures make him fit to rule.”
Cael does not move, his rigid posture locking into place as he stares straight ahead at the empty tablecloth, his jaw clenched so tightly the muscle leaps beneath his skin. He does not raise his hands to defend himself. He simply absorbs the venomous words in stillness.
“Maereth, enough,” King Raelith commands weakly, his raspy voice breaking into a fit of shallow coughing as he reaches out to grasp his wife’s wrist, trying his absolute best to calm her down. “He was protecting my strength. Do not speak to my son this way.”
“Your son is a danger to our survival!” she snaps back, tearing her arm away from the King’s frail grip, unbothered by his failing breath. “Omar Zahraani will arrive in two days, and you expect us to rely on a broken prince who cannot even speak to his own people? He is nothing but chaos wrapped in a crown.”
Kaera’s shoulders shake with a mounting fury, her fingers gripping her skirt so hard that her knuckles strain against the smooth silk, while Elara stands beside her with an expression of disgust. The shameless cruelty of the display leaves a palpable tension in the space.
Cael finally responds, unable to watch the growing weakness of his father under the strain for another second. Raising his hands, his eyes narrow as he cuts his gestures aggressively through the space. You are only making father weak by doing this. If you care about him, stop causing worse chaos than there already is. He is growing helpless and he cannot handle everything.
“How dare you?” Queen Maereth’s loud voice cuts through the entire chamber so sharply that his ears begin to ring. “How dare you speak to your own mother in such a way? Ever since I have arrived in this palace, all you did was disregard me.”
Cael’s injured fingers curl into a tight fist, the pain within his hand increasing. That physical ache is nothing compared to the agony in his heart at her words. He forces his muscles to lock, stopping himself from pounding his fist against the wood of the table.
“Mother, you know that is false,” Kaera steps in, facing her mother. A mouse sizing up to a cat. “You have been unkind to Cael nearly his entire life. I have seen how you pushed him aside, ruining every year of his celebrations.”
Elara cannot handle the escalating chaos. Cael notices the slight attempt she makes to rise from her chair without drawing notice, the sheer panic in her green eyes. He does not blame her. He wishes to depart as well. Instead of granting the desire to sign exactly what he thinks of his stepmother, he pushes back his chair, curling his injured hand gently around Elara’s upper arm to guide her from the council chamber. She follows beside him, her fearful gaze fixed on the floor as they make their way through the corridors in absolute silence.
