Page 92

Whispers rise from the tiers as the nobles lean forward to track their response. Elara feels a pulse of nervousness behind her ribs, but looking at the rigid, silent way Cael carries himself beside her, she adjusts her position to stand tall by his side.

The high council and the outer district lords will silence themselves, he signs, his gestures cutting through the turbulent chatter with a stark authority. The vanguard garrison will not be used to launch a military campaign. The immediate deployment will be divided into two distinct perimeters.

He pauses, his gaze locking onto the tiers of shouting advisors, his posture mirroring the discipline his father demanded of him. One portion of the vanguard will reinforce the southern roads to protect the marketplace and stabilize the merchants. The second portion will patrol the eastern approach where our foreign goods enter the city. We secure the borders, protect our trade, and do not provoke a war with Zahraan.

He drops his hands, his chest rising and falling with a slow breath as his gaze sweeps across the closer rows of councilors.

Kaera steps forward, her fingers tightening around the massive leather-bound ledger as she pulls it across the wood. “The exact patrol rotations and sector assignments are detailed within these emergency logs,” she says. “The garrison numbers are ready for verification. We require the signatures of the district overseers to finalize the southern perimeter now.”

The shouting outer lord narrows his eyes, his gaze darting between the siblings on the elevated platform. “A ledger means nothing when the boundary lines are collapsing!” He points a finger at the platform. “The crown offers paper rotations and silent hand movements while the threat of Zahraan looms over our heads. We must sign our livelihoods away on the word of a princess who handles bakery dough and a prince who cannot command his own guards aloud? You speak of dividing the vanguard to strengthen Riverath’s protective shield, but how do we trust a defensive shield commanded by a prince who lacks a voice to order a charge?”

Sneers break out along the rows of advisors, their muffled chuckles vibrating through the tense air.

Cael’s jaw sets into a firm line. He lifts his leather-gloved hands. Before he can complete the first sentence, an older high council member at the side table slams a stack of border reports on the table, blocking Cael from view.

“Save the hand gestures, Your Highness,” the councilor says, turning his back on Cael’s lifting arms. “We require verbal assurances that our defenses will hold against Zahraan’s raiders. We cannot spend the morning decoding silent commands while the protective borders remain exposed.”

Cael’s hands freeze mid-air. His fingers tremble. Slowly, his arms drop back toward the table. He stands motionless, his mouth pressed into a tight line as the shouting voices crowd him out.

Elara steps past the grand table, shifting her position until she stands directly in front of Cael. Her movement cuts off the mocking gaze of the tiers. Heat floods her chest, wiping away the lingering doubts in her mind. She looks out at the assembly, her lungs expanding as the lesson from her mother’s story rushes to the surface.

“Silence!” Elara commands, her voice ringing sharp and clear across the stone hall. The laughter stops. The front rows freeze.

The councilors stare at the foreign princess, their mouths parting in disbelief. Elara does not pause. She straightens her spine, pointing a hand toward the open leather ledger before locking her eyes onto the older councilor.

“You demand verbal assurances, but you lack the basic discipline to look at the parchment on the table,” Kaera states, her voice steady. “While you waste your breath shouting like children over burning storehouses, Prince Cael has already mapped the immediate deployment needed to strengthen Riverath’s defenses. The strategies are written ahead of your eyes. Read his ink rather than demanding a voice he does not possess, and understand the commands of your Crown Prince.”

Elara inhales a breath, her damp palms uncurling from her skirt. “I demand respect for my husband. His inability to speak does not give you the right to treat him as less than a royal, nor as less than your prince.” Her gaze sweeps across the sea of faces staring back at her. The weight of their eyes press down on her, making her knees tremble beneath her gown.

Before her limbs give way, Cael steps up beside her, his broad shoulder brushing hers as his hand slides over her wrist. He does not look down, keeping his gaze locked onto the assembly, but the pressure of his palm provides the reassurance she needs. His thumb strokes across her skin for a single heartbeat.

The older councilor clears his throat, his posture shrinking as he reaches down to touch the border reports he had slammed flat moments ago. He looks from Cael’s posture to Elara, his lips parting to speak, but no words come out.

Kaera breaks the standstill. Seizing the hush Elara has granted them, she steps to the front edge of the platform and thrusts the iron quill toward the front rows, her long black sleeves swishing against the wood. “The defensive response is prepared. The crown must decide whether Riverath will remain on the defensive or answer Zahraan with force.”

The shouting outer lord stares at the platform for one final second, his chest rising with a breath as he looks at the united front before him. Lowering his chin, he steps up the stone stairs to grasp the quill.

A violent crash echoes from the back of the chamber. The oak doors slam inward against the stone walls with a deafening bang that vibrates through the floorboards.

Queen Maereth storms into the chamber, her jaw set as she slams her way past the outer guards. Her immaculate posture remains unyielding, but the folds of her black velvet robe snap against her ankles with every aggressive step, signaling a chaotic anger that puts the entire assembly on edge.

Queen Maereth steps closer to the platform, her voice rising to a sharp, chilling register that echoes off the stone walls. “We will not cower behind paper logs while our enemy bides their time. Riverath must strike back at Zahraan with every blade we possess. We will push into their territories, cut down their forces, and burn their strongholds until their very name vanishes from the valley map. Only when they are erased will this kingdom know true security.”

Silence falls over the space. Nobody raises a hand. The nobles remain still, their faces neutral and their eyes locked on the Queen, listening to her cruel decree as if an unprovoked war is exactly what they had been waiting for all along.

Kaera steps forward. “This is madness! Father explicitly ordered a divided defense to prevent a conflict. If we cross into the buffer zone and attack them now, we will cause an irreversible mess and destroy our own trade lines before the vanguard is even prepared!”

We cannot launch an assault, Cael signs. A border war will isolate Riverath completely. We protect our people; we do not march into a trap.

Maereth does not look at him, turning her back on his lifting arms with cold indifference. She fixes her gaze on the silent tiers of the assembly. “The King’s illness has left us exposed,” she states, her voice freezing the space. “The high council knows the truth. We strike now until Zahraan is nothing but ash, or we allow them to destroy us from within.”

The advisors remain motionless.

Elara’s breath hooks in her throat. She looks at the tiers of noble families and high council members, searching for a single trace of resistance, but she finds nothing. A hollow dread settles within her as she takes in the blank expressions of the advisors, realization dawning that these men are not horrified by the demand for total erasure. Some of them are welcoming it.

Kaera steps forward. “You are marching into a tactical death trap. Zahraan’s forces have spent years mapping the terrain of that valley buffer zone. If you cross the perimeter without a secured vanguard deployment, you expose our lines to a bottleneck. They will cut down the advance, block the retreat, and isolate Riverath from the eastern trade routes before our blades can even strike.”

Maereth’s jaw tightens as she glares at her daughter, her posture fracturing under the unexpected defiance.