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“She can produce a recognized descendant. Royal acknowledgment determines legitimacy.”

The solution is politically crude and strategically effective.

A human wife would display control rather than concession. Conservative houses might mock the match, but they could not accuse me of surrendering authority to another Khuzuth bloodline. Any child formally recognized by the king would secure succession.

Rython watches me reach the conclusion.

“You will take a human bride,” he says.

The words are not advice.

“I assume this is a royal direction.”

“It is.”

“From the southern territories?”

“Choose one from your own lands. That carries greater meaning. A lord who can elevate a subject without weakening his rule demonstrates command over every rank beneath him.”

Humans are beneath every dark elf caste. Raising one woman does not alter that order. It confirms my power to make an exception.

Varrus will call it desperation. He will also lose the argument that I refuse to secure succession.

“When?” I ask.

“Before winter court.”

“That allows less than two months.”

“You have had two centuries.”

“Not for this decision.”

“You require a politically useful human, not an epic courtship.”

“Useful humans are less common than decorative ones.”

“Then consult your reports.”

The king returns to the window.

The audience is finished.

I bow and leave the council chamber.

Joran waits near the outer hall. “Are we returning north?”

“Tomorrow.”

“What did the king want?”

“A bride.”

His violet eyes study me. “For himself?”

“For me.”

“That seems inconvenient.”