The west tower was colder than the ruins. Stone walls sweated frost, and the single torch flickering in the hall barely held the dark at bay. Elara climbed the spiral steps in silence, her boots whispering against the worn stone. Every breath was sharp in her throat. She hated that. Hated how her body betrayed the storm inside.

She told herself this was strategy. Nothing more.

The guards straightened when she reached the door. They saluted, their eyes flicking nervously toward the iron bars beyond.

“He has not moved,” one said. “Barely spoke since we locked him in.”

Elara gave a single nod and stepped inside.

Kael sat on the stone bench, shackles biting into his wrists, his cloak torn and stained with mud. His dark hair clung to his temples where snowmelt had frozen. He did not look up at once. When he did, his gaze was steady, as if the iron at his hands meant nothing.

“You should not be alive,” Elara said.

“You had the chance to change that,” Kael replied, voice quiet but sharp enough to cut.

Elara crossed her arms, standing over him like a shadow. “You claimed you came to end the war. Speak sense or lose your tongue.”

Kael leaned back against the cold wall, chains clinking softly. “If you wanted me dead, you would not be here.”

Her jaw tightened. “I want answers. Not riddles.”

“You already know the truth,” he said. “Your father will never stop fighting. Neither will mine. If peace comes, it will not come from them.”

“And it will come from you?” Her laugh held no warmth. “You killed my men.”

His eyes hardened. “I did not give that order. They disobeyed me.”

“Why should I believe you?”

Kael lifted his shackled hands slowly, palms open. “Does this look like an ambush to you?”

Silence stretched between them, thick as the shadows in the corners. She hated that his words made sense.

Before she could speak again, the door creaked open. Serin entered, his gray robes trailing like smoke, his eyes sharp as glass.

“Princess,” he said smoothly. “Your father summons you to the war chamber.” His gaze slid toward Kael and lingered, cold and measuring. “I see you are wasting no time speaking with our guest.”

Elara’s expression did not change. “I wanted to know why he came.”

Serin smiled faintly. “Men like him never speak truth. Only poison.”

Kael said nothing. He did not look at Serin, only at her.

“Go,” Serin urged, his voice soft but heavy. “The king waits.”

Elara turned to Kael one last time. “You will tell me everything before dawn.”

“I already have,” Kael said.

She ignored the chill that ran through her as she followed Serin down the steps.

The war chamber burned with firelight. Maps and carved pieces littered the long oak table like the bones of dead battles. King Alric stood at the head, towering and scarred, his hands braced on the wood. His eyes were iron when they lifted to her.

“You brought the enemy into my kingdom,” he said, voice low and heavy.

“I brought a prisoner,” Elara replied.

“A prince of Solvane,” Alric said. The word prince struck the chamber like a hammer. The generals shifted uneasily.

“He came unarmed,” Elara said. “I thought that mattered.”

“You thought wrong.” Her father’s voice hardened. “He dies at dawn.”

Elara held her ground even as the weight of every stare pressed against her. “Killing him will not end this war.”

“It will send a message,” the king snapped.

Serin stepped forward, his tone silk against steel. “And that message will keep Arkena safe. We cannot show mercy now, not when Solvane circles like wolves.”

Elara looked from Serin to her father. Neither saw reason, only blood. Her hands curled into fists at her sides.

“If we kill every hand that reaches for something different, we will never end this,” she said.

Alric’s face darkened. “You speak like a dreamer. I raised you to rule, not to falter.”

“I do not falter,” Elara said quietly.

The king slammed his hand on the table. “Then prove it. Watch him die.”

The room fell silent. The crackle of the fire was loud as thunder. Elara did not speak again. There was nothing to say.

When she left the chamber, her pulse was a drum in her ears. The stone corridor seemed colder now, the shadows heavier. She reached her room and closed the door, pressing her back against it as if it could hold the storm inside.

Something moved on the floor. A folded piece of parchment.

Elara bent and picked it up, her fingers stiff. She unfolded it slowly.

One line stared back at her, written in black ink that bled like spilled blood.

He will not live until dawn.