The council chamber smelled of smoke and cold iron when Elara stepped inside. Voices murmured like restless crows around the long table, their whispers scattering when the door closed behind her.

Serin stood at the far end, his hands folded in front of him, his expression calm as still water.

“Your Grace,” he said with a shallow bow. “The council awaits your word.”

King Alric sat at the head of the table, his scarred hands clenched on the arms of his chair. His eyes burned like embers when they met hers.

“You will stand beside me when the blade falls,” he said. His voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of iron.

Elara moved closer, her cloak brushing the stone. “Father, I came to warn you. Someone inside these walls wants this war to burn hotter. They tried to kill Kael in his cell.”

The murmurs swelled, sharp and quick, until Alric’s fist struck the table. Silence fell like a blow.

“Speak sense,” he growled.

“I found him fighting for his life,” Elara said. “The assassin bore the royal crest.”

Gasps rippled through the chamber. One general muttered a curse under his breath. Another shifted uneasily, his hand brushing the hilt of his sword.

Serin’s eyes glinted in the firelight. “A crest can be stolen, Princess. Lies can wear the shape of truth. Perhaps the prince planted this to soil our honor.”

Elara faced him, her voice like frost. “And what of the note?”

Serin tilted his head. “What note?”

Her breath stilled. The note pinned to her door still burned in her mind. They are watching you now.

“It matters little,” Alric said, cutting through the tension. “At sunrise, Solvane’s viper dies. That is the end of it.”

“No,” Elara said before she could stop herself. The word cracked through the chamber like a whip. Every eye turned on her.

“No?” her father repeated, his voice soft with fury.

“If you kill him now, you will feed the fire,” Elara said. “Solvane will answer with blood, and Arkena will drown in it.”

“Then let them drown,” Alric snarled. “We are forged for war.”

“Forged for survival,” Elara shot back. “And survival does not mean slaughter without thought.”

The silence that followed was heavier than any shout. Alric rose slowly, his height casting a shadow that swallowed the firelight.

“You speak like a traitor,” he said.

Her throat tightened, but she did not look away. “I speak like someone who wants to live to see the snows melt.”

Serin stepped closer, his voice a smooth thread weaving through the tension. “Perhaps there is a way to settle this without dishonor. Solvane has sent word.”

The council stirred. Alric’s brow furrowed. “What word?”

“They propose a summit,” Serin said. “Neutral ground at the border. No banners. No swords. Only speech.”

The murmur rose again, sharper this time. Some laughed bitterly. Others looked intrigued.

Alric’s voice was iron when it fell. “A trap.”

“Perhaps,” Serin allowed. “But a trap can be baited twice.” His eyes flicked to Elara, glimmering like a blade. “If the princess were to attend, it would show strength. And if the prince lives until then, he serves as a tether for their good behavior.”

Elara’s pulse quickened. This was no mercy. This was another game, and she was the piece to be played.

Alric stared at her, his jaw clenched. Then he spoke the words that sealed the room in silence. “He lives. For now. But if one shadow moves wrong, his head falls first.”

Elara inclined her head, masking the storm inside.

When she left the chamber, Serin’s voice followed her, low and almost kind. “You fight fiercely for a man you claim not to trust.”

She did not answer.

The corridor stretched before her, long and cold. Her footsteps echoed like a drumbeat of war.

Halfway to the west wing, she felt it. Eyes. Heavy as chains.

When she reached the tower, something waited on the door. A single black feather, slick with oil, gleaming under the torchlight.

A mark she had not seen in years. A mark of the Crow Hand, the assassins who killed her mother.