Elara walked the length of the corridor with steady steps, but her pulse throbbed like a drumbeat in her ears. Serin’s words burned in her mind. The princess must not leave the summit alive.

The feather in her hand felt heavier than iron. She clenched it until the quill snapped.

The doors to the war chamber loomed ahead. Two guards pushed them open, and heat spilled over her like the breath of a beast. Fire roared in the hearth, casting long shadows across the map-strewn table.

Her father stood at the head, massive and immovable, the crown glinting in the glow. Serin was at his side, calm as ever, his face a mask of courtesy.

“Elara,” Alric said. His voice carried like a hammer striking steel. “We have matters to settle before dawn.”

She crossed the floor, her heart a coiled serpent behind her ribs. “What matters?”

“The summit,” Serin answered smoothly. “Arrangements must be precise. One slip and we bleed for it.”

One slip and we bleed. The echo scraped at her like a knife. She kept her gaze fixed on her father.

“I am ready,” she said. Her voice did not shake.

Alric studied her, his scarred face unreadable. “You will ride with the envoy at first light. You will speak for Arkena. And you will show no weakness.”

Elara inclined her head. “I understand.”

“Do you?” Serin’s voice slipped into the space between their words, soft and sharp. “Peace is a fragile thing, Princess. One careless word and the wolves will scent blood.”

Her fingers twitched at her side. She wanted to rip the false calm from his tongue, wanted to cast the feather in his face and ask how deep his treachery ran. But the chamber was heavy with eyes and silence, and truth was a blade that cut both ways.

“I will not falter,” she said.

Serin’s smile was slight, almost kind. “I never doubted you.”

But she doubted everything now.

The council began to speak of routes and banners, of terms and oaths that would hold until winter’s end. She heard little. Her mind moved through darker paths, searching for a way to live past dawn.

When the meeting ended, she stepped into the corridor and drew a slow breath that scalded her lungs.

Darius was waiting. His armor caught the torchlight, his face carved in stern lines. He fell into step beside her without a word.

“You seem troubled, Highness,” he said after a moment.

“Do I?” she asked.

“You do,” Darius said. “Your hand has not left your blade since you walked out of that chamber.”

She glanced down. He was right. Her fingers curled against the dagger hilt as if it were part of her skin.

“I am thinking,” she said.

“About the summit?”

“About everything,” she replied, and let the silence swallow the rest.

They walked until the tower rose ahead, black against the night. The wind hissed around the stone like a warning whispered through teeth.

At the door, Darius stopped. His gaze lingered on her, sharp and searching.

“Your Highness,” he said quietly. “If there is danger, speak it.”

Her throat tightened. For a moment, she almost did. But trust was a fragile thread, and she could not tell which hands might break it.

“There is no danger,” she said.

Darius looked at her a moment longer, then nodded and turned away.

Inside the tower, Kael sat in silence, his head bowed. The chains gleamed in the low light like veins of cold metal. He raised his eyes when she entered.

“You look like someone who just buried the truth,” he said softly.

She did not answer. She could not.

When she left him, the corridors were empty again. The keep slept in uneasy silence, but the shadows did not sleep. They watched. They waited.

She reached her chamber and found something waiting at the threshold.

A strip of parchment, curled against the stone. She knelt, fingers stiff as she picked it up. The ink on it was black and neat, each letter carved like a wound.

One of your own will break you before dawn.

The parchment slipped from her hand, landing soundless on the floor.