On the other side, at the Winstor's burial ground
Andrew's ambassador, Lord Veredan, stood among the gathered nobles, his cloak pinned with Andrew's sigil. He felt like an intruder in enemy territory, but he kept his expression carefully neutral as the ceremony began.
The corpse lay upon the stone bier, covered with the ceremonial white shroud of the Winstor heir.
Charles Winstor stood in front of it, hollow-eyed but theatrically composed. The grief in his voice was heart-wrenching. He pushed his golden boy but loved him with devotion.
Beside him stood Harry, dressed plainly
The priest finished reciting the rites. The crowd bowed their heads.
And then everything changed.
Then:
Charles stepped forward—and lifted the heir's mantle.
A collective gasp rippled through the assembly.
The mantle shimmered with the golden sigil of the Winstor line—the sacred garment only placed upon a successor after the full rites, never before.
George Winstor's knees nearly buckled. Allegra steadied him, her hand trembling against his arm.
Charles turned toward Harry with slow, ceremonial gravity.
"Today," he declared, voice ringing with cold finality, "we lay my eldest son to rest. And we name the next heir."
The courtyard erupted into outrage.
"He defies the rite—!"
"This is a sacrilege—!"
But Harry stood unnervingly still, hands folded, eyes downcast.He was ready for this.Every breath, every movement—rehearsed.
George felt something inside him snap.
"Charles," he rasped, "this is not the time. Burials take weeks—we must halt the hunt for these criminals and resume after—"
Charles cut him off, voice like a blade.
"You speak of time," he said, "when the time has come for you to stand accused."
The courtyard froze.
A guard pushed forward, dragging another figure with him—Hector. Barely conscious, beaten bloody, uniform shredded.
Charles seized Hector's chin and forced his face up to the crowd.
"This man confesses that George Winstor colluded with a foreign lord to disguise the escape of the outlaw girl Rea. That he sheltered her after her attempted assassination of my son."
Gasps. Fury. Some nobles surged forward, swords half-drawn.
One shouted, "You should be put to death for this lie! Mourn your child with dignity!"
Another yelled, "How dare you slander our Lord of Light!"
George staggered back, white as death."Charles...what madness is this?"
But then
Annabella's father stepped forward. Sylvestr de la Croix.
Cold. Regal. Smiling faintly, cruelly, as though he'd been waiting for this precise moment.
"I," he said softly, "have proof."
A servant overturned a sack onto the stones.
Three heads rolled out.
Rea's decoys, the ones George had ordered placed on the road to mislead trackers.
The high priestess, present for the funeral rites, stepped forward shakily. She bent over the heads, eyes widening.
"A trinity spell," she whispered."Only the Lord of Light could weave illusions this perfect."
The crowd recoiled.
Sylvester's voice carried, smooth and merciless:
"Lord Charles requested I verify the accusations. And I have verified them. Lord George concealed Rea's movements. He misled the Council. He misled our Race."
Pandemonium erupted.
Nobles shouted, shoved, demanded weapons. The heirs, every clan's young successor, rose to their feet behind their clan leaders, hands drifting to hilts threatening them to make the right choices.
Planned to the breath.
Charles raised a hand, silencing the chaos.
"I call the Right of Substitution," he announced.
"The Lord of Light has dishonored and betrayed us.My lords—do you stand with a traitor?"
All eyes turned to the Council chairs.
The vote began.
Ambrosieus leader — Lord Sylvestr himself — spoke first, smirking:
"I vote for Charles. We need a lord who represents us faithfully."
Tarkilian leader—who knew Sylvestr held his daughter's fate between delicate fingers—looked away.
"…I vote Charles."
Attention swung like a blade toward the foreign representative—
Lord Veredan, Andrew's hand and voice.
Sylvestr's voice dripped with threat:
"We notice your lord is not present, Veredan. But you are his hand.Vote now. Or condemn your entire realm."
Before Veredan could open his mouth—
Harry hijacked the entire ceremony.
He stepped forward, cloak billowing, voice cracking with performative grief.
"She killed my brother…"
He clutched his chest, breath hitching in a delicate, calculated tremor."…and my lord—my own grandfather—protected her."
Gasps. Cries.
Harry lifted his chin, eyes shining with orchestrated sorrow.
"As the heir of my clan, I declare you George Winstor guilty and support My new Lord of light Motion"
"And now the last piece of my brother's life, Annabella, she… she belongs with us. She is part of our lives. Part of his memory."
He straightened, voice turning sharp, cold.
"I claim her as my bride."
The crowd roared half in approval and others in contempt.
Charles blinked, as if even he hadn't expected Harry to do this. He masked it quickly, but a flicker of confusion remained.
Veredan's stomach twisted.
This was coordinated. A trap. A coup.Perfectly timed. Completely lethal.
And through the chaos—
Rea's friends moved.
Only George knew the truth.He had met them secretly, told them everything, warned them they might die, offered them a chance to back out.
Not a single one did.
They dispersed through the chaos like smoke—causing small disruptions, diverting heirs, blocking lines of sight.
And in the confusion,
they grabbed Lord Veredan.
Before anyone noticed he was missing.
Before anyone could force him to vote.
Before the coup could fully complete its legal noose.
They dragged him out through the servant tunnels, out the side gates, into the forest beyond the estate.
The last thing Veredan heard before they galloped away was Sylvester's furious snarl echoing across the courtyard:
"FIND HIM!"
Veredan did not stop running until he reached Andrew's castle, breath breaking in sharp bursts as he pushed past the guards and tore down the corridor toward the lord's office. Dust clung to his boots, sweat to his collar. He didn't even knock just burst in and spat out everything he had seen on the far side of Andrew's land.
Andrew listened without blinking, a stone carved by years of duty; Lyz stood beside him, arms folded tightly across her chest, the muscle in her jaw ticking with each revelation.
When Veredan finished, Andrew dismissed him with a single flick of his fingers, the kind that said he needed no more.
Lyz did not wait for silence to settle.She snapped.
"We should have sent her back when we had the chance. Sylvester wouldn't be this invested—"
Andrew's voice cracked through the room, sharper than any blade."Enough."
She flinched, only barely, then pressed forward anyway.
"Rea will not let her go now," Andrew said, the words heavy, weighted with something close to dread. "And you know she'll do something reckless to see George. He's under house arrest until Charles's crowning."
Lyz froze mid-breath.
Andrew's expression tightened."We both know what the crowning means."
The room went still around them. The fire in the hearth seemed to shrink into itself.
"A crowning is just a pleasant word for execution," he continued. "George will be forced to cross over, to relinquish his powers and his regalia. A lord must fall for another to rise."
Lyz began pacing, boots whispering against the floor, her hands clenched so hard her knuckles paled.
"We can still bring her back," she insisted. "She can vouch for you while we prepare an exit strategy for Rea. Andrew, you must survive this. You are the only anchor we have left."
Andrew exhaled slowly, then:"Rea wants to marry her."
The words seemed to surprise even him.
Lyz stopped pacing. Her eyes widened, then narrowed into something sharp and dangerous.
Andrew went on. "She won't leave Annabella."
"Fuck what she wants," Lyz hissed. "All our lives are at stake."
"Jealousy doesn't suit you," Andrew said, voice cold.
Lyz let out a disbelieving laugh."Jealousy? Andrew, I would drag her back myself before I let your entire house fall because of her feelings. Our plan is too important"
"Our plan," Andrew said slowly, "or your own opportunity?"
That did it.Color rose high in Lyz's cheeks. Her heartbeat thundered so loud the guards outside might have felt it. Then she turned and stormed out, fury snapping behind her like a cloak caught in wind.
Marriage.Rea—and marriage.
How dare she even think it.The visits to the blacksmith.The secrecy.Of course. A ring.A gods-damned ring.
She walked faster, each step feeding her anger.
Hours later, Annabella was summoned to the portrait room. No one was ever summoned there; the place was hallowed by grief and memory. She thought, it might be about Rea. She hadn't seen her since dawn.
The portrait room breathed in dim gold. Only the smallest fire burned in the hearth, turning the air into a hush of warmth and shadow. Andrew stood before one of the larger portraits—Lady Helene, her likeness painted with soft strokes, her eyes holding a life that had long since vanished.
Annabella lingered at the threshold for a breath, then stepped inside with the kind of poise that came from years of training, spine tall, chin elegant, hands folded lightly, though her gaze flickered with curiosity and quiet worry.
Andrew didn't turn immediately. His voice was low when it came, softened by drink and memory.
"She and I had plans," he said. "Foolish ones, maybe. Plans to run from all of this. To live quietly, far from the chains of houses and duties."
Annabella took a small breath, the kind reserved for preparing oneself.
"Her brother found out," Andrew continued, his shoulders sinking. "He sent assassins. The blades were meant for me. They struck her instead. She… was with child."
Annabella's entire frame stilled. Her lips parted as if touched by cold.
"My father…" she whispered.
Andrew finally looked at her, eyes stripped of all pretense."Tradition gave him the right. I couldn't avenge her. I couldn't bury her as she deserved. And I have carried that silence ever since."
The fire crackled softly, as if the room itself exhaled.
He swallowed. Something shifted in his face, an ache, a confession.
"Rea wants to marry you," he said. "She burns with it. She barely tries to hide it."
Heat rose to Annabella's cheeks, her heart climbing and falling all at once. For a heartbeat, she saw it, the way she loved as though the world was something she could bend with her devotion. Then reality swallowed the warmth whole.
"I cannot let that happen," Andrew murmured.
Annabella folded her arms, sharp and elegant, chin lifting with quiet defiance."That is not for you to decide."
Andrew's eyes were dark, heavy with the weight of truth. He leaned closer, voice low and steady, as though the words themselves were dangerous.
"Charles moved fast. Too fast. He seized the mantle of the heir, announcing Harry as the next in line while the court still reeled from grief. George… he was caught unprepared. Worse, one of the guards, beaten and broken, confessed under duress...George had colluded with one of the lords to hide Rea, to protect her after the assassination attempt on my son.
That's not all. Sylvester provided proof. The decoys George had placed along the road, the ones meant to fool spies, were discovered. The heads of those decoys were shown, clear evidence that George misled everyone about Rea's movements."
Annabella's hand went to her chest. Her heart hammered violently against her ribs as if trying to escape the horror of it all.
"George…" she whispered, barely audible, the word a fragile thread.
Andrew continued, voice steady despite the gravity."House arrest. Charles crowning Harry. The council is in turmoil. Votes are being forced. The Ambrosieus, the Tarkilian, they were cornered. Every move George made, every attempt to protect Rea… compromised. And Harry… he claimed you. Annabella. Publicly. As his bride."
Annabella's hands trembled. She tore herself free from Andrew's grip, stepping back. Her breath came in ragged pulls, her world tipping into chaos."No. No, that is—no. Too much. It's too much."
Andrew guided her gently to a seat, lowering himself beside her as though the weight of everything he held might crush the room otherwise.
"She is running around town getting your ring made," he said, voice breaking feeling the pain for her. "But her world is falling apart. Everything is compromised. You need to do what is right, for both of you."
Annabella pressed her face into her hands. The firelight flickered over her hair, painting her in gold and shadow, and she felt the crushing weight of responsibility. "I… I don't know where to start," she whispered, tears spilling freely now.
Andrew's hand brushed her shoulder greedily. "We can create an opening for your return. It might slow everything down, but I need you in on it. You can still make a difference."
She slipped away before he could say more, retreating to the library. There, among the tall shelves and whispering pages, she let herself cry quietly, hiding from the world that had spun violently out of control.