They said it was an accident in the forest.
A regrettable incident—perhaps bandits, perhaps revolutionaries. A sad misfortune at House Vellador's northern lodge.
But within the velvet-draped halls of court, no one believed in accidents anymore.
The morning after Elias's raid, the great tapestry in the council chamber—a gold-and-crimson silk-threaded map of the kingdom—seemed to hum with new tension. The air had changed. Lords and ladies who had once dismissed Charlotte's authority as ceremonial now sensed the rise in her temperature.
And those of House Vellador?
They felt it burn.
Lord Averic of House Galveth leaned against a white marble pillar, pallor visible beneath the gloss of his usual bravado. His cousin had supped with the Velladors only three nights prior. Too close for comfort.
"I thought she was weakened," he muttered to Lady Casryn of Aldwyn, his voice almost drowned by the echoing footfalls across the Grand Hall. "She's bleeding—but she bites."
Lady Casryn, ever sharper than society gave her credit for, folded her fan once. Slowly.
"You mistook recovery for ruin."
"She's seven—"
"She is Queen in all but crown," Casryn said, gaze never leaving the throne's empty dais. "And now she's drawing lines."
Outside, beneath the bloom-heavy arches of the tea garden, dowager matriarchs shared hushed confidences beneath the late plum blossoms. House Vellador had made no public statement. They had not denied the 'accidental' destruction of their lodge.
That silence screamed.
"Charlotte must have known," whispered Lady Erenthel, a seasoned court observer with more years in politics than most had in life. "No one strikes like that without certainty."
"A warning?" another said.
"A demonstration," Erenthel corrected softly.
"To Vellador?"
"To everyone."
Within the conservative coalition, tension mounted like steam behind sealed iron. House Vellador convened behind closed doors. Shuttered windows. Voices rising.
Some called for retribution. Others begged restraint. The young heir, Ser Norem Vellador, slammed a goblet against the wall in frustration.
"She wants us afraid."
"No," said an elder cousin grimly. "She wants us exposed. Which we now are."
At the center of the war table lay a single sheet of parchment—a duplicate of the raid report, leaked anonymously. It listed the arrests. The forged seals. The poison stores. The ledgers.
Evidence. Not for destruction.
For prosecution.
"She'll gut us with the law," someone whispered.
"If we allow her."
Elsewhere, in the halls of the Neutral Court, once-skeptical nobles shifted uneasily. Many had wavered in recent months—questioning Charlotte's claim, her rumored curse, her frailty.
Now they reconsidered.
She had endured two assassination attempts, unveiled a conspiracy, and struck with surgical precision.
Not with chaos.
But with control.
Charlotte wasn't merely surviving the court.
She was beginning to rule it.
And in the castle's shadowed corners, where sunlight didn't reach and whispers lived longer than men, new schemes were already taking root.
Not to confront her head-on.
But to reach where no crown could shield her.
Family.