The great hall of Veredon had been dressed for peace.
Velvet banners hung from the columns.
The floor gleamed with fresh polish.
Gold-trimmed goblets lined the table, untouched.
But the air was heavy.
The kind of heavy that only follows a battle, or precedes one.
And Selene knew: diplomacy was not a game of smiles.
It was a game of blades hidden in laughter.
Her advisers had begged her not to host the envoy inside the palace.
Ingrid warned that the Circle might send another assassin.
Elric swore half the delegation were spies.
Even Cassian, silent for days, muttered, "Let them rot outside the walls."
But Selene insisted.
Because bringing the enemy into her house wasn't weakness.
It was invitation.
At midday, the carriages arrived.
No royal crests.
No banners.
Just two sleek obsidian coaches pulled by silver-armored horses and flanked by twelve men in matching crimson cloaks.
The cloaks bore no insignia.
Only stitched daggers at the collar, pointing inward.
A statement.
Or a threat.
Selene watched from the throne as the Marrow envoy entered the hall.
But it was not the same silver-haired emissary from before.
This one was younger.
Sharper.
With eyes like untouched snow and a smile that never touched them.
He bowed low.
"Queen of Flame," he said. "I am Prince Veyric of the Eastern Wind. Third son to Emperor Kael."
Selene tilted her head slightly.
"Welcome to Veredon."
He smiled wider.
"You've redecorated. The scent of fire suits you."
"And you've brought soldiers to a peace table."
He gestured casually.
"For protection. The roads are… uncertain these days."
"And yet here you are. Alive."
"Your reputation protects even enemies, it seems."
The court behind her shifted.
Subtle.
Tension in every shoulder.
But Selene kept her voice soft.
"Tell me, Prince. Why send you? Why not your father?"
Veyric's expression didn't change.
"Because he does not treat with gods."
"And he sees me as one?"
"No."
He took a step forward.
"He sees you as a storm."
"And storms," Selene said, "change everything they touch."
They dined.
Lightly.
Three courses.
No wine.
Selene took no food, and neither did he.
It wasn't a feast.
It was a negotiation.
Every fork lift, every napkin dab, every pause, a dance of veiled hostility.
At the second course, Veyric spoke again.
"Your trial shook the continent. Even the sand mages of Olan began burning offerings to you."
"And yet your empire offers none."
"My father respects heat," he said. "But he prefers it contained."
"And you?"
Veyric met her eyes.
"I enjoy the burn."
Silence.
Ingrid glanced at Elric.
He nodded once.
Selene saw it.
A signal.
They had identified three spies among Veyric's guard already.
He knew she knew.
That was the point.
This was not diplomacy.
This was performance.
After the meal, Selene led Veyric alone into the glass gallery, a narrow corridor that overlooked the lower city.
The glass was enchanted.
One whisper, and they would hear no one.
"Why are you really here?" Selene asked.
"To offer you peace."
"And?"
"And to ask for something."
She turned.
"Say it."
He took a step closer.
"My father fears you will spread."
"Fire does spread."
"He offers a pact. You stop at Veredon. You do not cross the Ember Sea. You do not interfere in the affairs of the Inner Circle or the trade of the southern courts."
"And in return?"
"He recognizes your rule."
Selene blinked.
"Recognizes?"
"Publicly. Officially. With gifts. With silver. With fireproof terms."
"And what if I refuse?"
Veyric's voice remained soft.
"Then you will find your palace full of water. Your roads salted. Your people… replaceable."
Selene laughed.
Not loudly.
Coldly.
The kind of laugh that comes from a wound sealed with steel.
"You came to my home to threaten me."
"I came to protect your reign."
"No," she said. "You came to see if I flinched."
She turned away.
"And now you know."
She walked to the far end of the gallery, where a blade hung in glass.
One of the first swords made from Veredon steel.
Forged by queens.
Buried with traitors.
Unearthed when the throne fell once, long ago.
She opened the case.
Pulled the sword free.
And pressed it to Veyric's throat.
He did not move.
But she saw his pulse flutter.
"If I wanted your father's respect," she said, "I would have sent him your head."
"But I don't want respect."
"I want silence from those who once wrote me off."
She leaned close.
"Tell him that."
Then she stepped back.
Lowered the blade.
And smiled.
"I will see you at sunrise. Bring your papers. Bring your gifts. Bring your final words."
Veyric nodded slowly.
And left.
That night, Selene returned to her chambers alone.
She undressed in silence.
Stared at the flickering candlelight reflected in the mirror.
Her body bore new scars.
Burns from the Trial.
Lines from battle.
Faint sigils that never fully left her skin.
And yet, she felt heavier now.
Not with fear.
With certainty.
They all came now.
Circle. Marrow. The Silent Throne.
They bowed.
Or they smiled with daggers hidden in gold.
And Selene?
She had smiled back.
Because she knew:
The moment they stepped into her halls, they lost.
Outside the palace, a small figure watched from the edge of the city wall.
Cloaked in sea-gray robes.
Eyes glowing faintly with stolen fire.
A whisper into the night:
"The fire walks proud. Too proud."
"Let us see how she handles the dagger in the dark."
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