The banquet was a masquerade of silk and rot.
Golden chandeliers bathed the Great Hall in deceptive warmth, casting flickers of light on crystal goblets, feathered masks, and the venomous smiles of nobility. A string quartet played something ancient and sharp. Laughter echoed like blades against glass.
Elara entered last.
She wore black.
Not mourning black. No, hers shimmered like a void stitched with threads of silver. The embroidery formed a single spiraling sigil—the symbol of oathcraft. Most nobles didn't recognize it. The ones who did blanched.
She liked that.
"Is that the princess?" someone whispered as she passed.
"I thought she was dead—"
"She's not magic-born, is she? What is she doing here?"
Elara ignored them all.
She walked straight toward the High Table, where King Therion, Crown Prince Aurelian, and the most powerful dukes and duchesses held court.
"I wasn't aware this was a costume party," Aurelian said, smirking behind a lion's mask. "Or that ghosts were allowed to walk among us."
Elara didn't even look at him.
Instead, she turned to Duchess Ilyra Calmere, a woman known for her grace, political neutrality, and vast land holdings in the grain-rich western provinces.
"Duchess," Elara said smoothly, "I hope your harvest has remained untouched by the border raids."
That got attention.
Ilyra blinked, caught off-guard. "You know about the raids?"
"I know your house guards have been dying quietly for two months. The Crown has offered no help."
Ilyra's eyes narrowed. "That's… correct."
Elara leaned in, smiling faintly. "And I know you're considering an alliance with House Thorne for protection. Don't."
Ilyra went still. "Are you threatening me, child?"
"Not at all," Elara said softly. "I'm offering you a better deal. Publicly support my reinstatement as Princess Royal—pledge your House to me—and I will ensure your grain lines are protected by next moonfall."
Aurelian stood. "You overstep—"
"I'm negotiating," Elara cut in. "Something you only remember to do after the bleeding starts."
Gasps. A few nobles lowered their eyes.
King Therion's face was stone. He said nothing.
Ilyra's voice was careful. "Why would I risk my neutral stance… for you?"
Elara's answer was quiet and lethal.
"Because I already know who poisoned your husband last year. And because I can keep that secret."
Silence dropped like a guillotine.
Then Ilyra smiled.
"A toast," the Duchess said, lifting her glass. "To Princess Elara Virelle. May her words prove sharper than her father's sword."
All around the room, glasses were raised.
Elara turned slightly toward the king. For the first time, he looked at her—not as a nuisance.
But as a threat.
She smiled.
> "Check," she thought.
But somewhere near the edge of the crowd, Caelum Drayce leaned against a column, arms folded.
Watching.
Waiting.
And Elara knew—this was only the beginning.
She'd just declared war.
In front of the entire court.