The invitation came sealed with silver wax—Myra's personal crest, a phoenix rising from smoke.
Elara opened it carefully.
A Call to Peace.
One-on-one dialogue.
Just the two of them.
In the Chamber of Ancients.
Zela laughed bitterly when she read it. "That's not peace. That's a provocation in a prettier dress."
Elara agreed. But she still folded the parchment, tied her hair in a high braid, and dressed in ceremonial crimson—the color of war disguised as nobility.
"The hawk does not fly to admire the sky—it flies to feed."
The Chamber of Ancients was older than the palace itself. Its stone walls bore the echoes of rulers long turned to dust. Runes flickered faintly in the dark, only lighting when one royal bloodline faced another.
Myra was already there, draped in bone-white silk. Her eyes, ever hungry, flicked over Elara with something like amusement—and something sharper.
"You've been busy," Myra said, sipping from a carved cup.
Elara remained standing. "So have you. The priestess's voice hasn't returned."
"Then perhaps the gods prefer my silence," Myra smiled.
A long pause.
"Why now?" Elara asked. "Why this meeting?"
"Because I wanted to see you before you disappeared entirely into Lycaena's shadow."
Elara's jaw tightened.
"You're not fighting me anymore," Myra continued. "You're becoming something worse. A mirror."
Elara finally sat.
"We're not the same."
"Oh no," Myra said softly. "You're much better. Which makes you more dangerous."
She leaned in.
"You should join me. You've seen what Caelum can't—what the council won't. You're not a queen's consort, Elara. You're a queen maker."
Elara said nothing.
Myra chuckled. "Then again… maybe you're aiming to wear the crown yourself?"
"The vulture that perches too long beside the lion forgets it was never king."
Elara stood.
"I came to hear peace."
"And I came," Myra said, rising too, "to watch the blood in your eyes tell me what your lips never will."
She dropped the silver cup.
It shattered.
The runes flared.
And Myra whispered, "Your husband's fate has already been written. You're the only one who doesn't know how the story ends."
Elara left in silence.
Outside the chamber, Zela waited, blade at her hip.
"Well?"
"She made no offer," Elara said.
"Not a real one?"
"No," Elara replied. "Just a warning. And an invitation to become her."
Zela didn't press further.
But the wind changed.
And that night, the palace bells tolled.
Caelum had convened the council. Without her.
In the golden court chamber, under the banners of the moonlit lineages, Elara entered uninvited.
Silence fell.
The council's eyes turned.
So did Caelum's.
"Why wasn't I summoned?" she asked.
Caelum looked weary. Not weak—just... distant.
"We were deciding how to handle the rebellion rising in the border provinces," he said. "It wasn't court business. It was military."
"You think this war isn't court business?" she asked. "Myra is behind the uprisings. She's fueling their coffers."
"That's speculation," one of the generals cut in.
Elara ignored him.
"I am not your shadow, Caelum. I'm your shield—or I was. Until you started hiding decisions behind locked doors."
Caelum stepped forward.
"Elara, I am trying to protect you."
"The hen that hides from the hawk still risks the knife of the farmer."
Her voice dropped to ice.
"I don't need protection. I need partnership."
The council stirred.
And for a breath, the silence was not just political—it was personal.
Caelum's jaw twitched.
Then he said the one thing she couldn't unhear.
"I can no longer tell if we're fighting on the same side."
Later, in the Sunken Library, Elara said nothing.
Zela waited in silence beside her.
Then spoke: "He's cracking."
"No," Elara whispered. "He's choosing."
Zela frowned. "Choosing what?"
"Whether I remain his wife," Elara said, "or become his rival."
She opened the locked drawer beneath Ramos' old maps.
Inside: a sealed crest of the Old Moon Order, untouched since the fall of Lycaena.
She ran her fingers over the wax.
"The tree that leans too close to the fire either burns—or learns to carry flame."
And then she said the words she had once sworn never to say again:
"Call the old generals. The ones banished after Lycaena's death. Bring them home."
Zela's eyes widened.
"You're going to—"
"I'm going to stop asking for a seat at Caelum's table."
Elara stood.
"It's time I build my own."