The royal palace was rarely quiet, but tonight the air itself seemed heavy, weighed down by whispers that slid across gilded halls like shadows. Torches hissed in their sconces, throwing pools of orange light against polished marble and high arched ceilings painted with faded saints and gods.
Guards stood at every corner, their spears gleaming, their gazes sharp. Even they, men hardened by years of service, could not keep from darting glances at one another as rumors spread.
Elara Duskbane.
Her name was now carried through corridors like a prayer or a curse, depending on who spoke it. Some swore she had bound gods that none had ever dared touch.
Others whispered of her hair, white as moonlight, moving with a will of its own. And still others claimed she was a monster wearing a noblewoman's face, a vessel for blood and ruin.
And so, under that pall of unease, the summons had gone out.
Inside the council chamber—a long vaulted room with tall windows overlooking the moonlit gardens—the heart power beat tonight. The king and queen sat side by side at the head of a dark oaken table carved with the crest of their dynasty.
Their faces were masks of authority: the king's jaw hard as stone, the queen's gaze sharp enough to pierce armor. Around them sat ministers, generals, and trusted advisers, each cloaked in silks or armor, each pretending calm as their nerves betrayed them.
The crown prince, Alaric, leaned against the table with one hand, his expression unreadable. His golden hair caught the torchlight, his sharp blue eyes flicking between the others in silence. To his right, Evelyne, chosen bride of the gods and long considered the kingdom's pride, sat upright in a gown of pale green silk that shimmered like serpent scales.
Her beauty was radiant, her posture regal—but her lips were pressed so tightly together they looked bloodless, and her hands clenched into fists on her lap.
The chamber doors boomed shut, sealing the room from the outside world. The king spoke first, his voice like iron striking stone.
"Tell us again," he said to the messenger kneeling on the floor before them. "Every word, without faltering."
The messenger swallowed, his head bowed, sweat shining at his temples. "Your Majesty, Your Grace… my riders report that the Duskbane girl prepares to leave her manor. She will not go alone. Lysandra—the one once thought lost—is with her. And three maids, chosen by Elara herself. They pack provisions, trunks, and weapons. Carriages are being readied. All signs point to departure within days—perhaps sooner."
A stir rippled through the council. Several nobles exchanged uneasy looks; one of the generals cleared his throat. Evelyne's nails scraped softly against the table.
"Leaving," the queen repeated, her voice cool and measured. She leaned back in her seat, fingers tapping once against the armrest. "And to where?"
"No word, Your Grace," the messenger said quickly. "Only that the household is alive with preparations. Servants whisper of journeys, but none know the destination. The Duskbanes guard their secrets well."
The queen's lips curved, though the smile never reached her eyes. "Guarded, yes. But not impenetrable. Nothing is, when the throne wills it."
Evelyne's composure shattered like glass. She stood abruptly, her chair screeching across the stone floor.
"We cannot let her go!" Her voice trembled with rage, her eyes blazing. "Not that… creature. Not after what she's done. She dares kill Seraphine—my Seraphine!—before us all, with a weapon no one understands, and still she breathes? Still, she walks free? And now she means to flee our reach? No, no, no. I will not have it!"
Her words rang through the chamber, silencing all. Evelyne's chest heaved as she glared around the room, daring any to oppose her.
The king's gaze softened only slightly as he regarded her. "Evelyne," he said, "you must master your fury. The council will not move on passion alone."
But Evelyne only shook her head, her green silk sleeves quivering with the force of her trembling. "Then let me speak plainly, Majesty. She is a threat unlike any we've ever faced. You know the rumors.
The gods themselves bent to her call. Death. Life. Music. The strongest. And her hair—" Evelyne's lips twisted, disgust and fear mingling in her voice. "It kills. It drinks. What manner of noblewoman drinks the blood of beasts and men? If you allow her to slip beyond these walls, she will grow beyond our reach. And then, not even this throne will be safe."
Silence followed. Some of the ministers lowered their gazes, unwilling to meet her eyes, but her words lingered like venom in the air.
Alaric broke it, his voice calm but edged. "So your answer is to kill her?"
Evelyne turned on him instantly, fury burning hotter than the torches. "You saw her with your own eyes, Alaric. You stood there as she revealed what she wields. And you think we should… what? Welcome her? Kiss her hand and call her sister? She has already chosen to spit upon our hospitality."
"She killed Seraphine," Alaric said evenly, "because Seraphine tried to poison her on your mother's order."
Gasps fluttered around the chamber, but the queen's face did not twitch. Evelyne's eyes widened in shock before narrowing into slits.
"You dare accuse—"
"I do not accuse," Alaric cut in, his voice steel. "I state fact. Poison was poured, Elara drank it, and Elara suffered. And then Elara struck back. You may despise the manner, but do not twist truth into lies."
The queen's hand lifted, silencing Evelyne before she could explode further. "Enough. Both of you." Her eyes, dark as obsidian, settled on her son. "Alaric, you would defend her even after what she has done?"
"I would see clearly," Alaric said, his tone sharp but respectful. "She is dangerous—yes. But danger can be harnessed. She should not be wasted. Bring her close, not drive her further away. The throne should bend her power to its will, not squander it with crude blades in the dark."
"A pet," Evelyne spat. "You would make her a pet of the crown, like some beast?"
"A weapon," Alaric corrected coldly. His eyes gleamed. "And better a weapon we command than one that turns against us."
The council stirred again. Some nodded faintly, uneasy but thoughtful. Others looked horrified.
The king, silent until now, leaned forward. His great hands rested on the table, scarred knuckles pale in the firelight. His voice was low, dangerous.
"And if she cannot be commanded?"
Alaric held his father's gaze without flinching. "Then yes—kill her. But not before we have tried."
The words fell heavy as iron.
The Queen's Verdict
The queen's smile returned, faint and unreadable. She rose to her feet, silks whispering as she moved, and the chamber seemed to shrink around her presence.
"My husband," she said softly, "my son, my council. Let us not pretend this is a choice between peace and war. Elara Duskbane has already chosen war the moment she drew the gods to her breast and murdered under our roof. Evelyne is right: she is a threat. Alaric is right: she may yet serve. And so I propose both paths."
Her eyes gleamed in the torchlight. "Send word to her. A hand extended, gilded with gifts. Bid her to bend knee, to come beneath the crown's shelter, to wield her power in our name. If she accepts, we hold a leash upon her neck. If she refuses, we send shadows in the night to cut her down before she blooms beyond our reach."
Cold approval rippled across the chamber.
Evelyne's lips curved in a sharp smile. "At last."
Alaric's jaw tightened, but he said nothing, though his fists clenched beneath the table.
The king gave one slow nod. "So be it. We will try both hands. Send the letter. Prepare the knives. And may the gods grant us wisdom."
A shiver passed through the chamber, though none dared voice it aloud: the gods no longer listened to their prayers. They listened to her.
The Shadows Stir
By the time the council broke, the palace was steeped in unease. Ministers hurried away, whispering under their breath, and generals stalked toward their barracks to give orders. Evelyne swept from the chamber, her skirts trailing like spilled venom.
Alaric lingered, his eyes on the queen, but she offered him no glance. Already she was speaking to her spymaster, her words soft as silk and sharp as knives. The order was given, and in the dark corners of the palace, shadows stirred. Assassins readied blades, poisons, ropes. Silent killers bred for nothing but obedience, moving like smoke through corridors as the court above pretended sleep.
Far above the palace roofs, the moon peered down, pale and watchful, as though it too waited to see which blood would stain the dawn.