The corridor to the council chamber had never felt that long to Rowan.
Black drapes had been hung between the pillars sometime before dawn. The fabric swallowed light, dimming the stained-glass windows that once spilled color across the floor. Even the air felt altered heavier, steeped in incense and quiet grief.
Guards stood at attention along the walls, their armor polished to ceremonial brightness, their expressions carved from stone.
Rowan's boots echoed as he walked.
He had been summoned, not invited.
That distinction mattered.
The doors at the end of the hall stood open.
Voices carried outward low, restrained, debates already in motion.
They had begun without him.
Rowan stepped inside.
The throne room had been altered for mourning. Blue banners of Ardenfall were bordered in black. Incense burned in shallow braziers near the pillars, thin smoke curling toward the vaulted ceiling and blurring the carved sigils along the arches.
And at the head of the chamber—
Lucien sat in Edmund's seat.
Not crowned.
Not yet named king.
But seated.
The posture was not inherited.
It was assumed.
His armor had been replaced with formal black and blue, though faint scorch marks still marred the edges of his gauntlets. His back was straight. His gaze steady.
Ministers stood in a semicircle below the dais. Generals in armor lined the walls. Nobles of lesser houses filled the outer edges of the chamber, their silks muted for mourning.
And in the center—
Lysander Dravenholt knelt.
Black iron shackles bound his wrists, etched with counter-sigils that pulsed faintly against pale skin. A collar rested at his throat, carved with multiple layers of suppression runes. Chains pooled at his knees like spilled ink.
Four royal guards stood equidistant around him.
He was not bowed.
He was not defiant.
He simply knelt.
Still.
Rowan's gaze rested on him for a moment longer than intended.
Lysander inclined his head once in acknowledgment.
Nothing more.
Then his eyes lowered again.
The chamber quieted as Rowan approached.
Lucien's gaze lifted.
"Rowan," he said evenly. "Take your place."
No brotherly warmth.
No distance either.
Rowan moved to stand among the inner circle, close enough to see faint abrasions where the shackles bit into Lysander's skin.
The minister of war resumed speaking, voice measured but edged.
"House Dravenholt seized Ashborne by treachery," he said. "The rightful king butchered. The royal line extinguished. For twenty years, they ruled through fear and blood."
A murmur rolled through the nobles.
"The twins alone were responsible for the deaths of hundreds if not thousands," another added. "Entire villages erased. Prisoners taken and never returned."
"And the Archmagus's final spell," a general said, jaw tight. "A weapon without restraint. It killed our king."
The words echoed in the chamber.
"Killed our king."
Eyes shifted briefly, cautiously toward Rowan.
Lucien did not move.
The minister continued.
"Justice demands consequence. Dravenholt blood must answer for Dravenholt crimes."
Several nobles murmured agreement. A few nodded openly.
Rowan stepped forward before the silence grew comfortable.
"He stood between me and Valerius," Rowan said, voice steady. "He delayed intervention."
A few heads turned toward Lysander.
"He surrendered only after his father fell."
Lysander did not lift his gaze.
"He is the last of that house," Rowan finished. "And the symbol of it."
The chamber held that truth carefully.
Lucien folded his hands loosely over the arm of the throne.
"Execution is permanent," he said calmly.
A faint ripple moved through the room.
"The corruption left by Valerius is not."
A senior minister frowned.
"Your Highness?"
"Reports from the western ridge confirm the land remains unstable," Lucien continued. "Livestock twisted. Forest edges blackened. The soil rejecting seed."
A scholar stepped forward reluctantly.
"The residual magic is self-propagating," she said. "It is not dissipating as normal spellfire would. It is anchoring."
The word settled heavily.
"And anchoring requires a source," Lucien said.
Several eyes drifted toward Lysander.
A noble cleared his throat.
"With respect, if the Prince Rowan had remained at His Majesty's side when signaled—"
The words hung unfinished.
The chamber went still.
Another voice, softer but no less sharp, added, "The late king did call for both his sons."
These accusations did not need completion.
Rowan felt the stares, the silence.
He did not defend himself.
He did not deny it.
His jaw tightened, but he remained silent.
Lucien rose.
The scrape of the throne against stone echoed louder than it should have.
"The man who cast the spell is dead," Lucien said.
His voice was not raised.
It did not need to be.
"The responsibility lies with him."
He let his gaze travel deliberately across the chamber.
"My brother followed our father into battle."
There was no anger in the words.
Only finality.
No one challenged it.
Lucien descended one step from the dais.
"There is no Archmagus in Ardenfall," he said. "No one trained to dismantle the sigils Valerius embedded into Ashborne's foundation."
He gestured subtly toward the floor.
"The tower still stands. The runes still pulse. The land still warps."
Silence.
Lucien's gaze shifted toward Lysander.
"You were trained in that tower."
Lysander lifted his eyes and nodded softly.
The scholar spoke again. "If the bloodline is extinguished entirely, the anchor may rupture further."
A general frowned. "Or it may weaken."
"Or," Lucien said evenly, "it may tear open."
The risk lingered in the air.
Rowan stepped forward again.
"You would trust him?"
"No," Lucien replied.
The honesty surprised the room.
"I would control him."
A murmur stirred.
Rowan's voice sharpened.
"And what if the control fails?"
Lucien's gaze hardened slightly.
"Then we execute him."
Lucien **turned fully**, meeting Rowan's gaze head-on.
"You believe Lysander Dravenholt deserves death."
"Yes." said Rowan.
His words did not waver.
Lucien studied him.
"Then you will oversee him."
A subtle shift ran through the chamber.
Rowan did not move.
"He will remain alive," Lucien continued. "Under guard. Under suppression. And under your authority."
Murmurs began again but uncertain this time.
Lucien's voice sharpened just enough.
"I give you this responsibility because I trust you."
The words landed with weight.
Not accusation.
Not punishment.
Trust.
"If he ever threatens Ardenfall—" Lucien said quietly, "you will not hesitate."
Every eye turned to Rowan.
This was not exile.
Not rebuke.
It was burden.
For the first time since the council began, Lysander lifted his eyes fully.
Not to Lucien.
To Rowan.
The gaze was level.
Unflinching.
Unreadable.
No plea.
No defiance.
Just acknowledgment.
Rowan held it.
There was something in it.
Not arrogance.
Not fear.
Something contained.
Something waiting.
Rowan broke the gaze first and looked back to Lucien.
His shoulders straightened.
"As you command."
Lucien inclined his head once.
The decision was sealed.
Guards stepped forward. Chains shifted softly against stone.
Lysander rose when pulled, movements measured despite the iron binding him. The shackles scraped faintly across the floor as he turned.
As he passed Rowan, their shoulders nearly aligned.
For the briefest moment, Rowan felt a faint pulse, not heat, not force but something like a current suppressed too tightly.
The runes along the chains flickered once.
Then steadied.
Rowan did not react.
But he noticed.
The sound of shackles echoed through the chamber as Lysander was led away.
No one spoke.
The weight of it settled over the room like ash.
Lucien returned to the throne.
Not ceremonially.
Not dramatically.
Simply because there was work to be done.
The throne remained occupied.
The crown had not yet been placed.
But the kingdom had chosen its path.
And Rowan had been given the enemy to guard.