Who would dare?
Who would approach her private chambers in the middle of the night?
And how had they passed the guards?
Eliza rose swiftly, indignation burning away her fatigue. She crossed the chamber in long strides, every step gathering fury. When she tore open the door, she was already shaping the words on her tongue, sharp and cutting—demanding to know who dared disturb her in the deep of night.
But the words died there.
On the threshold stood the High Mage of the Tower.
Lady Veyra Thalorin—ancient, regal, her back straight as a blade despite the weight of her years. Her silver hair was coiled into a severe knot, her long robes trailing dark blue with embroidered wards that shimmered faintly in the torchlight. Her eyes, pale as frosted glass, fixed on Eliza with the quiet authority of one who had counseled three generations of queens and kings.
“Your Majesty,” Veyra said, her voice low, sonorous, carrying the kind of gravity that bent lesser wills without effort.
“Lady Thalorin,” Eliza said coldly, cautiously. She kept her chin high, though every instinct told her to beware. The woman radiated power in a way few others did—like a storm held in flesh.
Thalorin had been High Mage for as long as Eliza could remember. Nobody crossed her. Not even her father had dared. And it was Thalorin’s voice, her blessing, that had ultimately approved Eliza’s ascension to the throne. The crown could not exist without the mages, and the mages could not stand without the crown. The people of Maidan would never trust the Tower alone; the common folk feared what they didn’t understand.
“This is… unexpected,” Eliza said, her voice level. “What brings you to my chambers at this time of night?”
She did not step aside. Did not invite her in. Not yet.
Thalorin’s pale eyes glimmered faintly in the torchlight. “I am here,” she said, her voice quiet yet heavy, “because of anunheard-ofsituation. The queen of Maidan disappears without explanation, and then returns at nightfall—escorted by orcs. And now a powerful shadow mage lies bound in the dungeons beneath us.” Her words rolled like distant thunder.
Eliza kept her posture rigid, careful not to betray the unease curling in her stomach. “There was a situation,” she answered coolly. “And as you can very well see, it has been handled.”
Thalorin’s brow arched, her expression unreadable. “Handled? I do not know whether it has been handled or not. Too much remains unanswered.” She stepped forward, the air around her seeming to tighten. For the first time, the old woman’s presence felt openly threatening.
Her voice dropped lower, soft but edged like a knife. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
The air rippled with power. Subtle at first, like heat rising from stone, then sharper, pressing against Eliza’s skin. An intimidation, a threat cloaked in formality. The wardsembroidered in Thalorin’s robes shimmered faintly, alive with restrained energy.
Eliza’s pulse quickened, but she held her ground, her face schooled into icy composure. She would not flinch. Not here. Not beforeher.
“It is late,” Eliza snapped, her voice ringing sharp as steel. “Whatever it is you want to discuss, it can wait until tomorrow morning. We will discuss thisformally.”
“No.”
Lady Thalorin took a step forward.
Eliza stiffened. “What is the meaning of this?—”
But the words caught in her throat. Power surged, invisible and suffocating. The air slammed against her like a wall, driving her back. She stumbled across the threshold of her chambers and fell hard to her knees on the stone floor. Her jaw clenched as she struggled, her body refusing her command.
Thalorin stood over her, eyes glowing gold, light searing and terrible.
So like Rakhal’s eyes had glowed—yet not the same. His had been wild shadow-fire, threaded with danger. Hers were cold, controlled, absolute.
“The situation has gotten out of hand,” Thalorin said softly, almost kindly, though her magic pressed like chains around Eliza’s chest. “You are no longer fit to rule.”
Eliza’s throat burned as she fought the compulsion. Her voice scraped out between clenched teeth, ragged but defiant. “The High Council… will never approve.”
Thalorin’s golden gaze did not waver. “The High Council has already met with the Tower,” she said, her voice calm, merciless. “With myself.”
Eliza’s blood ran cold.
“Plans have been discussed.”
