“There’s one more matter I’d like to raise before we adjourn.”
Goblets lowered. Chairs shifted. Quills stilled. A few glances flicked toward her, waiting for her to continue. Some glances were curious. Most were wary.
“The parcel of land on the southern ridge,” Raveena continued. “Near the glacial run where the ice thaws early. It was previously earmarked for a diplomatic retreat, if I recall correctly.”
"You mean Greymoor?" Lady Tern frowned, flipping through her notes. “The site slated for the Unity Lodge?”
“The same.” Raveena folded her hands atop the stone. “I’d like to reclaim it. Repossess it in the crown’s name. The Unity Lodge can be relocated.”
“Relocated where, Your Majesty?” asked Lady Veyne, a sharpness beneath her courtesy.
Raveena smiled faintly. “Somewhere less… central. Less scenic. Surely peace doesn’t require such a view.”
Lady Hollowmere cleared her throat. “Forgive me, but that land was donated to the Assembly by the Icebound Guild for the sole purpose of diplomatic hospitality. To revoke it now would risk more than paperwork.”
Lady Charming leaned forward, eyes glittering like icicles catching blood. “One might almost think you’ve made promises that require payment.”
Raveena’s spine stayed straight, her lips curved in a smile too perfect to be kind. “One might think a queen need not explain her decisions to a body she carried through a war.”
The table bristled—not openly, not yet. But she felt it. A shift beneath the calm. Small fractures forming in the ice.
Raveena tilted her head, looking down the long curve of the White Table. They’d liked her talk of alliances. They’d liked her jabs at Lady Charming and the subtle reminder of her continued power. But this land? Greymoor? This appeared a more touchy subject than she'd suspected.
Graham wanted the land. He’d bled for this kingdom. Sacrificed everything. Well, not everything. She would have never allowed anything or anyone to take his life. Behind thescenes, she'd shifted orders around, overrode generals’ calls, and repositioned the pieces on the game board to ensure that her lover could fight—yes—but would largely remain unharmed.
All he'd asked in return was for Greymoor. And for her not to fuck Charming. That was doable. But she'd still have to marry the boy. Graham would have to get over that. To help him get over it, she would hand him this land.
The House of Ladies’ polished nails and paper-thin smiles stood in her way. Though not for long. This would not be easy. She would have to push. She would have to fight. But this game was child's play. She would win with one hand tied behind her back.
Thinking of knots and bound hands made her think of Graham and how he could make her beg. He was the only person she'd ever begged for anything. Because he gave her everything.
She would not beg these women. She would make them bleed if they got in her way.
CHAPTER TEN
The castle loomed behind him. Its spires caught the morning light like the points of a crown carved from ice. Graham didn't look back.
He never did.
His boots crunched through fresh frost as he walked the path beyond the gates, shoulders hunched against the bite of the wind. The air out here was sharp and clean, laced with wood smoke and the faint metallic scent of snow-soaked iron. He inhaled deep, letting it fill his lungs. Clean air. Honest air.
It didn’t erase the stink of palace politics that clung to him. Or the taste of her name sitting heavy on his tongue.
Raveena.
Gods, he’d done this walk too many times, the walk of shame. It had never felt shameful in their youth. He'd felt pride at being her chosen lover. Honored at being her confidant. Triumph believing he held her heart in his hand.
That last part had been a lie. She'd chosen him. She'd confided in him. But she had not given him her heart. Her body, yes. But he wanted—no, needed—more than that.
And so this walk away from the castle with empty hands and a sluggish heart came with footsteps weighted down by shame.
Once again, out he went. Through the castle gates, down into the village with sweat cooling on his skin and bruises hidden beneath the collar of his coat. Not all the bruises had been from her touch. Sometimes they came from wanting her. From believing she was his.
It hadn’t always been about the bed. Often, it hadn’t been about the bed at all. Some nights, they’d spent hours side by side, her legs draped across his lap while they played strategy games with carved bone pieces and rules they rewrote as they went. Other times, she'd read aloud from some ancient text while he listened, pointing out the cracks in the histories with a soldier’s pragmatism and a mind built for attack.
Graham had never had a formal education. He hadn’t needed one. His brilliance lived in battlefield instinct, in angles and pressure points, in knowing when to strike and when to wait.
Raveena saw that intelligence. She admired it. He could match her wit for wit. He'd thought she saw him not just as a man, but as her man.
