Dane steps forward, his commanding presence drawing all eyes. “Everyone’s here,” he says, calling the meeting to order. “Let’s begin.”
Standing at the head of the table, I wait as Dane outlines our approach with the quiet authority that defines his leadership.
“We attack this on multiple fronts,” he says. “Research teams, intelligence gathering, diplomatic channels. Nothing gets overlooked.”
When he finishes, I step forward. Before diving into strategy, I sweep my gaze across the faces gathered here—pack members, allies, people who chose to stand with us when they could have walked away.
“Thank you,” I say, the words simple but necessary. “All of you. For being here, for helping us fight this.”
A few nods answer me, quiet acknowledgments that warm my chest. Then I turn my attention to the Inter-Realm Accord document Nova produced through her old fae court contacts—pulled from archives most people don’t know exist. My finger traces the text, and my voice finds its strength as I fall into familiar patterns of scholarly analysis.
“Based on what Callum and I found last night,” I say, tapping the documents we brought from his office, “the marriage contract has three potential vulnerabilities. First, precedent challenges under Article 7 of the Inter-Realm Accord—specifically the Undue Influence Clause. Second, investigating Caelynn’s death for evidence of manipulation. Third, exploring political alternatives that satisfy both realms’ security needs.”
I assign teams with methodical precision, matching skills to tasks. Nova’s eyes meet mine with approval—her fae court knowledge perfectly complementing my legal expertise.
“Derek, Nova—I need you both on my sister’s death investigation. Derek, your investigative expertise to coordinate what we need to find. Nova, your fae court contacts and access to gather information remotely.”
Derek nods sharply, already pulling documents toward him. “I’ll build the evidence framework—what questions need answering, what inconsistencies to look for.”
“I can access official records through secure fae channels,” Nova says, her voice carrying the edge of her old profession. “My old contacts won’t ask questions if I’m careful. No one needs to know the pack is investigating until we have proof.”
My finger moves to the dragon contract section. “Rhonan—“
“I’ll take the dragon contract law,” he interrupts, stepping forward. “I understand their marriage politics better than anyone here. And Nyxiana should join me—we’re both part dragon. We understand how their contracts work from the inside.”
Nyxiana nods, moving to stand beside her cousin. “Dragon marriage contracts have dissolution clauses most fae courts don’t know about. If we can prove the marriage vacancy was created through manipulation ...”
“The entire contract becomes void under dragon law,” Rhonan finishes.
I feel something loosen in my chest. For the first time since the summons arrived, I’m in my element—organizing, strategizing, applying logic to seemingly impossible problems. The scholar in me awakens, ready to dissect every clause and precedent.
Callum catches my eye across the table, and I see pride mixed with determination in his gaze. This is what I do best. And with Rhonan’s dragon court knowledge attacking from the other side, our chances have just doubled.
The teams begin dispersing to their assigned tasks, a sense of purpose replacing the earlier desperation.
The others leave to do their tasks. With only Dane, Ben, and Callum remaining at the strategy table, I pull forward the ancient law texts I’d requested from Prince Lachlan’s archives. The leather bindings creak as I open them, releasing that distinctive smell of old magic and parchment—dusty sweetness layered over something sharper, like lightning caught in paper.
“Our strongest argument is here,” I say, my fingers tracing the delicate script. The text glows faintly under my touch, recognizing fae blood. “Article 7, Section 12—the Undue Influence Clause.”
I turn the book toward them, tapping a paragraph bordered with intricate vine patterns.
“No binding contract shall be enforced when established through death, manipulation, or undue influence,” I recite from memory. “If we can prove Caelynn’s death was orchestrated to create this marriage vacancy, the entire contract becomes void.”
Dane leans forward, his tactical mind absorbing the legal framework with the same intensity he’d study battle plans. “Burden of proof?”
My fingers move to the next section, finding the clause instantly. “We need substantive evidence of manipulation, not just suspicion. The tribunal requires at least three forms ofdocumented proof—timeline inconsistencies, witness testimony, and magical signature evidence.”
Callum’s focus sharpens.
“There’s precedent,” I continue, flipping to another marked section. The pages smell of cedar and wild roses—someone had pressed flowers between them centuries ago. “The Silveroak Challenge of 1742. A fae noble proved his sister’s death was arranged to force his marriage to a rival house. The tribunal nullified the contract entirely.”
I pull another text forward, this one bound in dragonscale. “Dragon marriage contracts have even more specific vulnerability clauses. Rhonan is right—if we prove the vacancy was created through manipulation, dragon law considers the contract tainted.”
Dane sits back, considering. “Nine days to build a tribunal case.”
“The law is clear,” I say, conviction steadying my voice. “If death created the vacancy, and that death was orchestrated, the contract is void. We just need to prove it.”
The afternoon light has shifted by the time Nova and Derek return. I’ve spent hours cross-referencing legal precedents, my eyes burning from the dense text, when the door swings open.
