Yes, I was fucking jealous.
Because as monstrous as he was, Elariya remembered him. The curse still allowed his name to live in her mind.
Mine didn’t.
Part of me wondered if she could grow to love him again. If her memory reset, if she forgot his treachery, if someone filled her head with lies the way they had before. It could happen.
And as if that weren’t enough, Alaric was barely speaking to me. Bastian, ever the diplomat, tried to bridge the distance with measured words and forced normalcy.
It wasn’t working.
Nothing was.
And if I lost my shit and killed Thayden—severing a possible link to the bigger problem—it would push my brother even farther away.
So, I had to find another way.
For now.
Death was still in the cards for that prick.
The council's murmur shifted, the sound pulling me from my thoughts just as Dreynthor's attention fixed on me like a hawk spotting prey.
"Lord Commander," he spoke in that infernal haughty tone I loathed. "Perhaps you could enlighten us on the specifics of your security arrangements. How many soldiers will be stationed at the palace during the festival?"
Every eye at the table turned my way.
I leaned back in my chair, letting the silence stretch just long enough to remind them I answered when I was ready, not when summoned like a trained hound.
"Enough. The palace will be secure. The festival will proceed without incident while we handle the threats everywhere else."
Dreynthor's smile waned. "Wonderful, though I thought the council might appreciate specifics."
Translation:Give them numbers. Give them something to pick apart. Show your hand.
“A hundred.” I couldn’t be bothered to entertain the pissing match. He could have this round.
Dreynthor was about to speak when Lord Monshroud cleared his throat—a wet, rattling sound that drew attention like blood in water.
The old bastard leaned forward, his gnarled fingers steepled on the table. "And what of the recent disturbances?" His rheumy eyes moved from Dreynthor to me. "Don't you think we need to discussthat? Three nights ago, ten males went missing from theRukieon village, then a group of miners were found dead at their camps.”
That was exactly why I needed to show my face.
The temperature in the room seemed to drop.
Several council members shifted in their seats. A few exchanged glances, the kind that said they'd been thinking the same thing but lacked the balls to voice it.
Monshroud wasn't done. "The people are frightened, Your Highness. And fear, unchecked, breeds chaos faster than any rebellion."
Dreynthor's expression tightened, his fingers drumming once against the table, a tell so small most would've missed it.
"Lord Monshroud," my uncle began, his tone dripping with patronizing calm, "I assure you we are well aware of the situation. These matters are being handled through the appropriate?—"
"They deserve an answer." My voice stopped him cold, brooking no argument.
The room went still.
Dreynthor's gaze snapped to mine. For a heartbeat, his annoyance almost revealed itself, but he quickly smoothed it over with that practiced smile.
