"The law is clear," the third elder announces to the crowd. "Only a High Elf may rule Aelfheim. Only one who has lived at least two hundred years and gained the wisdom that comes with true maturity."
Lord Halburt of the Eastern March suddenly stands in the council section. His weathered face flushes with indignation. "Our queen has lived for more than a thousand years! She bears the weight of ten centuries of experience!"
Several other council members nod vigorously, echoing his defense.
But the elders' laughter cuts through their protests like steel through silk.
"A thousand years?" The fourth elder's voice rises with mock amazement. "How fascinating. And yet..."
The lead elder lifts his staff. Ancient sigils run the length of it, carved deep into the wood.
"Let no lie survive us today."
The runes wake one by one. A thin lattice spreads outward from the staff and moves through the arena. When it reaches me I feel it brush the edges of my mind. Above the dais, smoke rises from nothing and bends itself into elven script. The letters form slowly, deliberately, as if the magic understands the weight of what it is writing.
The crowd reads it before the elder speaks.
"Queen Rhianelle Wiolant is sixty-nine years old," the elder declares.
For a moment, absolute silence reigns.
Then the colosseum comes apart.
"Impossible!"
"She's an elfling!"
"We have a child on the throne!"
The sound builds on itself, thousands of voices finding the same note of outrage and shock.
"Your queen has spent nine hundred years cowering behind temple walls," the second elder declares over the chaos. "Protected from every real choice. Every real consequence. She does not carry the wisdom of a High Elf. She carries the inexperience of a child given a crown she has not earned."
Council member after council member rises to protest. Their voices are lost in the growing tumult.
Lady Tierra of Elwood shouts above the din. "You speak the impossible! No one could survive that long in temple isolation. The longest recorded stay is two hundred years."
But the runes on the staff glow brighter. A truth spell cannot be disputed.
Rhianelle remains standing, though I can see the effort it costs her. The revelation cuts deep because it exposes not just her age, but her deepest fear—that she might truly be unfit for the crown thrust upon her.
"Tell us, little elfling," the fourth elder croons, their voice honeyed with false concern. "How can you lead a nation when you have barely lived at all?"
The word elfling sounds like an insult. It's not just a marker of age. It implies naivety and weakness.
I step closer to Rhianelle, letting my presence remind her she is not alone. But I can feel the elders' trap tightening with each passing moment. They've orchestrated this perfectly, revealing her youth at the exact moment when it would make her appear weak for showing mercy.
The lead elder spreads their arms wide, addressing the crowd directly. "Perhaps it is time for new and wiser leadership. Does anyone wish to invoke the Archon?"
Red moves through the crowd below. He was the last contender who challenged Rhianelle's throne before swearing to protect it.
The knight vaults over the barrier separating spectators from the arena floor.
"Clayborne." The lead elder's voice cuts across the arena. "Do you stand to call the Archon? Step forward and say so."
Red ignores the question entirely. He turns his back on the dais and faces the crowd. "Honorable council members. Before we condemn our queen for her youth, perhaps we should examine our elders too."
The lead elder's hooded head turns toward him with visible irritation. "Gerailt Clayborne, you forget your place. Return to—"
