Rowan nodded, once. “Several sources. We have intercepted coded messages; some refer to her by title, others by name. None dispute her claim.”
“Does she have control of the Gift?” asked Lady Celeste, her voice so level it nearly passed for calm.
Rowan’s gaze dropped. “All accounts say she does. She has… improved since the last sighting.”
Edmund let out a single, sharp laugh, then stilled himself. “She always did exceed expectations, when it suited her.” He released the cane’s handle and eased himself into his seat, the carved chair creaking under his weight. He steepled his fingers, silver rings flashing.
The scribe took up her writing again, pausing only to dip her pen in the inkwell.
“Proceed,” the king said. He sounded like a predator just before pouncing.
Rowan licked his lips. “The rebels hold a system of caves in the woods north of the city, with fortifications at each entry. The population of Gifted is larger than we thought. They have weathered a power struggle—Maven Thornheart is no longer in command, nor alive, if reports are accurate. Princess Alina rules in his stead, with the rebel prince Kael at her side.”
A silence, deeper than the first.
Lord Windmere was the one to break it. “You are telling us,” he said, every syllable oiled and precise, “that the legitimate heir to the throne has survived, mastered the forbidden Gift, and is now consorting with the most dangerous outlaw in the Realm?”
Rowan’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “Yes, my lord. That is what I am telling you.”
The king leaned back, knuckles whitening on his cane. He inhaled deeply and let the breath out slowly. His eyes scanned the council: Lady Celeste’s terror barely masked by manners; Duke Roland’s bluster failed by the quaver in his jaw; Elena Fairchild’s breathless dread, so new to power that she had not yet learned to conceal fear. Windmere, always the observer, watched them all.
“Well,” Edmund said, “I suppose we should be grateful for the Gift’s clarity. The time for ambiguity has passed.”
He surveyed his advisors. “Ashford, do you have recommendations?”
Rowan straightened. “If I may, Your Majesty: we suggest a three-pronged approach. The main force will assault the Caves directly; a second contingent will cut off retreat through the western passes. The third, comprised of our best Gift-trackers, will target Alina specifically. They must neutralize her.”
The king’s gaze sharpened. “Neutralize?”
Rowan nodded. “She is to be brought in alive, if possible. But the risk—”
“Is considerable,” finished Edmund. “So be it.” He fixed Duke Roland with a look. “Can you have the trackers in place by the month’s end?”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” the Duke boomed.
“Muster the regulars and ensure there are no supply delays,” the king ordered. “Use Windmere’s merchants if you must. Oversee the city’s defense. If the Gifted make it to the capital, we cannot afford an uprising.”
“Of course, Your Majesty!”
He turned to Lord Windmere. “You will coordinate with the merchants to raise funds for the campaign. Quietly. I do not wantnews of the princess’s survival in the city until we control the narrative.”
Windmere bowed his head, lips curling ever so slightly.
“Lady Marlowe, you will free funds for this campaign as needed, I don’t care how you do it.” Lady Marlowe bowed neatly, already calculating numbers in her head.
“Lady Fairchild, you will assist the other Council Members in whatever they need. Make it possible, make it happen. You all will do whatever necessary to bring this to a success.” He looked from face to face, leaving the “or else” part hanging unsaid in the air.
The king looked to the scribe. “Did you get all that?”
She nodded, never meeting his eyes.
“Good.” Edmund let his hands drop, resting them lightly atop the table. “We convene at dawn. Go. And find out who betrayed the last courier. I want the leak cauterized.”
Just as the councilors rose, the hush in the corridor outside the war chamber was shattered by the crash of hurried footsteps and the metallic snarl of boots on stone. The guards straightened, every one with a hand to their sword, as a shadow flickered beneath the crack of the heavy chamber door. They stopped in their tracks, eyes glued to the door.
A heartbeat later, it slammed open so hard it rattled the maps on the walls.
A messenger burst into the chamber, breathless and wild-eyed, the plumage of his livery plastered to a pale, sweat-shined brow. He dropped to his knees with such force the echo boomed up the length of the table. One trembling hand extended a sealed letter toward the king, but his eyes—blue and bloodshot—remained fixed on the floor.
