“Fen—”
“All of court at your feet,” he cuts in, disdain sharp and practiced. “While the rest of us fade into usefulness.”
He shoves a stack aside. The crash makes me flinch. Whatever gentleness I believed lived in him withdraws.
“My family used to matter,” he says quietly. “We shaped paths. We were sought out.”
Tears sting my eyes. “This isn’t you. You’re kind. You’re good.”
“And weak,” he snaps, the word landing like a verdict. “That’s what you see when you look at me. What they all see.”
He steps closer.
“But tell me, myqueen,” he says softly now, hate threaded through every syllable, “how weak and helpless was your king when they left him bleeding on the road?”
Any air my lungs held vanishes. The attack on Vale—the one that nearly cost him his life.
“How?” The word breaks apart as it leaves me.
“I’ll admit,” he says coolly, “I almost felt bad when I heard how close he came to dying.” He adjusts papers on the desk as if discussing the weather. “I was only a messenger. His decision to take a lesser-known routemade it easier for him to be isolated. I simply provided the details. Of his movements. Of yours.”
“The wedding…” I blink, as if the room might right itself if I try hard enough. Every step, every turn—each attack timed because he knew where we would be. Because I trusted him.
The sting comes first—sharp and electric—dancing along my fingertips. Outside, the sky darkens as if answering something unspoken. Thunder rolls low and distant, drawing nearer.
Heat coils in my chest, tight and unfamiliar. I don’t reach for it.
I don’t even know how. “Why?” My voice fractures. “To what end?”
For a moment—just a moment—I think I see something human flicker behind his eyes.
Then it hardens.
“You sit on the throne and act like you belong there,” he says quietly. “As if power still exists.”
He smiles then, wide and wrong. “Not here. Not anymore.”
His hand drags along the edge of the desk as he moves, never breaking eye contact. The blade appears without ceremony—drawn from beneath the table as though it had always been waiting.
Dark metal. Old work. Carvings that catch the lightning as it splits the sky outside.
“Real power will rise again,” he says. “And when it does, it won’t kneel.” His gaze rakes over me. “Certainly not to you.”
He advances.
I don’t run. There’s nowhere to go.
Behind me, the windows shudder. Wind forces its way through the seams, candles guttering as thunder cracks so close the walls seem to recoil.
The room answers before I do.
Scrolls lift from the desk. Pages scatter. The storm presses in, wild and unbidden, glass rattling in its frame.
Fenloris doesn’t flinch.
“The Crown of Caerhollan will fall,” he says, voice raised over the roar. “One way or another.”
He’s close now—too close. The blade lifts, not to strike, but to threaten.
