The men glance at one another. Only Odrin carries the strength to answer.
“We cannot forget the attack on you, my liege. It was targeted. Intended to kill. The blade that tried to end your life, the way you described it—it is not the same as the one recovered yesterday.”
“Whether that man was part of the attack in the woods or not, the fact remains—he got close. Too close,” a stern voice adds.
“Lord Redgrave is right. We must remain vigilant until the truth of these threats is revealed,” Vale agrees, discomfort building within me.
“We should close the gates. No one in or out. We’ve been too lax with our protection, and it shows,” a silver-bearded man at the far end of the table interjects.
“No,” Vale replies. “We can be mindful. We can be prepared. But we will not set this kingdom back two hundred years.” He stands tall now. “If that is what they want—whoever it is—they will not succeed.”
Silence reigns.
If I remain quiet, I will never be more than the outsider they already see.
“Is that reason enough,” I ask, voice steady, “for closing things off?” My gaze sweeps the room. “First a move against him, then against me?”
Eyes flick toward Vale, but I do not look at him.
“I understand I am not accepted by all,” I admit. No one argues—only averts their eyes. “But whether the attack on me was meant to frighten or worse, the truth remains: someone wanted Vale dead.”
I sit taller now. Strength steadies my voice. “I know how close that attack was. I also see how beloved he is. So I have to ask—why would someone want him dead?”
Uneasy shifts. Quiet murmurs. No answers.
Then a scoff—Ace. “Certainly not to see me on the throne,” he mutters. “Gods help us all.”
Uncomfortable chuckles ripple through the room. The storm breaks just enough to breathe.
Theories return—grievances with neighboring lands, dissenters within. Talk turns in circles, as politics always does. By the time the meeting adjourns, no one is satisfied. Least of all me.
At the door, Ace lingers. “You know I’ve never wanted it, right?” he says to Vale. “The crown, I mean.”
“I know, cousin. You’re a far better bard than diplomat.”
“You have never seen Ace navigate the perils of courtiers clamoring for his attention if you think he isn’t well versed in the art of compromise,” I add.
Ace’s laugh warms the air, and then he’s gone.
The doors close. Only Vale and I remain.
Despite the empty room, the weight still lingers. Why would someone move against a king if not to take his place? Was the attack on me because of who and what I am—or simply another way to wound Caerhollan?
More questions than answers, we do our best to find solace with one another.
The mood stays heavy into the next day. When Vale leaves in the morning, dread clings to me. Trying to calm my nerves proves futile, so I take myself to a place that holds no comfort.
The library is quiet, near-dark, with few torches lit and even less daylight breaking through the storm clouds outside. It doesn’t matter—not where I am going.
Lantern in hand, I walk to the Sanctum with more conviction than ever before. I am not being summoned. I am not desperate. Not by it. Not when dangers outside this room feel far more real than anything written on forgotten pages.
I do not expect answers here. I know there is no peace. And somehow, that makes this the only place that feels right.
Two guards follow my every step. Two more wait outside the library doors. Their presence is no more looming than the fears I push through.
They respect my command enough to stand within the heart of the library after securing the perimeter, confident we are alone.
I am no longer surprised when the lock releases to my touch. To whatever ancient power yields to me now. I set the lock on the table and remove the chains in quiet, fluid motions. I do not want the guards to question.
