The air stills. Solena’s gaze drops at once, her spine stiff with quiet shame.
Chairs creak, shoulders tighten, jaws clench, eyes darken. One careless phrase, the room turns against her.
A breath passes. Then another.
She glances down at the seat beneath her and lets out a soft, almost rueful laugh. “Apologies. Of course it is. I’ve been sitting here so long… I suppose I forgot what belonged to me, and what does not.”
Her voice lingers on that last part a little too long. A little too wistful.
I nod once. “It’s fine. The food tastes the same no matter which chair you sit in.”
She dips her head and slides one seat to the side. I take my rightful place, but there's something hollow about it now. As if the weight of tradition feels trivial in a world where thrones fall and death waits at every turn.
The heavy doors creak open, breaking the moment.
Servants file in, quiet as ghosts.
I don’t recognize a single one of them.
Then again, there was a time I didn’t recognize Solena either.
They move with the precision of the well-trained, laying down the first courses in reverent silence. Goblets of deep red wine. A board of cheese and thick bread still warm from the ovens. Dried fruits, honeycomb, thin curls of salted meat.
Zyphoro slings her boots onto the edge of the table and rips into a hunk of bread like she hasn’t eaten in days. Reon grunts his approval, already filling his goblet to the brim.
Ilyra leans back in her seat, eyes flicking across our ragged company. “There’s more than enough food,” she says lightly. “Are you sure your wife does not wish to join us?”
My fingers curl around the arms of my chair. One boot taps against the cold stone floor, steady and sharp.
“She’s fine where she is,” I say. “Tell me about Modok.”
She meets my gaze without flinching.
“He’s building,” she says. “Quietly. Carefully. The longer you were gone, the more the houses of the Untold Sea turned to him. Some believe he’s the only Fae strong enough to reclaim the Sundered Kingdoms.”
I say nothing. I watch her instead.
She pours herself a goblet of wine. The jug lands back on the table with a soft slam, wine sloshing over the lip. Her fingers wrap around the stem in a grip too tight, too tense. Her knuckles go white.
I’ve seen Ilyra fierce. I’ve seen her cruel, clever, biting.
But not like this.
Not rough.
Not trembling.
She lifts the goblet to her lips and drinks. The wine stains her mouth like blood. Her eyes hold mine over the rim, darker than they were a moment ago.
“Your return is well-timed, Your Highness,” she says softly. “He will strike soon and Baev’kalath must be ready.”
“No rest for the wicked,” Reon sighs, pouring himself another generous goblet. “If this is true, I should return to Eyr’Drogul at once, see what state my house is in. I will rally my warriors to fight at your side, as always, Rook.”
Orios doesn’t sit. Doesn’t eat. Instead, he remains at the far end of the table, the firelight carving sharp edges into the line of his jaw. Then he bows his head and presses a closed fist to his chest in salute.
“My prince, if matters are truly this dire, we’re wasting precious time. The Blades must be summoned now.”
I had hoped, perhaps foolishly, for more time. For peace. For the warmth of Amara's skin beside mine and the hush of a kingdom untroubled by war. But I see now how naïve that hope was. The war had never ended. It had merely paused to draw breath.
