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Trying to calm the council, he’d opened his arms out placatingly and shouted over the raucous chattering, but Rymedur couldn’t help the scoff that came from his mouth. Did any of these males have anything other than loathing in their stone hearts?

A sharp sting had him pulling his leg towards himself.

Brows furrowed, Rymedur’s head swivelled to the male seated next to him. Had Percival just kicked him?

His elbow nudged Percival’s arm off the chair, but the prince refused to look at him and simply moved over, leaning his weight on the other armrest.

Bastard.

Rymedur shifted away from Percival and moved to unbutton the ties at his wrist—it was far too hot in the stuffy hall. Rolling up his sleeves so that they rested near his elbow, Rymedur half-listened to the conversation.

‘My prince, the council sees you are fair and just. But was it not the northerners who turned against us? Human and fae worked together to overthrow us. They slaughtered your brother in cold blood. You ask us to be merciful, but, my prince, would they have been merciful if it were not for your dear sister?’ The male waved a hand in Areanel’s direction, bowing his head—which Rymedur recognised for the mocking gesture it was.

His fists clenched as he stared daggers into the side of the male’s face. Rymedur was ready to rip out his throat if he spewed more bullshit.

‘As ruthless and unforgiving as you were, Areanel,’ he continued, ‘we would not have won the last war had it not been for such heartless decisions. Selcirith would still have its booted foot upon our necks. And now it is the other way around, is it not?’ His stormy gaze landed firmly on Rymedur, a hint of amusement dancing within.

Rymedur braced a hand on each armrest, nails carving divots into the wood—but leaping over the table and murdering the male would not bode well for any of them.

‘That is why, Eborthorn, son of Aeroth, we must first be the ones to extend that hand of goodwill. After all we have done, we must show that Andrea is a kingdom of peace and prosperity, not a place to be feared. Only then will we restore their trust,’ Sevain stated.

Shock struck Rymedur like a lightning bolt, and he felt his shadows writhing against his skin. Why hadn’t Sevain come to Areanel’s defence?

Slowly, the shadows peeled away, slithering across the planes of his chest. They seeped into the air around him, begging to lash out, but Rymedur calmed his mind. Breathing in, he pulled them back. Nothing good would come from them ripping the councilmen to shreds.

Logically, he understood why Sevain had glossed over the jibe aimed at him. But Areanel? He had just brushed over the fact that this mere lord had mocked her. His wife may have been brutal in the war, but this male had no right to insinuate she was heartless. She did what she could for the people she loved. He had witnessed that first-hand.

Sevain was too kind. Rymedur would have forced these lords to bow at Areanel’s feet—but Areanel must have insisted on this approach; Sevain could appeal to them in a way others could not. The council trusted him the most out of all the royal siblings.

Or, at least, that’s what they liked others to think, but Rymedur knew better—he still spent his spare time in the kitchens, and the staff enjoyed gossip. Word was, while the ladies of the palace might see Sevain as charming, the lords saw the prince as the runt, easy to pick off. In their eyes, his kindness was weak, leaving him vulnerable to the court’s vultures. And that is what they preyed on now.

Areanel must have had a logical reason to allow Sevain to take the lead during this meeting, but what that was, Rymedur did not know.

The twins were always scheming. Even now, as he looked between the two younger siblings, Percival and Areanel appeared calm. Rymedur, however, knew that they were not simply sitting back and letting the discussion unfold. Each had an ulterior motive.

Allied with the council’s perception of them, the youngest prince and princess manipulated the room without uttering a word. Percival’s hand covered his mouth, hiding the slight smile that tugged the corners of his lips. His eyes—so similar to Areanel’s—lit up at the way each council member argued against helping the villagers.

Subtly, Rymedur’s eyes drifted to Areanel, who remained quiet and watchful as each council member pushed another to make a decision.

‘Why should we lend a helping hand to those who have harboured rebels?’ one council member shouted.

Rymedur’s shoulders stiffened. Pushing up from his seat, he leaned forward and glared at the male. Anger, red and hot, surged. Harboured rebels?

Like kindling, the beast within rose once more. Prowling the edges of his mind, its dark and sharp talons clicked, ready to pounce.

‘We should tear that village apart. Not help them!’ the male continued. His hand reached for the papers stacked at his side, and he fisted a few before throwing them towards the other council members. ‘See this?’ He gestured towards the papers now scattered across the table. ‘Evidence that the Chieftain of Vennedove has been making deals with known rebels.’

Rymedur reached across Percival to Prince Nymlaris, who scanned a page, eyes flitting back and forth in rapid succession. Snatching the paper from his grip, Rymedur read the deft scrawl. It was hard to read—some was cut off, burnt around the edges like the papers had been pulled from a fire—but the evidence of rebel activity was clear. The page documented transactions in weapons and money, clandestine meetings between the chieftain and rebel supporters, a communication network established as ‘the nexus’ hidden within Vennedove and even financial support and backing from higher-ups in Cal Cathlar. Everything was meticulously recorded—a clear roadmap to the rebels’ desired outcome: the eradication of Andrea.

They wanted the elven monarchy to fall, and they didn’t care how much blood they spilt.

Rymedur’s eyes remained on the councilman who had produced the papers. ‘Where did you get this?’

Eborthorn’s eyes lit up.

What was that? Excitement?

‘Why, that is a ledger pulled from the chieftain’s house in Vennedove, Commander Luca,’ Eborthorn replied.