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Rymedur scowled at the male, lips curling in a silent snarl that dared him to continue, because the way Eborthorn uttered his title and last name was a reminder of what he was. True-born elves did not adhere to last names; that was a human tradition—and the fact that Rymedur had one was evidence of what he was, and what he would always be. An outsider.

‘Did you?’ Rymedur challenged. Two could play at that game.

Seeing them again now, Rymedur vaguely remembered noting how these papers were strewn about Areanel’s desk in their room—so unlike her, he had thought. Had the lord sent his spies? It did not surprise him—everyone in this damned kingdom spied on each other. They trusted no one, and neither did he. Even Rymedur had countless contacts—external spies. He felt watched. He hated that his correspondence was checked by the king’s men. He did not want his letters to his mother inspected.

So, no, Rymedur was not shocked. But to evidence these pages so clearly in front of all the lords? Was he not afraid of the consequences? Or had he actually stolen them?

If so, then Rymedur was sure Areanel would have his head, and Rymedur wouldn’t mind watching it roll.

Chapter 9

Percival

‘What are you insinuating?’

Rymedur was clearly provoking Eborthorn, but the lord was far too dense to understand that. No matter how hard the male tried, Eborthorn would never be as clever as he thought he was.

Perception was an extraordinary thing. Take Areanel, for example. To all those who loved her, Areanel was the princess of Andrea. To those who respected her, she was General of Andrea. To those who had learned to fear her, she was the king’s assassin—and the latter would never even be able to speak of the fact, as they would never survive once marked.

And it was true—Areanel was all those things and more. But to Percival, she would always be his little sister. His twin. So, when Eborthorn turned his hateful gaze on her, Percival felt a stirring of protectiveness.

‘We should use this chance to set an example!’ the male shouted. ‘If they saw the power we held, they would bow before us all. As they should.’

Percival could practically see the foam forming at his mouth, spittle flying in every direction as he yelled. Still, a chorus of applause—beats pounding rhythmically as fists hammered against the table in agreement.

Percival sneered down the table at the lord. ‘You mean the power we hold.’ He gestured between himself and his siblings. Startled faces glanced his way. He had surprised the council—and admittedly, it was a contrasting eruption of behaviour compared to his typical, calm demeanour. Good. Let them be scared. They needed to be reminded of their place. ‘There is no need for rash decision-making.’

He exchanged a knowing glance with Areanel. Liar, her eyes seemed to say, even as amusement pirouetted within.

‘Especially one leading to war,’ he continued. ‘Vennedove is in Cal Cathlar’s jurisdiction. If we deliberately disregard the treaty, we risk forfeiting our contractual rights. Our kingdom will be legally absorbed. Cal Cathlar poses the biggest threat as of now. With their newly established government and their sense of equality, the people are drawn to the idea of integration. We cannot move against them without concrete evidence.’

‘Is this not enough evidence?’

The council members were in an uproar. Many agreed with Eborthorn; like sirens, they smelled blood and wanted to feast.

‘No.’ Percival felt triumphant. Even though he kept his tone level, bored, he was glad.

Their plan was working.

Percival had to salute Areanel’s idea to turn the council towards a vote—soon they would demand they go to Cal Cathlar, and their father would be pressured to send them. Which is exactly what they wanted to achieve, because if the envoys were sent to Cal Cathlar, they would be able to leave Andrea and track down the chieftain without their father knowing their true intentions.

They’d be able to discover whatever the Chieftain of Vennedove knew about the rebels, allowing their total eradication.

The rebels hadn’t bothered Percival in the beginning. Back then, they’d been nothing more than a nuisance. Then, he had seen Resmundur’s broken body—torn and left for the siren to devour—and he could sometimes still hear his sister’s grief-stricken cries echoing in his soul. When Areanel told everyone the rebels were responsible for Resmundur’s death, no one but Rymedur and Percival had believed her. Percival had grown up alongside her. He’d been there every step of the way; he knew she was telling the truth. So, he’d vowed to help, not just for his sister, but for the energetic little nephew who’d loved to play with his wooden sword and pick buttercups from the palace gardens for his mother after she’d had a long day of training.

Sorrow enwrapped Percival’s heart, clenching its iron grip at the memory of the child who would never again smile with glee, or run around with a wicked grin after he’d tormented his siblings.

‘The prince is right.’ The voice came from the far end of the table, where a younger male with earthy eyes, shining with a type of cunning not often seen in an elf so young, sat rigid.

Percival did not know this male. Was he a new lord? If so, whose seat had he taken? Percival’s gaze swept the familiar faces, yet he could pinpoint none, besides his father, missing. He watched, both puzzled and intrigued.

‘I have heard that the citizens are escaping to Alabasus for sanctuary. We could send our men, under the pretext of aid, to the governed nation of Cal Cathlar to investigate. They are growing in numbers, after all. Their relinquished sovereignty after the Great War may begin to appeal to others. If we “do not show mercy,” as Prince Sevain so eloquently put it, it gives the rebellion more cause, and the extra citizens pouring into Cal Cathlar may well encourage financial growth.’

Raising a brow, Percival considered the male’s views. He had a point. It may start as financial strain, gaining all those new individuals, but in the long run, Cal Cathlar would make money. Not all civilians were happy with the way the treaty was structured to benefit only Andrea and Selcirith. Dismantling the monarchies may well be next—which is exactly what the rebels wished to achieve.

And that scared the males before him. The councilmen had everything to lose.

The chunky signet ring upon Eborthorn’s smallest finger glinted in the light. The male often flaunted his wealth and delighted in the misfortune of others, so while wearing opulent items was not uncommon for him, Percival thought he recognised the signet from somewhere else—and that place was not Eborthorn’s finger.