Their second day in the Citadel felt longer than the voyage that brought them here.
No alarms, no summons, no grand meeting with officials—
only waiting.
And somehow, that felt worse.
The Citadel in daylight was almost unnaturally still, its halls capturing every noise and stretching it into echoes. Through the high windows poured sheets of white sunlight, bright enough to erase shadows—and yet the air felt colder than marble beneath their boots.
Chauncey flopped face-first onto one of the couches in their guest quarters.
"Okay, but seriously," he groaned into a pillow, "what's the point of bringing us here if we're just gonna sit here like expensive houseplants?"
"A houseplant would be quieter,"
Charolette muttered, not looking up from the map she was studying.
"And more useful."
Chauncey shot her a glare. "Oh, bite me."
Jasmijn ignored both of them.
She paced.
Not nervously—no, she didn't allow herself that—but with the rigid steps of someone thinking through too many problems at once. Her armor clinked softly each time she turned on her heel. She had already refused three separate invitations from aides and officers who wanted "a brief word."
Zayn watched her without speaking.
He could see it—the distance.
It had grown more overnight, thin as hair but sharp enough to cut.
She had walls now. Walls she didn't have at Valdyr.
Erik sat near the window sharpening his blade, each stroke slow and deliberate. The sound rang out in cold, metallic whispers, filling the silence like a heartbeat.
But Zayn felt something else.
Something below the normal quiet.
Observation.
The kind that crawled along walls and seeped through door cracks.
He turned his head subtly.
Two guards stood at the far corner, posted specifically at their door. They did not speak. They barely blinked. But their eyes moved—tracking the slightest twitch from him.
Zayn frowned.
Again.
That same subtle tension.
That same measured attention.
He wasn't being protected.
He was being evaluated.
He leaned back in his chair. "They're watching us."
"No," Erik corrected without glancing away from his blade. "They're watching you."
Zayn didn't deny it.
Charolette looked up from her map. "You think they're nervous?"
"No," Jasmijn answered quietly, stopping her pacing. "They're preparing."
Chauncey raised a brow. "Preparing for what?"
Jasmijn hesitated for the smallest heartbeat.
"For deciding what to do with us."
That silenced the room.
Zayn shifted. "With us? Or with me?"
Her eyes flicked to him—sharp, conflicted.
"…Both."
She walked toward the window, arms crossed, posture rigid.
"The council is divided,"
she continued.
"Some see us as allies. Others see us as… complications. And some…"
Her jaw tightened.
"…want to measure the threat level you pose before they ever speak to us."
"Tch. What happened to being heroes rivalling folklore? Guess that's out the window." Chauncey muttered.
Zayn's fingers curled around the armrest.
"So this waiting is a test."
"A test," she confirmed. "A study. A political game. Call it whatever you want."
The torches along the wall flickered, as if reacting to the shift in air.
Jasmijn turned back to them, expression softer now—only slightly, but enough to show the girl beneath the armor.
"I know it feels like nothing is happening," she said, "but every hour we spend here, every move we make, every person we speak to… it's being weighed."
Chauncey flopped backwards again. "So what, do we just sit here until someone decides we're worth talking to?"
"Yes."
"And if they decide we're not worth talking to?"
Jasmijn didn't answer.
She didn't need to.
Zayn inhaled slowly.
All around him lay silence, polished floors, drifting banners, expensive furnishings—and yet it felt like the walls were inching closer. Like the Citadel was narrowing its gaze until it landed on him alone.
He didn't fear battle.
But this?
Being measured like a weapon on display?
It clawed at him in a way blades never could.
Outside, the afternoon bells began to toll across the capital—slow, echoing chimes that vibrated through the stone.
The Citadel listened.
Until suddenly— a knock.
Jasmijn sighed in frustration, briskly walking to the door before opening it with lightning precision.
"I thought I told you we didn't want—!…"
Everyone froze.
A messenger stepped inside, his stern expression unreadable.
"Commander Jasmijn," he said. "The High Council has reached its decision."
Jasmijn straightened.
The others rose behind her.
The messenger's voice lowered, the weight of the words hanging like iron chains.
"Your audience has been scheduled."
Zayn's pulse hammered once—hard.
Chauncey swallowed.
Charolette stopped breathing.
Erik's hand brushed the hilt of his sword.
The messenger bowed.
"Tomorrow."
The door shut behind him.
Silence followed.
But it wasn't empty.
It was charged.
The Citadel, the capital, the entire empire—they were all waiting.
And tomorrow, everything began.
….
The chamber Jasmijn had assigned them flickered with warm lamplight, shadows dancing across the lacquered cabinets and polished mirrors. The air smelled faintly of cedar and pressed silk—the scent of ritual, of preparation, of stepping into a world that judged every seam and buckle.
Laid out on the tables were sets of formal Drenmarch garb: layered tunics of deep navy and white, sashes knotted with geometric precision, metallic clasps etched with sharp, angular patterns. They all looked like distant cousins of Jasmijn's wardrobe—more rigid, more ceremonial, unmistakably Drenmarch.
Zayn stood stiffly before a mirror, wrestling with a knot that refused to resemble any configuration shown in the instructional diagram. His brows knit. The fabric twisted the wrong way. He tried again. Worse.
Behind him, Charolette's reflection appeared—arms crossed, eyes assessing him with all the scrutiny of an irritated tailor.
"…You're going to choke yourself if you pull it any tighter," she muttered.
Zayn let out a slow exhale. "Im just following the instructions."
"You're butchering the instructions."
She stepped forward with a small, dramatic sigh, nudging his hands away. Her fingers brushed his as she took the fabric, and though she rolled her eyes, pink crept up her cheeks immediately.
"Hold still," she said, voice softer than she meant it to be.
Zayn did. Too well. He awkwardly stared straight ahead, but in the mirror he could see the blush spreading over her ears as she worked—deliberate, precise, almost reverent in her concentration.
The knot took her three seconds to fix.
But she didn't step back.
Instead she stayed close, smoothing the hem of his collar. Then a nonexistent crease on his shoulder. Then another on his sleeve, and again—micro-adjustments that served absolutely no purpose except to let her linger.
Chauncey, halfway through attempting his own knot and failing spectacularly, watched them with way too much amusement.
"Well isn't this adorable," he mused.
"Charolette, want to fix mine too? For symmetry?"
Her hand froze mid-adjustment.
She shot him a glare sharp enough to cut plate armor.
"No. Fix it yourself," she snapped, though her voice wobbled.
Chauncey grinned, clearly satisfied.
Erik tightened his gauntlets in the corner, pretending not to notice anything, though the subtle lift of his brows betrayed the fact that he very much did.
Jasmijn stood by the doorway, already fully dressed. Her attire was sharper, more authoritative—white mantle folded over her shoulder, deep navy robes cinched with silver thread, the emblem of her lineage bright against her chest. She looked like she'd been ready for hours.
"It's time," she announced.
Charolette jolted so hard she nearly shoved Zayn backward into the wall.
She cleared her throat, stepped away far too quickly, and grabbed her own sash with aggressive professionalism.
"Right. Yes. Time."
Jasmijn's eyes flicked between them, expression unreadable—but a knowing edge glimmered there before it vanished.
"Pick up the pace if you can, please."
Charolette released a breath that was ninety percent frustration and ten percent flustered panic.
Zayn simply adjusted his sleeves, calm despite everything.
Then—silence.
The five of them stood before the door as if it marked the boundary between two worlds.
And in a way, it did.
No more training halls, No more quiet rooms or easy conversations. They were walking toward the highest powers of Drenmarch—toward scrutiny, judgment, and the possibility of shaping the war itself.
Jasmijn opened the door.
The corridor beyond stretched long and solemn, lit with cold blue lanterns that lined the walls like watching eyes. Their footsteps fell in perfect unison as they moved forward—slow, steady, each echo swallowed by the towering stone around them.
Pensive expressions settled on their faces.
Whatever happened in that council chamber…
would echo far beyond the Citadel walls.
And all of them felt it.
….
The door loomed before the five like a challenge.
Charolette's hand hovered near the handle, fingers twitching with hesitation. A bead of sweat slid down her temple, glinting in the faint light. Zayn reached out, placing a firm hand on her shoulder. His crimson eyes met hers, steady, unwavering. A small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at his lips.
She drew in a shuddering breath, exhaling slowly. The tension eased slightly, though the cold sweat never fully vanished.
Jasmijn stepped forward, pressing the door open. The hinges creaked once, loud in the silence, and then the world inside revealed itself.
The chamber was vast, longer than Zayn had expected, walls lined with polished dark wood, punctuated by towering windows that let in muted daylight. At the center an elongated table stretched like a bridge across the room, its surface dark, glossy, and severe.
Twelve figures sat around it, each one radiating authority in a different hue. Some leaned slightly forward, others reclined with practiced ease, but all eyes flickered toward the newcomers immediately. The arrangement wasn't random—each posture, each angle, was a reflection of rank, of personality, of unspoken power.
Jasmijn's grandfather rose slightly from his seat, a brief, controlled smile crossing his features. His silvered hair caught the light, and his gaze lingered on the group with quiet approval.
"Right on time," he said, his voice calm but carrying the weight of the room.
Zayn's gaze swept the table passed the familiar face of Jasmijn's grandfather who was seated beside the head. There was warmth in his expression, but it was tempered by authority—a quiet acknowledgment of their punctuality and importance.
He had no knowledge of who the rest were, only what the body and posture of each could tell him.
At the far end, a man in silver-threaded navy robes sat straight, hands folded lightly on the table. His presence seemed to pull the air toward him, each motion careful, deliberate—an unspoken command of the room. The others occasionally glanced toward him, and his gaze met theirs with quiet authority.
To his left, a woman reclined slightly, her dark hair braided and streaked with silver catching the light. One hand drummed lightly on the table, the other curling around a small goblet. Her eyes tracked every movement of the newcomers, sharp and calculating, though she allowed herself a faint smile at the corner of her lips.
Beside her, a younger man—lean, with sharp angles to his face—sat forward, elbows on the table, fingers steepled. His eyes darted rapidly between each of them, measuring, cataloging, alert. Every subtle twitch of their muscles seemed to catch his notice.
Next to him, a man with broad shoulders and a bald head rested his large hands flat on the table. The veins ran stark across them as he tapped an irregular rhythm, his stare heavy, imposing, like the weight of stone pressing on the newcomers.
A woman in flowing white robes sat perfectly straight, hair pulled into a high bun.
She didn't move, didn't speak, but Zayn noticed the faint lift of one eyebrow, the subtle flicker of judgment in her calm eyes. Her presence alone carried discipline; it made him aware of every twitch, every micro-expression he displayed.
A lean, angular man with one shoulder slightly higher than the other drummed his long fingers against the table in slow, deliberate beats. His gaze was unreadable, flickering from face to face, never lingering too long but never missing a detail. The
sensation of being analyzed like an object crept through Zayn's very soul.
Another woman, dressed in dark robes trimmed with gold, sat with hands folded atop the table, chin lifted, lips pressed into a neutral line. Her eyes, however, tracked each of them like a hawk, unblinking and sharp.
A man whose hair was cropped short leaned slightly forward, clasping his hands together. There was something in the rigidity of his posture, the tension in his shoulders, that suggested he was ready to strike—or scold—at a moment's notice.
Next, a woman in robes cinched at the waist with silver embroidery rested her hands lightly on the table. Her gaze lingered on Jasmijn, but when it flicked to the group, Zayn felt the weight of appraisal, quiet but cutting. He realized she was measuring each person's worth silently, and the thought made his stomach tighten.
Finally, sitting at the head of the table, man in simpler robes watched them all with piercing, measured eyes. His movements were minimal, but the weight in his stare made Zayn feel like the room itself had narrowed. The others occasionally sought his glance before returning to the newcomers.
His crimson eyes took everything in— from name tags to subtle micro expressionss.
A hush fell over the room as Jasmijn stepped forward, ready to introduce Erik.
"And who the hell is that?"
A voice. Feminine but deep.
At the far right of the elongated table, the woman reclined slightly, her clothing formal, perfectly tailored, every seam taut against her frame. She looked to be in her late thirties, early forties, and eerily familiar—dark, slightly curly hair, the same intensity in her gaze that Jasmijn carried. Zayn's eyes widened ever so slightly, recognition flickering in the shadowed depths of his stare.
Jasmijn's shoulders stiffened imperceptibly, her jaw tightening. She pressed her hands together, suppressing a sigh that betrayed a history of sharp words and stubborn pride between her and the speaker. Respect battled irritation in her posture as she tried her best to answer diplomatically,
"He accompanies us as part of the delegation. Erik's abilities and loyalty are crucial to our discussions, and his presence ensures the group can represent Drenmarch's interests accurately. I understand it is unanticipated, but he is no random guest."
"I knew you weren't ready for something like this."
Jasmijn's grandfather frowned.
"Thessa, please—…" He pleaded, but she ignored.
"You expect any of us to just… accept this?"
Her tone sharpened, teeth gritted behind her controlled voice. Jasmijn's fists tightened subtly, a shadow cast over her expression. Charolette noticed.
"This is not a game, Jasmijn. You can't just bring some random stranger into a place like this just because they're your friend! This is important—"
Her words were clipped, precise, but the undercurrent of accusation rolled like a storm across the polished marble. The council had expected four, not five. Erik's calm composure remained, but a flicker of unease passed across his features.
"That's enough."
The chamber fell into instant hush as a deeper, authoritative voice boomed over the echoing floor. The man seated at the head of the table raised a hand. Every eye turned toward him. The weight in his gaze pressed like iron against their chests.
Erik's voice, low and measured, barely rose above the murmur of the room.
"I'll just step out…"
He moved like a shadow, calm but deliberate, stepping backward toward the doors. The council's gazes followed, noting every movement with cold precision. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving an echo that lingered longer than necessary.
Silence filled the chamber. The flicker of torchlight glinted across polished surfaces, and the subtle scent of incense and aged wood seemed heavier now, pregnant with anticipation.
"All protocols observed,"
The man began, his voice a calm hammer striking stone.
"We will now commence this meeting."