First came House Calven.
An ancient line, proud and arrogant. Their patriarch—a hawk-faced man named Lord Renwyn—bowed low, offering gifts.
"My Queen," he said, voice smooth as aged wine. "House Calven grieves the terrible loss of our brothers. We pledge our loyalty, unbroken and eternal."
Valeris watched him.
She could smell the lie like spoiled perfume.
Renwyn was no fool; he bent now only because he feared the edge of her sword.
And because he saw a chance to grab the lands abandoned by House Faelen.
She said nothing for a long, breathless moment.
Then smiled.
"We shall see," she said coolly. "Your loyalty will be tested soon enough."
The man bowed again, beads of sweat rolling down his temples.
Next came House Verrin.
A smaller house. Younger. Fierce. Led by Lady Nyra Verrin—a woman younger than Valeris herself, with ice-blue eyes and a warrior's posture.
Nyra knelt without hesitation.
