The morning sun cut through the pavilion windows, sharp and unrelenting. Atlas sat at the long table with a half-eaten plate of bread and cheese, watching Lara pace.
Her blue hair was pulled back tight, the way she did when trouble was coming.
A Birmingham messenger had arrived at dawn, dusty from the ride, carrying a thick packet of sealed letters. Lara had already broken two of them open and was scowling at the third.
"They're getting bolder," she said, voice flat. "Council wants specifics on the heir. Bloodlines, estimated birth date, proof of legitimacy. One hint of delay and they talk about sending a delegation themselves."
Elizabeth sat across from Atlas, her silver hair loose over one shoulder. She looked tired but steady, a stack of her own reports spread in front of her. A scribe hovered nearby, quill ready, eyes flicking between the two women like he expected an explosion.
