Lara sat at the head of the long oak table in Birmingham's council chamber, her blue braid pinned tight against her scalp. Two weeks had passed since she arrived, and the room smelled of old wood, ink, and the faint rot of ambition.
Twelve advisors stared at her, their faces carved with the same question they asked every session.
"Your Highness, the realm needs certainty," Lord Harlan said, his voice smooth as oiled steel. "The child's bloodline must be verified. Publicly. The people grow restless."
Lara kept her hands flat on the table. "The child is mine and Atlas's. That is verification enough. Or do you doubt my word?"
A few shifted. Others leaned forward. She had stalled them for days with half-truths about the Zone's unpredictable energies and the risk of exposing the heir too early.
Elizabeth's empire provided the necessary pressure—subtle reminders that any fracture here would weaken the alliance they all depended on. But the pressure was building.
