House Luel had never been powerful, but they were consistent. Three seats in minor courts, modest holdings in the southern valley, and a reputation for slow decisions dressed in silk. They didn't stir trouble. They watched it pass. Until recently, they had done exactly that with Thalric.
Then they overreached.
A week after the Queen's feast, Lord Vettan Luel sent a public letter to the inner court, voicing concerns about Thalric's "accelerated political reemergence." The language was diplomatic. Predictable. But the message was clear: Luel had chosen Cedric's shadow and wanted everyone to know it.
They hadn't expected a reply.
Thalric sent one anyway.
It was handwritten. Brief.
Lord Vettan,
Thank you for your concern. I note your interest in Worthing tradition. In keeping with that, I have advised the estate's record keepers to release copies of your family's correspondence with Queen Aldira from the month following the Sixth Summit.
In particular, the original transcript of your withdrawal from the inheritance arbitration. Paragraph three should interest the court.
As you stated: "House Luel chooses silence when strength is not guaranteed."
We are testing strength now. Speak carefully.
—Percival Worthing
He didn't need to threaten them.
He just reminded them of who they'd once chosen not to be.
The apology arrived three days later.
Not a letter.
An emissary. Dressed plainly. Carrying a signed statement retracting Lord Vettan's concerns and reaffirming "Luel's commitment to house unity and impartial consultation."
The Queen made no public comment.
But that afternoon, the steward noted that Thalric's name had moved up on the estate guest list. One notch. Subtle.
Enough.
When Rowan saw the statement later that evening, he raised a brow.
"You could have buried them for that," he said.
"I still might," Thalric replied. "But it's better to make the court watch someone bend than burn."
"You think they'll respect that?"
"No. But they'll remember it."