The throne room of Aeltharion glistened beneath the fractured light of midday, streaming through stained glass like refracted hope. Marble pillars stood tall, veined with silver, as if the kingdom itself had tried to remember its glory. Caelen knelt before Queen Evelra, his hand pressed to the waxed floor beside Fileyele, who remained half-shrouded in her cloak.
The air was tight with unspoken judgment. "You vanished, Caelen," Queen Evelra's voice rang, cold and ceremonial. "In the most desperate hour since the Frostfall Rebellion. And now you return—four days late—with a stranger at your side, and no answer as to why our soldiers bled while you were absent." Caelen kept his gaze lowered, absorbing the weight of her words like arrows without armor. Fileyele stayed still beside him, but her tension bloomed outward in quiet, magical pulses. The faint runes etched along her legs beneath the hem of her garment began to flicker—subtle, but not unseen. Caelen shifted slightly, raising one hand at his side in a slow, calming gesture. Breathe, his silence said. You're safe. She did not fully believe it. Her fists clenched, and with them, a slight hum of mana rippled against the polished floor. The Queen noticed.
"What is this now?" Evelra's eyes narrowed. "Passing glances between guest and knight in the middle of reprimand? I would know what stirs beneath your silence, Caelen." Before he could speak, a voice rose like a melody from across the throne platform. "Mother," said Princess Caelia, rising from her seat beside the Queen. She sat bathed in glass-filtered light, her silver gown flowing like moonlight itself. "Let him speak." Evelra turned slightly, and for the first time, her sternness faltered. "He has served this realm longer than any still breathing. His blade protected me before I could even speak my name. He deserves to explain himself." The Queen stared at her daughter, that quiet storm in her eyes slowly ebbing. Then she exhaled. "Very well. Rise, Caelen. Speak, before patience wears thin again."
Caelen rose slowly. "Thank you, Your Majesty." He turned toward the Queen, but in the periphery of his vision, he saw Caelia's gaze slide toward Fileyele. "And who is she?" the Princess asked, voice light but laced with curiosity. Caelen hesitated. A silence like drawn breath spread through the hall. Behind him, the guards began to shift. Leather gloves tightened around spear shafts. One took a step forward. Another mirrored him. The air changed. Ready. Tense. Fileyele's eyes snapped upward. Her posture changed. One breath away from instinct. "Don't," Caelen murmured under his breath—too low for anyone but her. Then he stepped forward. "Your Majesty," he said louder now, steady, authoritative. "If I may request... what I carry cannot be spoken here. Not in the open. Not before those who are not prepared to hear it." The Queen arched an eyebrow. "You seek a private audience, now? After disappearing? You presume much." From behind, Fileyele's voice rang, edged and cold. "He doesn't go anywhere without me."
Caelia stood, stepping down from the dais. "He isn't yours to command." Their eyes locked—two women from different worlds, both carved of defiance and heat. One tempered in halls of royalty, the other born of fire and secrets. "Enough," Caelen snapped—not in anger, but with command. "This is not the time." He turned to the Queen. "If your will allows it, I beg council—just you and those you trust most. The things I have to share… they cannot remain hidden much longer." The Queen said nothing at first. Then she raised one hand, flicking it subtly. The guards froze—then stepped back. "You will speak in the council chamber. Follow." Caelen bowed. Fileyele followed behind him in silence. And as they moved, Caelia stepped down to join them. "You do not need to hear this," her mother said without turning. "But one day I will rule in your place," Caelia replied gently. "And when that day comes, I must understand what shadows shaped the crown I wear." Evelra did not argue. The chamber doors opened, and the weight of truth waited behind them.
The doors to the council chamber sealed behind them, their thud echoing across marble walls traced with old runes. Queen Evelra, seated at the head of the crescent-shaped table, leaned into her armrest with all the grace and menace of a lioness surveying prey. "Speak," she said, her voice like cold metal. "You dragged us from sleep, Caelen. Let your words be sharper than your delay." Fileyele stood at the edge of the chamber, shadowed by the flickering lamplight. Her arms folded, her gaze locked on Caelen as though daring him to ruin her life. Caelia, seated beside her mother, tilted her head toward Caelen. "Is it about her?" she asked softly, eyes flicking to Fileyele. "The girl you brought." Caelen bowed his head. "Yes. But it's not as simple as it seems." Queen Evelra scoffed. "Not a princess, I hope. Or someone's secret wife? A lover from the woods? A walking plague? Or perhaps a weapon sewn into mortal skin?" Fileyele tensed, her foot shifting. Caelen's eyes flashed to the floor—tattoos beneath her skin softly glowing with restrained fury. He raised a hand slightly. Easy. She calmed, just enough. Even Caelia covered a chuckle at her mother's absurd suggestions. "Mother, please."
"Then speak," Evelra commanded, pouring wine into a silver goblet. "Before I drink this and find I no longer care." Caelen swallowed. "She's a witch." Time stopped. Evelra froze mid-sip. Caelia sat upright. Fileyele stared as if stabbed. The goblet slipped from the queen's fingers, clinking against the table. "You lying traitor!" Fileyele shouted, surging forward. Mana flared across her arms. A blinding flash erupted. Caelen ducked. A fireball soared, crashing into the far wall with a crackling boom. Guards burst through the doors, spears drawn. Caelia was already behind Fileyele, a dagger unsheathed. "Move, and I'll end this." Fileyele, breath ragged, eyes burning, extinguished her flames. Her hands rose slowly. "You think I'm afraid of you?" "No," Caelia said coolly, "But you should be." Caelen staggered upright, his vision blurred. "Wait!"
Fileyele twisted, snatching Caelia's blade from her hand. In a flash, she pulled the princess into her grasp, the dagger at her throat. Gasps echoed through the room. The guards formed a wall of silver-tipped spears. Evelra's voice shattered the chaos. "Don't harm my daughter!" "Back away!" Caelen barked. "All of you!" Fileyele's chest rose and fell with fury. "You betrayed me!" "I had no choice!" "You could have warned me!" The guards turned their weapons on Caelen. Evelra glared. "Was this your plan all along?" "No!" Silence. The dagger trembled in Fileyele's grip. Caelen looked at her—past the fury, the grief, the betrayal. "Please... Fileyele. Don't do this." Her eyes flicked to him. For a heartbeat, something cracked. Then the tattoo on her arm flared again. The queen's voice, ragged and low, broke the stillness. "Choose, Caelen. Witch or crown." He didn't answer. Because how do you choose between what you swore to protect—and what you can't let go?