The throne room of the Black Citadel was made out of obsidian pillars and molten light. Lord Tristan stood in the centre of the room, his black fur robes trailing behind his every movement. His silver crown, which had sapphire stones and white diamonds, reflected the flames of the fireplace.
His grey eyes sparkled as his stare pinned Mira earnestly as she bravely approached him.
She had bathed, changed, and erased all traces of the birth of their child but he knew her too well.
"You were not at the council this morning," he said coolly. "Nor last night. You were… absent."
"I was unwell," Mira replied, bowing her head with practised grace. "A fever."
"Malrec says otherwise."
"Of course he does." Mira responded evenly.
Tristan descended from the dais, his presence like a storm wrapped in silk.
"He says blood magic was worked in your chambers. That you are hiding something from us."
"He sees ghosts where there are none," Mira said evenly. "He forgets that grief leaves echoes too."
Tristan stood in front of her now.
His hand was cold as it rose to touch her warm cheek. "You have always been my best lie," he murmured. "But even lies leave trails."
Mira raised her eyes to him. "And what will you do? Bleed the truth from me? Or let me mourn the child I lost?"
Tristan's expression remained hard as he concentrated on what she had just said but something flickered in his gaze. Pain, doubt or rage. She was not sure as it passed too quickly to name.
At last, he stepped back.
"No more secrets," he said. "Not even between us. If a child had been born… it would change everything. The court, the prophecy, the throne itself."
Mira lowered her eyes, her voice a whisper. "Then it is a mercy that the child lies dead."
But inside, she held tight to the only truth that mattered now:
The child lived, and the realm would not be ready for her return.
Tristan's gaze lingered on Mira for a moment longer, cold and calculating now. No longer soft but looking for any trace she may have lied about the child's true condition.
"I will find out the truth," he said, his voice low, steady, and unyielding. "Even if I must interrogate every shadow in this Citadel. You are not the only one who knows how to hide things, Mira."
A weighted breath passed between them.
He turned sharply, black robes sweeping behind him as he strode back to the dais and sat on the throne.
"Malrec will double the wards on your wing. And I will question every servant who breathed the same air as you in the last moon cycle."
"You insult me," Mira said softly.
"I protect the Realm," he snapped, turning back toward her. "From betrayal. From prophecy. From you, if I must."
The obsidian walls shuddered faintly, whether from the rising heat of the molten light or from something deeper, more ancient, a prophecy that was slowly coming to past, Mira could only guess and hope her child would survive the chaos that was to come.
Before Tristan could speak again, the great doors of the throne room burst open with a noise that echoed like thunder.
A dozen guards parted to make way for a tall figure that strode in, navy blue robes lined with silver etched on the cloak like defiance itself.
"Enough of this witch hunt, Father," said the voice, clear and sharp as a blade. "Or has the throne turned you towards suspicion before justice?"
Mira turned her head slowly and gently bowed it low to acknowledge the new presence in the throne room.
Prince Caelum, Tristan's eldest son and heir, stood framed by the smoke, the spitting image of his father in youth—but with his mother's proud bearing and no trace of Tristan's cold restraint.
Tristan narrowed his eyes at the young man. "You arrive without summons, without word. What brings you crawling back from the borderlands?"
"The Realm trembles," Caelum said, descending the steps two at a time. "And I would know why. Rumors spill faster than truth—rebellion in the East, omens in the stars, and whispers that the Night Queen herself walks again."
His eyes flicked to Mira, unreadable. "And now I return to find my father interrogating the Lady of Fountains like a common spy?"
"She is no longer above question," Tristan said flatly.
Caelum stopped at the base of the throne, folding his arms. "Then perhaps we should question everyone. Including the High Priests who fan the flames of panic, or the courtiers too eager to speak of prophecy."
A moment of silence passed between them.
"I will not be defied within my own court," Tristan said, his voice edged with warning.
"Then do not give us reason to do so," Caelum answered, with steel beneath his calm voice.
The council chamber beyond the throne room was smaller, circular, with high slit windows that bled red light across the war table carved from dragon bone. A great map sprawled across its surface, weighted with obsidian markers, each denoting battalions, strongholds, and battlefronts. Now, more than half of them had been overturned or pushed aside. Showing just how much territory their enemies were slowly taking from them and advancing into their realm.
Lord Tristan stood at the table's edge, one hand braced on its scorched frame, the other clutching a scroll sealed in gold wax. His jaw was rigid. Behind him, the chamber's fire-pit burned too hot, casting wild shadows on the faces of the gathered nobles.
Prince Caelum stood opposite his father, arms folded, eyes dark.
"The line at Virestone is broken," Tristan said, voice clipped. "Their phoenix riders came at dawn. By noon, the fortress was ash. We lost five hundred men, including Commander Drayven and the eastern pass..." He flung the scroll across the table....."has fallen into their hands."
A murmur rose among the lords. Fear. Anger. One voice shouted, "How did this happen? The eastern border was sealed!"
"It was," growled Lord Marnak, hammer-fisted and loyal, "until someone from within opened it."
Tristan's gaze snapped toward him. "Speak plainly, Marnak."
"I speak of treachery," the warlord said. "There are spies in our ranks. And magic—sun-blessed, golden and pure. It's slipping past our wards like mist. Someone fed them our positions."
All eyes turned toward Mira.
She stood at the back of the chamber, hood drawn, face unreadable.
"She's served the Night Court for over a decade," Marnak continued. "Too long, if you ask me. She has no claim, no title yet she walks among us like a queen."
"I bleed for this Realm," Mira said coldly. "I have sacrificed more than any of you know."
"Sacrificed what, exactly?" he barked. "A child born in secret? Is that where your loyalties lie now?"
"Enough," Tristan thundered, his voice crashing over them like a storm. "You will not speak of that again. Not in this chamber."
But the seed had been planted.
Caelum leaned forward, voice low but dangerous. "So we are to trust only bloodlines now? Is that it? Shall we start purging half the court for not being born of the right womb?"
"You forget yourself," Tristan said sharply.
"I remember too well," Caelum snapped. "You built this Realm on unity between shadow and flame. Between moon and sun. And now your silence burns more bridges than the Dawn ever could."
Silence followed—charged and overpowering.
A scout entered then, breathless and pale. "Your Grace… the banners of the Dawn have been sighted five leagues from the Black Peaks. They march with the Sun Queen herself."
Mira's blood ran cold.
Tristan didn't flinch. "Prepare the ravens. Summon the outer Houses. We ride at dusk."
"And the court?" asked High Chancellor Velien, voice tight.
Tristan looked up, his eyes cold stars. "They will either bend to me…....or be broken beneath her light."