The Neutral Citadel of Orvath stood like a jewel carved from ice.
Its towers rose beyond the clouds, each etched with ancient oaths that shimmered faintly beneath the moonlight. No war banners flew here. No armies marched. The citadel had survived a thousand conflicts by offering one thing:
A stage for enemies to smile at each other while sharpening knives beneath silk.
Selene and Lucien arrived at dusk.
Crimson and gold cloaks swept behind them as they stepped from the frost-carved carriages, escorted by a small, silent guard. No soldiers. No armies. Only presence.
That was enough.
Because everyone inside already knew who they were.
The Banquet of Eastern Lords was held in the Hall of Mirrors—a vast, glass-ceilinged room where aether lights floated like silent stars above the guests.
Nobles and rulers lined the marble floor, faces polished into perfection. Their words were gentle. Their glances were sharp.
Selene walked between them, crimson cloak trailing like blood across silk rugs.
Lucien followed at her side, golden eyes calm but alert. His hand rested near the hilt of his ceremonial sword—not for use, but as a reminder.
I could end this room if I wanted to.
That was the first warning.
Evelyne Greymoor greeted Selene with a smile.
Her emerald gown shimmered like poison laced with sugar, her hair braided in the royal fashion of Aerthrial.
"You're even more beautiful than the rumors claim," Evelyne whispered, lips close to Selene's ear.
Selene's crimson eyes stayed cold.
"And you're exactly as dangerous as they warned."
They sat.
The banquet began.
Golden goblets.
Sweet wine.
Meat carved from spirit-beasts.
Fruit laced with subtle drugs meant to cloud thoughts—but Selene had prepared for that. Her bloodline made her immune.
Conversations floated through the air.
Politics disguised as poetry.
Threats disguised as compliments.
Selene played along.
At first.
But halfway through the feast, when the room reached its most polished moment, she stood.
Her crimson cloak whispered against the floor as she stepped forward, voice clear.
"I won't pretend we're equals here," Selene said softly.
The room froze.
Eyes locked onto her. Smiles stiffened.
"I know why you called me here," she continued, her voice sharp as frost.
"You want me to accept your crown. Your terms. Your compromises."
Her gaze swept over the lords and ladies.
"But let me make this clear."
She lifted her chin, crimson eyes burning beneath the glass ceiling.
"I did not start this rebellion to become your puppet queen."
Lucien's golden gaze stayed steady at her side.
"I did not bleed for peace that silences love."
Murmurs rippled through the hall, but no one interrupted.
Because Selene wasn't just speaking to the lords.
She was speaking to the world—through the crystal mirrors, the watching spies, the distant ears listening beyond magic-sealed doors.
"I will lead, yes," she whispered.
"But I will not kneel."
Evelyne's smile cracked, just slightly.
A thin fracture, like ice splitting beneath a foot.
Selene's crimson cloak swept behind her as she sat back down, eyes calm.
The room didn't erupt.
It didn't need to.
Because in that moment, the real war had begun—not on battlefields, but in hearts and minds.
Outside, crimson snow drifted against the citadel walls.
Soft.
Silent.
Unstoppable.