The firelight in the council chamber burned hot, but Elira felt none of its warmth.
Every gaze was fixed on her—not with curiosity, not with respect, but with that sharp-edged mix of suspicion and hostility she'd known since childhood. Since the day her powers first surfaced, and her own people in Ilyria stopped seeing her as a girl and started seeing her as a problem.
But this wasn't Ilyria.
This was Dravaryn.
And if she slipped here, if she showed even a crack, it wouldn't be exile waiting for her this time—it would be death.
The men around the war table were dressed in gleaming armor, draped in furs and rings that screamed power. Soldiers. Strategists. Politicians. All of them looked at her like she was something volatile—an old weapon ticking toward detonation.
Kael, standing beside her, was the only one who didn't seem on edge. He looked perfectly at ease, arms folded, unreadable as ever. There was a flicker of amusement in the way he watched the room, but Elira could see it—he was paying attention. Calculating. Measuring every reaction, including hers.
She knew what this was.
A test.
She didn't wait to be called on.
"If you're planning to argue about whether I deserve to live or not," she said dryly, "I'd rather you get on with it."
That landed like a slap.
A ripple of discomfort passed through the room. Some men stiffened. A few whispered to each other. Elira caught none of it. She didn't need to. She'd heard it all before.
An older lord stepped forward, his features hard and sharp like his voice. "You speak boldly for someone who crawled out of a cave."
"I walked," she answered, calm. "Bleeding, but upright."
He snorted. "Next time, we should let you finish the job."
Kael didn't raise his voice, but it cut clean through the tension anyway.
"Enough."
The room fell quiet.
"She's here because I brought her here," he said, eyes sweeping the chamber. "And unless one of you would like to publicly challenge that decision, she gets to speak."
No one moved.
Elira took the silence and filled it.
"I'm not your enemy," she said, letting her gaze sweep the room. "But I won't play the loyal servant either. You didn't come looking for me because you believe in second chances. You came because you're losing—and you're desperate."
Several of them bristled at that, but she pressed forward, unfazed.
"Ilyria has retaken three southern cities in the last two months. Your supply lines are thinning, your allies are starting to disappear, and your troops are exhausted. You don't need another soldier or a politician—you need something unpredictable. Something they won't expect."
She held up her wrists, where the cuffs had left raw red marks on her skin.
"You need me."
One of the generals frowned. "You're one woman."
"One woman who survived six years of magical suppression and didn't lose her mind," Elira replied.
"I wouldn't say that's been proven," someone muttered under his breath.
Kael didn't even glance at them. He just stood there, still as a statue, letting her carry the moment.
"What exactly are you offering?" the first general asked, his tone skeptical. "An old spell no one remembers how to use? A name from the past?"
Elira tilted her head slightly. "I'm offering you the perspective of someone who's lived through betrayal. The kind of power you've tried to bury for years. And maybe a chance to win this war without sacrificing everything you have left."
"She's a risk," one of the older men said with finality. "And not one we can afford."
"We already have mages," another added. "Ones who follow orders."
That was when Kael moved.
He stepped forward just enough to remind the room he was more than a passive observer.
"You have mages," he said, voice quiet but dangerous. "But none with her bloodline. None who've endured what she has. None whose power doesn't come from training—but from instinct. You call her a gamble. Fine. But tell me—when was the last time we won anything without taking a risk?"
Silence fell like a heavy cloak.
Then Kael turned to her.
"Can you prove it?"
Elira blinked. "Prove what?"
"That your magic still lives. That this isn't all just stories and a name."
She stared at him.
"You want me to show it. Now?"
"Not everything," he said. "Just enough."
Her mouth went dry. For a second, she thought about saying no. About letting the silence speak for her.
But this wasn't the time to hold back.
So she stepped away from the table.
She raised a hand.
Several guards flinched.
No words. No gestures. Her magic had never needed rituals. It had always lived in her blood—wild, alive, waiting.
The air thickened. The fire in the nearby hearth flared—then stretched upward, twisting into a spiral of flame that curled like a golden snake above their heads. The heat licked at the stone ceiling, casting flickering shadows across stunned faces.
Then, just as quickly, it vanished.
Elira lowered her hand.
No shaking. No sweat. No loss of breath.
"I haven't forgotten who I am," she said softly.
Kael turned toward the council, voice low but final.
"Dismissed."
There was immediate pushback.
"She hasn't been—"
"I'll make my decision tomorrow," Kael said. "Go."
One by one, they filed out. Some threw her last, lingering glares. Others wouldn't even look at her.
The moment the door shut behind them, Elira let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
Kael had already moved to the window.
"You don't scare easily," she said.
He glanced over his shoulder. "No. But they do. And tonight, you gave them a reason to shut up."
He turned to face her fully.
"You handled yourself better than I expected."
"I've been preparing for a moment like this for six years," she said. "I wasn't going to fumble it."
Kael studied her.
"You know they'll never fully trust you."
"They don't need to," she said. "You do."
That caught him off guard. Barely. A small shift in his brow.
She stepped closer.
"You're the reason I'm standing here. That means you either see something in me you think you can use… or something you're afraid to destroy."
He didn't answer right away.
"I haven't decided," he said eventually.
Elira nodded.
"Then let me make it easier."
She crossed the room, grabbed the dagger from the chair beside her, and laid it gently on the table between them.
"If I ever become more risk than reward," she said, "don't wait for a council vote."
He didn't touch the blade.
Didn't blink.
But the corner of his mouth lifted—just a little.
"I hate indecision," he said.