The war room smelled of ink, candle wax, and the quiet heat of tension. Maps were sprawled across the long oak table—some hand-drawn, others stamped with the official seal of the kingdom. Pins marked routes and cities, symbols etched with urgency and speculation.
King Damon leaned forward, elbows on the table, studying one route particularly hard—the red trail that started from Braemorin, snaked through the lower coast, and disappeared into a coastline they'd yet to name. Ethan was to his right, flipping through coded reports from sentries, while Leon stood behind them both, arms crossed, gaze flickering over every detail like a hawk.
"I'm telling you," Ethan muttered, dragging his finger along one of the coastlines. "This route has to be it. The ports are too active for mere fishing towns. Someone's moving bodies through here."
"Then why haven't we intercepted anything?" Damon said. "We've tightened security along every known harbor."
"Because whoever's behind this is smarter than we thought," Leon answered. "And they're not working alone."
The room fell into a heavy silence. And then -
Creak.
The door to the war room opened with an unnecessarily dramatic flourish, as if someone had kicked it open with all the elegance of a thunderclap.
"Am I interrupting something important?" came the unmistakably bright voice of Lady Kaelith, eyes wide with exaggerated innocence and arms holding a small, covered tray.
All three men glanced up.
She wore a soft pink gown today, sleeves ruffled, gold trimmings catching the light as she walked in with a sway that could only be described as theatrical. "You all look like death and parchment. Brother, have you even eaten today?"
Damon looked at her, wary. "Kaelith... what are you doing here?"
"Bringing sweetness to a room full of frowns," she chirped. "Relax, brother. I come bearing gifts." She strode over, placed the tray dramatically at the corner of the table, and with a flourish removed the lid. "Plum tart. The good kind. With cinnamon and honey. Your favorite. You're welcome."
Leon smirked, not even bothering to hide it. Ethan, however, sighed and pointed to the southern trade routes.
"Your Majesty," Ethan muttered to Damon, "if you allow her in here again while we're working, I swear I'll—"
"Focus," Damon said, amused, waving him off. "Pretend she's not here."
Kaelith gasped. "Rude. I made this myself—well, supervised the making, which is practically the same thing. Honestly, the ungratefulness."
She walked over to Damon, hips swaying, snatched a pile of scrolls from a chair and tossed them onto a side table, then perched herself beside him.
Damon eyed the tart cautiously. "What do you want?"
She batted her lashes. "I can't feed my brother without suspicion?"
"You only feed me when you need a favor," he said, slicing into the tart anyway. "Which means the favor is probably big."
"Well," she said, clasping her hands over her chest with a radiant grin, "since you brought it up..."
"Here we go," Leon mumbled under his breath.
Kaelith ignored him, instead reaching into her little embroidered satchel and pulling out a parchment with a seal. Damon didn't even look at it. He took another bite of tart. "What is it?"
"Oh, just a minor petition," she said lightly, smoothing the parchment across the table. "Something for the Queen's Circles. A little garden society proposal. Women empowerment through embroidery. Absolutely harmless."
Ethan looked up now, brow raised. "You want the king to sign off on... embroidery?"
Kaelith smiled sweetly. "The arts are the heart of any civilization, Lord Ethan."
"And this has nothing to do with the generous lands and stipends it's requesting?" Leon quipped.
"Details," she said with a wave. "Besides, it'll be good for Neriah. Help her settle in, make friends." she grinned wider. "It's for her benefit, really."
Damon stopped chewing.
Silence.
Even Ethan looked up now, eyes narrowing at the shift.
Kaelith leaned forward, chin resting in her palm. "Oh, don't act like you're not already in love with her. I'm doing you a favor. She gets to host her own circle. She gets to shine. And you—" she tapped the parchment with one manicured nail, "—get to be the supportive, thoughtful king she thinks you are."
Damon looked at her. She looked back with innocent confidence.
He picked up the quill.
Kaelith's brows lifted. "Is that a yes?"
He dipped it into the ink. "Say her name again."
She grinned. "Neriah."
He signed.
Kaelith let out a triumphant sound, almost like a squeal, and clutched the parchment to her chest. "Bless your royal heart, brother. I owe you a tart every week!"
"Please don't," Damon muttered.
Kaelith stood, twirled once, and started for the door. "You won't regret it!"
Damon chuckled under his breath, eyes trailing after her fondly as she made her way forward in that flamboyant manner she carried like a birthright. Her skirt swayed as she walked, her curls bouncing behind her shoulders like a rhythmic drumbeat of joy. His gaze lingered, a rare softness playing around the corners of his mouth.
The two royal guards at the entrance, stationed rigidly with halberds in hand, stepped forward and reached to pull the grand oaken doors open. The light from the hallway filtered in across their armor. But before Kaelith could step past the threshold, Damon's expression changed.
Subtle.
Still.
Alert.
His brow furrowed just slightly — but enough.
Because he saw it. In the split-second when Kaelith wasn't looking — when her back was turned and her chatter still echoed in the room — Damon saw the way one of the guards looked at her. Not with indifference. Not with amusement. But with intensity — the kind that clung like smoke to the walls of a battlefield. Cold, sharp, calculated.
Like a man rehearsing murder in his mind.
The other's gaze wasn't kinder. Not quite as focused, but there was a stiffness in his stance, a tension in the jaw — like he was waiting for something.
Something to start.
Something to end.
Damon's smile vanished. His voice was smooth as steel when he said, "You. Both of you. Come forward."
Kaelith paused in her step and turned, puzzled. "What now? Don't tell me you've changed your—"
He didn't even glance at her. His eyes were locked on the guards.
"Kaelith, back here. Now."
There was something in his tone — that commanding timbre that bore no debate. She blinked, then reluctantly drifted back toward the center of the war room, where Ethan still leaned over the table and Leon stood with his arms crossed.
The guards obeyed the command. They stepped forward, measured and silent, but Damon never took his eyes off them. Not for a second.
"Name?" Damon asked the one who'd stared with too much intent. His voice was clipped. Controlled.
The guard snapped to attention. "Sir Darrek, Your Majesty."
"Who stationed you at the east wing entrance?"
There was a brief flicker in the man's eyes. Barely visible. But Damon saw it.
"The Commander of the Greystone Wing. He assigned me to rotate with the night watchmen stationed between the Obsidian and the Hollowrise wings."
Silence.
A longer one this time.
It stretched and crept across the room like a fog of suspicion.
Damon's eyes narrowed, his head tilting just slightly.
"There is no Hollowrise Wing in this castle."
Ethan slowly looked up from the map he was studying.
Leon straightened.
Kaelith frowned. "Wait, what's happening—?"
Damon didn't speak.
He just moved.
In a flash of blur and instinct, he surged forward, arms reaching not for his blade — but for Kaelith.
She didn't even see it coming.
One moment she stood there, confusion knitting her brow — and the next, Damon's hand was on her waist, spinning her away from danger and launching her back across the room. She startled — as her feet left the floor.
Leon was already moving, catching her midair with a grunt. They stumbled back into the map table as everything erupted into motion.
Both guards struck.
Daggers drawn — one lunged directly at where Kaelith had stood just a heartbeat ago, slicing at nothing but air.
But Damon was faster.
His sword — the black-forged blade that had once split the necks of battlefield traitors — sang as he unsheathed it and cleaved it across the nearest man's throat in one clean, brutal arc.
Blood spattered the stone.
The body dropped with a sound.
Ethan moved in tandem — faster than Kaelith had ever seen him. With a flick of his wrist, a sharp hunting dagger flew from his belt, slicing through the air before embedding itself deep into the second guard's shoulder. The man staggered back with a howl, blood already spreading across his tunic.
But he didn't fall.
He turned — tried to run.
Tried.
Damon met him before he reached the door, slamming the hilt of his sword against the side of the man's head with bone-breaking precision. The man crumpled to the floor like a sack of ash, unconscious.
Then — stillness.
Kaelith was frozen in Leon's arms, eyes wide, heart hammering in her chest.
And Damon stood at the center of the war room, chest heaving, blood on his blade, his eyes burning with a fury that hadn't touched this castle in years.
He looked down at the imposter lying at his feet.
Then he looked at the other.
Then he looked at Ethan.
And none of them said a word.
Not yet.
Not with the scent of treachery still hanging in the air like smoke.