The echo of the Prince's footsteps faded beyond the Hall doors, leaving behind a silence heavy enough to crack.
Lord Drevon, the man seated at the center, drummed his fingers against the black oak armrest. "Well. The boy brings home a spark, and expects us not to notice the fire."
"You saw her eyes," Lady Myrene said sharply. Her nails traced idle patterns across the polished wood, but her gaze burned with purpose. "The color was faint… but it's there. She carries the mark."
"The mark has lain dormant for centuries," scoffed Lord Aric. "Perhaps it's nothing but a trick of the light."
"Fool," Myrene spat, her smile never reaching her voice. "You felt it too. The Hall itself shifted when she entered. Old wards don't stir for parlor tricks."
A soft chuckle came from the shadowed corner, where Councilor Veyra sat half-hidden. "Then the Prince is either braver, or more desperate than I thought. He's keeping her close, but not for love."
"Love?" Drevon barked a laugh. "No, my dear. If the prophecy is true, she's the key to claiming the Throne of Blood."
At that, the Hall erupted in murmurs, some fearful, some eager.
"And if he succeeds?" Aric asked, voice tight.
"Then every one of us is finished," Myrene said simply.
The murmurs deepened, twisting into low arguments.
From the far end, Veyra's voice slid through the noise like a blade. "We could end this now. Quietly. Before she learns what she is."
Drevon's eyes narrowed. "And risk the Prince's wrath?"
"Better his wrath," Veyra replied, her smile glinting in the dim light, "than the world burning when she takes his crown instead."
The chamber stilled.
"She?" Aric whispered. "You mean"
"Yes," Veyra cut in, her voice like ice. "The prophecy never spoke of a king."