Chapter 18: The Fracturing Court
The Regent's throne room smelled faintly of myrrh and cold marble.Light from the high windows fell in pale bars across the floor, and between them, the court had gathered like vultures around carrion. The air was thick with tension—polished boots shifting on stone, whispers sliding from one cluster of courtiers to another.
Elias stood near the back, hood pulled low. Beside him, Isabella wore the same mask of composure she had used during her confinement, though he could feel the tension in her through the subtle brush of her arm against his.
At the far end of the hall, the Regent sat stiff-backed upon her throne. Her crown, a circlet of silver and jet, seemed heavier than usual. She scanned the assembly as if weighing which of them would betray her first.
"The bell tower," she said without preamble, her voice carrying like a blade drawn from its sheath, "was defiled last night. Blood spilled upon holy stone. And the names I hear in the wind are names I know well."
A ripple of reaction moved through the room. Elias caught the flicker of several gazes in his direction.
The Regent's eyes settled on him. "Lord Veyth. Do you deny it?"
He stepped forward, the sound of his boots echoing in the hush. "I do not deny I was there. I went because the Conclave summoned me. I returned alive because they failed."
Gasps, mutters—too loud to be polite, too quiet to be open challenge.
"And you," the Regent said, turning to Isabella, "were not meant to leave your chambers."
"I was not meant to die in them either," Isabella replied evenly. "If I had stayed, we would not be standing here now."
A dangerous silence fell.
The Regent's gaze moved between them before she spoke again, softer this time. "The Conclave grows bolder. And yet, my court fractures. Some of you whisper allegiance to the old faith, others to foreign gold. I will tell you this—" she rose, and the guards straightened "—those who break faith with me will not live to regret it."
It should have been enough to still the room, but Elias could see the splinters forming already—clusters of nobles leaning together, eyes darting like predators sizing each other up.
When the assembly was dismissed, the court spilled into the side corridors in a flurry of silks and murmurs. Elias and Isabella slipped into the shadow of a colonnade, away from prying ears.
"They'll turn on her," Elias said quietly. "Not tomorrow, but soon."
"They'll turn on us first," Isabella replied. "We've made ourselves the axis of the Regent's defense. That's the most dangerous place to stand."
The rest of the day was a slow-burning storm.Messages arrived in Elias's hand that bore no seal but carried weight nonetheless—cryptic warnings, offers of protection, veiled threats.
One in particular caught his attention. It was written in a hand he recognized but could not immediately place. The ink was dark, the letters sharp, and the message was short:
Meet at the Winter Gardens. Midnight. Alone.
The signature was a single letter: L.
The Winter Gardens were not truly gardens at this time of year. Snow lay thick over the sleeping hedges, the fountains frozen into jagged shapes. Moonlight made the scene a study in silver and shadow.
Elias arrived early, pacing the frost-dusted path between the stone statues. He didn't have to wait long.
A figure emerged from the far archway—a woman cloaked in deep green, her hood shadowing her face.
When she spoke, her voice was low and familiar. "It's been a long time, cousin."
Recognition struck like a blow. Liora Veyth. He had not seen her in five years—not since the night the fire had taken the Veyth estate and most of their kin with it.
"You're alive," Elias said.
Her mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Alive, yes. Safe? Not for long. And neither are you."
She stepped closer, the frost crunching under her boots. "The Conclave isn't just hunting you. They're moving against the Regent. And they have allies inside her council."
"Names," Elias said.
Liora hesitated. "If I give you names, I'm dead before dawn. But I can tell you this—the next move will be made at the Feast of Saint Halvor. Three nights from now. They mean to bleed the Regent in her own hall."
When Liora left, she vanished into the snow as if she had never been there at all.
Elias returned to his chambers to find Isabella waiting, her cloak dusted with frost. She studied his face, reading the tension there.
"What happened?"
He told her. She listened in silence until he was done, then said, "If she's telling the truth, the feast will be a trap. But for who?"
"Maybe for all of us," Elias said.
That night, sleep came fitfully, bringing dreams laced with the shard's strange visions.A hall filled with music that soured into screams.A goblet overturned, red wine spilling across a white tablecloth like blood.And at the center of it all, a woman's hand—Liora's—closing around the Regent's crown.
Elias woke before dawn, heart pounding.
The next day was a careful dance of preparation. Elias and Isabella made their plans in whispers, trusting no one. They needed allies, but every name was a risk.
One evening, as the snow turned the palace courtyard into a white mirror, Isabella paused in the middle of their whispered strategy.
"Elias," she said softly, "do you trust me?"
He looked at her, seeing the faint lines of weariness under her eyes, the way the firelight caught in her hair. "With my life."
"Then remember that when the feast begins," she said. "Because you may think you see betrayal, but not everything will be what it seems."
The night of the Feast of Saint Halvor drew closer, and the palace glittered with false joy. Servants polished silver until it gleamed, musicians tuned their strings, and the kitchens worked without rest.
But beneath the gold and silk, the court's fracture lines deepened, ready to split.
And in the shadows of the Winter Gardens, someone was already sharpening the blade that would start it.