By morning, the grand palace of Everhart had become a marketplace of whispers. What had begun as subtle glances at the banquet now spilled openly into the halls. Every corridor buzzed with debate, every dining table crackled with tension.
"Lady Kayla's presence is proof," one countess declared boldly over breakfast. She stood, raising her cup as though delivering a sermon. "The gods do not waste their beauty. She is meant to guide Everhart."
Half the table clapped, their silverware chiming against plates.
Across the room, a young baron snorted so hard wine sprayed from his nose. "Guide? She's an outsider! The House already has its heir. Lady Nia has stood in trial, in blood, in fire. To compare them is an insult to every knight who bled for Everhart."
Gasps and laughter clashed, nobles splitting down the line. One elderly viscount tried to calm the table by raising his hands. "Please, please—let us not shout like fishmongers in the market—" only for a lady beside him to snap, "Better fishmongers than blind fools enchanted by a smile!"
Servants scurried nervously, trays rattling, as voices grew louder.
Andy sat with Nia at the high table, watching chaos unfold. He leaned closer, muttering, "I've seen tavern brawls start quieter than this."
Nia's lips curved in the faintest smirk, though her eyes were sharp. "At least tavern brawls end with someone unconscious. This will drag until blood is spilled—in the council or beyond."
By midday, the divide was no longer hidden. Kayla's supporters proudly displayed her sigil: roses pinned to collars, embroidered into sleeves. Nia's loyalists responded with silver-threaded sashes, symbols of defiance. And those who were undecided—they prowled the halls with hungry eyes, waiting to choose whichever side promised survival.
It was no longer merely a palace. It was a battlefield without blades.
Andy clenched his fists as two lords approached their table. Their smiles were courteous, but their words dripped poison.
"Lady Nia," one said, bowing shallowly, "surely you understand. The people are drawn to Kayla because she offers what you cannot—divinity. To resist her is to resist destiny."
The second added smoothly, "You are strong, yes, but strength alone does not inspire faith."
Andy shot to his feet, fire sparking at his fingertips, but Nia's hand rose calmly to still him. She stood with unshakable poise, her voice cutting through the chamber like silver.
"If destiny demanded blind worship," she said, "it would not need illusions to sustain itself. If you wish to kneel, then kneel. But do not mistake your devotion for truth."
The words struck like a hammer. Some nobles stiffened, offended; others lowered their eyes, uncertain. And a few—just a few—smiled with quiet respect.
Then Kayla entered.
The chamber hushed as though the air itself bowed. She glided between nobles, her gown trailing like mist, her smile soft enough to melt even hardened cynics. She whispered blessings to servants, laid her hand on a boy's head, and the hall sighed as though touched by holiness.
"Everhart need not break," she said, her voice carrying without effort. "I only wish to heal. Lady Nia and I—together—we could shine brighter than ever before."
The hall seemed to exhale as one. Several nobles clapped. One even muttered, "A saint among us."
Andy felt the pull again—sweet, aching, almost believable. But when her eyes lingered on him, soft and sorrowful, he gritted his teeth and turned to Nia instead.
She rose, her staff gleaming faintly. Her gaze cut through the haze like fire through smoke. "Healing cannot come from honeyed words. Unity without truth is a lie. And illusions, no matter how beautiful, will shatter when tried by fire."
The chamber crackled with tension, silver sashes glinting against rose sigils.
Andy seized her hand, lifting it high for all to see. His voice boomed over the chaos:
"Then let them choose. Between illusions—and truth."
The room exploded. Nobles shouted across tables, rose supporters calling Nia blind, silver loyalists calling Kayla a fraud. Cups spilled, chairs scraped, a roast pheasant flew across the table as two barons nearly came to blows.
Andy muttered, "So much for dignity."
Nia, lips twitching, whispered back, "At least no one's dead yet."
The System's chime thundered in Andy's mind:
> [Bond Progression: 130% → 133%]
Factional divide confirmed.
New Threat Level: Internal Schism.
Kayla only smiled, serene and flawless, though Andy swore he saw frost glinting beneath the crystal of her gaze.
The council chamber slowly emptied, though the echoes of shouting lingered like smoke. Broken goblets lay scattered on the table, roast pheasant still dripping grease on the marble floor, and a servant hurried past with a mop and the look of a man who had seen too much.
Andy exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "Well," he muttered, "that could've gone worse."
Nia arched a brow, still gripping her staff. "Really? A baron nearly strangled a viscount with a napkin."
Andy shrugged. "At least no swords were drawn." He glanced at her, a faint grin tugging at his lips. "You handled it well. Better than me. I was ready to torch the whole table."
Nia's lips twitched. "Which would have solved nothing."
"True," he said, leaning closer. "But it would've been satisfying."
For the first time that day, Nia laughed—quiet, soft, but real. She shook her head, silver hair catching the light. "You're impossible."
Andy grinned wider, his chest easing at the sound. "And you love it."
She sighed, pretending exasperation, but her hand slipped into his. "Unfortunately for me… I do."
The System chimed faintly:
> [Bond Progression: 133% → 134%]
Shared humor reinforced. Emotional tension eased.
They walked out together, hand in hand, leaving behind the battlefield of spilled wine and broken alliances. Outside, the whispers still stirred, but for a few steps in the corridor, it was just them—partners against the world.
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