The council chamber always smelled of smoke and stone. Torches lined the walls, spitting shadows that made the carved faces of kings past glare down at the living. The long table stretched like a battlefield, polished too clean, too sharp, waiting for the first blood.
Sophie's palms were sweating again. She told herself to stop rubbing them against her skirts, but the velvet only made it worse. Eira had braided her hair into some elegant crown, and though Sophie looked the part of a queen, inside she felt like an intruder about to be exposed.
She wasn't supposed to be here. Not really.
But Alexander had insisted. And now, sitting beside him, she couldn't tell if this was protection… or another kind of trap.
The lords took their seats slowly, their fine rings clicking against goblets, their robes dragging like shadows. She felt every stare. Some curious, some resentful, some sharp enough to cut. But none of them as heavy as Draven's.
He sat across the table, his posture perfect, his smile too thin. He hadn't spoken yet, but Sophie could feel it—like a blade waiting to be drawn.
Alexander lifted his hand, and silence rolled through the chamber like thunder. "We begin," he said, voice low, steady, dangerous.
The first matters were routine—grain shipments, border patrols, some lord whining about tariffs. Sophie tried to focus, but her mind kept drifting to the way Alexander's hand rested so casually near hers on the table, close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating. He didn't look at her, but he didn't need to. His presence pressed against her like armor and chains all at once.
Then Draven spoke.
"My king," he began, voice silk wrapped around steel, "while we discuss matters of grain and trade, I wonder if we might also discuss matters of… legitimacy."
The room stiffened. Sophie's stomach dropped.
Alexander didn't move, though his jaw flexed just slightly. "Speak plainly, Lord Draven."
Draven's gaze flicked to Sophie, then back to Alexander. "It has not gone unnoticed that you've seated this woman"—his pause was deliberate, cruel—"at your side. Some of us wonder what place she has here, in this hall, in these matters that concern the stability of the realm."
Murmurs rose like smoke.
Sophie's chest tightened. She wanted to shrink back, vanish, but Alexander's hand shifted beneath the table—just a brush against her knuckles, fleeting, but enough to keep her spine straight.
She met Draven's eyes, even as her heart hammered.
Alexander leaned forward slightly, his voice even but carrying weight. "Her place is where I put her. And she will remain at my side until I say otherwise."
A chill rippled through the chamber. The king's authority was absolute, but Draven wasn't finished.
"Forgive me," Draven said smoothly, "but we have not forgotten history. The disappearance of the true queen still lingers in the minds of the people. To place another in her stead, without explanation, risks more than whispers. It risks rebellion."
The word cut through Sophie like a knife.
Alexander's gaze sharpened, icy and merciless. "Careful, Draven."
But Draven only spread his hands. "I speak only for the safety of the realm. We must consider appearances. The people will not be fooled forever. A crown on the wrong head invites unrest, and unrest invites blood."
The murmurs grew louder. Sophie could feel her throat closing. Wrong head. That was what they thought of her. An impostor. A danger.
She wanted to defend herself, to shout that she never asked for this, that she wasn't pretending to be anyone—but her voice caught.
And then Alexander rose.
The movement was sudden, sharp, like a sword leaving its sheath. His chair scraped back against the stone. The chamber fell silent.
"You speak of blood," Alexander said, his voice carrying like fire through the chamber. "But it is your tongue that invites it, Draven. Question me, and you question the crown itself."
His hand came down on the table, close enough to Sophie's that the sound rang in her bones.
"I will not hear this again. She is under my protection, under my authority, and any man who threatens her"—his gaze swept the table, cold as winter—"threatens me."
Silence. Heavy. Crushing.
Draven's smile flickered, but he didn't back down completely. "As you say, my king." He bowed his head, the picture of obedience, but Sophie could see the spark of fury in his eyes.
The meeting dragged on after that, but Sophie barely heard it. Her pulse thundered in her ears. She kept staring at the table, at Alexander's hand resting so close to hers. He hadn't moved it. Not once.
When it was finally over, the lords rose in rustling robes, bowing and muttering as they left. Draven lingered a heartbeat longer, his eyes catching Sophie's with a promise that made her shiver, then slipped away into the shadows.
Only when the chamber emptied did Sophie realize she'd been holding her breath. She let it out in a shaky rush.
Alexander turned to her, his expression unreadable, though his eyes burned with something she couldn't name. "You see now," he said quietly. "The court is not kind. But neither am I."
Sophie swallowed, unsure if it was a warning or a reassurance. Maybe both.
Before she could answer, he added, softer, "You held your ground. Don't let him see fear."
Her chest tightened. For a moment, the chamber, the torches, the heavy banners—all of it blurred, leaving only him, his voice, the shadow of his hand near hers.
And she wondered—not for the first time—if the most dangerous man in this castle was also the only thing keeping her alive.