Elowen
The council chamber stank of ink and fear.
She could taste both as she entered, her heels echoing against marble, her gown dragging like blood across the floor. The crimson silk clung to her like a flame refusing to die, black pearls swinging at her throat. She had chosen it carefully.
Not for beauty. For war.
The courtiers rose halfway, confused between bowing to her or waiting for him. She let them fumble, let them betray their hesitation. Every slip of the eye, every twitch of the hand—she collected them like jewels.
At the far end of the hall sat Caelum.
The Emperor was already watching. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes were sharp enough to cut. He had not touched his wine. The cup sat full at his elbow, ignored, as though he did not trust anything placed near his lips anymore.
Good. Let him fear the taste of every drop.
Elowen lowered herself into a seat not beside him, not opposite him, but perfectly diagonal—just close enough to look him in the eye without ceding ground.
A smile ghosted across her lips.
The chamber shifted.
Caelum
Her smile infuriated him.
It wasn't wide. It wasn't mocking. It was small, deliberate, calculated.
And it was the same smile she'd worn on the steps of the Great Hall the day he had ended her.
He remembered it too vividly. Too painfully.
A smile that said she knew what was coming. A smile that said she forgave him even as she bled.
Now it returned.
But this time, it forgave nothing.
This time, it promised ruin.
He clenched his jaw. The wood beneath his palm groaned. The courtiers shifted uncomfortably, their eyes darting between them. They smelled blood, though none had been spilled yet.
Elowen
The Chancellor droned on about tariffs. The General spoke of border patrols. The Duchess of Kelvaris suggested alliances.
None of them mattered.
What mattered was silence—his silence.
She waited until the Steward, puffed up with self-importance, cleared his throat. "Lady Virelle, your presence has stirred quite the—ah—revival. Perhaps you might enlighten us on what values you intend to bring to—"
"Dying," she interrupted.
The word dropped like a stone.
The room froze.
The Steward paled. "I—I beg your pardon?"
"I was asked what values I bring. I bring memory. I bring what others have forgotten." She let her gaze drift slowly, deliberately, across the chamber. "I bring the memory of a blade on the steps, of silence from those sworn to defend me. Of betrayal dressed as loyalty."
Gasps fluttered. Forks stilled.
Her eyes landed last on Caelum.
"Perhaps I misremember," she said softly.
Caelum
He wanted to rip her from her chair. To slam her against the table until she begged.
But the council was watching.
If he touched her now, they would not see strength. They would see weakness. Fear.
So he leaned back, voice dangerously calm.
"And who, Lady Virelle, do you suggest bleeds next?"
Her smile widened, just a fraction.
"Whoever deserves it most."
The Chancellor nearly dropped his quill. The Duchess hid a trembling hand beneath lace.
And Caelum felt the chain slip tighter around his own throat.
Elowen
He was breaking. She saw it in the twitch of his jaw, the rigid set of his shoulders. He was a man drowning and pretending to stand on solid ground.
Perfect.
She rose gracefully. "If you'll excuse me, my lords, I've given you enough of my voice for one morning."
Her gown whispered as she left the chamber, every eye trailing her exit.
Every eye except his.
He did not rise. He did not speak. But his gaze burned into her back, searing, desperate.
Good. Let it burn him alive.
Caelum
When the doors closed, he snapped.
"Leave," he snarled.
The council scattered, skirts and boots scraping marble as they fled.
Silence crashed into the chamber.
He gripped the table until splinters drove into his palm. He didn't feel them.
She was poisoning him. Word by word. Smile by smile.
And he couldn't stop drinking.
Elowen
Therin was waiting in her chambers, hood shadowing his sharp grin.
"You moved too fast," he said.
"Not fast enough," she countered.
"You'll shatter him before spring."
"I want him shattered now."
He studied her, then nodded toward her throat. "You're leaving the bruises visible. Dangerous."
"They're proof."
"Of what?"
"That the leash is already mine."
Caelum
That night, he did not summon her.
He should have. He should have dragged her into his bed and bent her until she broke.
Instead, he stalked the gallery, pacing like a beast too big for its cage.
The marble echoed with her voice. The glass windows reflected her smile.
He remembered the blood. The steps. Her last breath.
And he began to wonder if she had ever died at all.
Elowen
By firelight, she knelt before the hearth, hand pressed to her belly.
She whispered names.
Not lullabies. Not prayers.
Names of those who had stood silent while she bled.
One by one.
And when she whispered the last name—Caelum—her lips curved into that same smile.
The smile that haunted him.
The smile that promised ruin.