The council chamber smelled of iron and incense, thick with the weight of history. Tall banners hung limp in the air, each bearing the sigil of noble houses that had served the throne for generations. Now, those same houses whispered rebellion.
Meredith sat stiff-backed in the queen's chair, the golden circlet pressing her skull like a cage. Kael stood at her side, armor polished to a sheen, every inch the warrior-king he wanted them to see.
The lords did not bow.
"My liege," Lord Harrow began, his voice sharp as a blade, "your claim to the throne is forged in blood. You are no son of this soil. You are an exile, an enemy, who married our princess only yesterday. How dare you claim kingship in this hall?"
Murmurs rippled through the chamber, some nodding agreement, others watching in silence. Kael did not so much as blink.
"I dare," he said, his voice carrying like thunder, "because your king is dead, and his daughter—your queen—chose me. By his decree, whosoever rescued her would rule. She sits beside me now. Do you defy her?"
All eyes turned to Meredith.
Her heart thundered in her chest. Sweat prickled beneath her gown. They were waiting for her, demanding a verdict, weighing her words like iron on a scale. If she faltered, Kael's fragile claim would shatter.
She wanted to scream the truth. I'm not your princess. I don't belong here. I don't care who rules your bloody throne.
But Kael's hand brushed hers, steady and warm. His thumb pressed against her knuckles, anchoring her. To the lords, it was a gesture of devotion. To Meredith, it was a warning.
"Speak," Harrow pressed. "Tell us, princess. Is this your will? Do you name this man king, when his blood runs with the enemies of our fathers?"
The chamber blurred. Meredith's mouth went dry. She saw their faces—hungry, suspicious, desperate. She thought of her cheer squad, chanting counts of five, six, seven, eight, in rhythm. If only she could step back into that world, where the worst consequence was missing a landing.
But she couldn't.
She straightened, forcing her voice steady. "This is my husband," she said, the words tasting foreign, jagged. "And this is your king. My father decreed it, and I honor his word. To defy him now is to spit upon his memory."
The hall erupted. Some cried agreement, others shouted defiance, their anger echoing off the vaulted ceilings. Kael squeezed her hand once, then released it, his mask of calm unbroken.
Meredith sank inside herself. She had just bound her fate tighter to his.
Lord Harrow's face twisted in fury. "Then so be it. But know this—many of us will not kneel to a foreigner wearing our crown." He turned sharply, storming out, his men following. Others hesitated, weighing the storm to come.
Kael raised his chin, unbothered. "Let them leave. The kingdom will remember who stood with its queen, and who abandoned her in her hour of need."
The words were powerful, commanding. And deadly.
Meredith sat frozen, her throat tight. She had just legitimized him, with her own voice. She had helped him seize everything he wanted.
And yet, all she wanted was to go home.
When the chamber finally emptied, she whispered, almost to herself, "I didn't do it for you."
Kael glanced at her, unreadable. "No," he murmured, "but you did it. And that is enough."