The council chamber smelled of smoke and steel, a place meant for decrees yet haunted by whispers. High banners hung limp in the still air, and torchlight painted long, hungry shadows across the stone floor.
Chancellor Varrow stood at the head of the long table, his bony fingers resting lightly on polished oak as though it were a board for his games. His eyes, sharp and endless as midnight, swept across the gathered lords. They avoided his gaze, pretending to study their goblets or the maps spread before them.
He let the silence stretch until it knotted their nerves. Only then did he speak.
"My lords, last night the curse stirred."
The words dropped like stones into a pond. Several men shifted uneasily, one muttered a prayer under his breath.
"The northern villages," Varrow continued smoothly, "report beasts that wore the skins of wolves, yet were not wolves. Houses burned, families torn apart. And in the chaos…" He leaned forward, lowering his voice so that all were forced to listen. "A secret revealed itself. A healer—unknown, nameless until now—showed powers that should not exist."
He saw the ripple of fear, the quick crossing of brows, the suspicion already blooming in their minds.
"She is dangerous," Varrow said softly, though his words struck like daggers. "And worse, she is tied to our beloved Prince Kael."
The murmurs rose sharply at that.
"Impossible."
"A prince consorting with a witch?"
"He would never."
Varrow let them argue, their doubts spilling into the chamber like spilled ink. Then, when their voices began to falter, he cut through with the precision of a knife.
"Think, my lords. Why else would wolves of shadow strike a healer's cottage? Why else would Kael, the warrior prince, abandon the palace in secret? He protects her. He shields her." His lips curved, thin and cold. "Perhaps he even serves her."
The suggestion was poison. He watched it take root, watched the fear twist into suspicion. Kings were toppled not by swords alone, but by seeds planted at the right moment.
When King Aldric entered, weary-eyed and uncertain, he found his council already restless. Varrow bowed deeply, his shadow stretching across the floor like ink spilled from his robes.
"Your Majesty," he intoned, "for the safety of Aeloria, I advise that this healer be found and brought before the throne. If she is innocent, she will stand unbroken. If guilty…" His pause was deliberate, heavy. "Then better one woman burn than a kingdom fall."
The king, ever pliant, nodded slowly. His crown gleamed under torchlight, yet his gaze was unfocused, drifting as though in a fog.
"So be it," Aldric murmured. "Find her."
Varrow straightened, triumph hidden beneath solemnity. Already his Watchers were moving through the Silverwood, already the trap was tightening.
And far away, in a small cottage where fire still smoldered from the night's battle, Isolde felt a chill run through her veins—as though fate itself had just turned its gaze upon her.