The council session stretched deep into the afternoon, each voice adding to the growing weight that pressed upon the chamber. When it finally adjourned, the nobles scattered like startled birds, their robes trailing whispers and their faces carefully veiled. Lyria lingered, her hands clasped behind her back as if she were simply reflecting. In truth, she was measuring each lord and lady, cataloging the ones who avoided her eyes and the ones who studied her too closely.
Selene swept past, her sweet smile firmly in place. "Sister," she murmured, her tone carrying the faintest edge. "It is dangerous to speak so boldly before Father. You make enemies too easily."
Lyria's answering smile was sharp enough to cut silk. "And you, dear Selene, make allies too easily. I prefer knowing who holds the knife."
Selene's gaze flickered, just briefly, before she glided out of the chamber. A performance, perfectly rehearsed. But beneath it lay insecurity—and Lyria intended to exploit every crack.
When at last the chamber emptied, Sir Caelen approached. His presence was less an intrusion and more a shadow that refused to leave. "You gained attention today," he said quietly, his tone unreadable. "Not all of it favorable."
"Attention is a blade," Lyria replied. "Handled well, it protects. Handled poorly, it cuts."
His lips curved faintly. "Then I suggest you sharpen it carefully."
They walked together through the corridor, their footsteps echoing. The silence between them was not comfortable, but it was charged, like the air before a storm. Lyria glanced at him from the corner of her eye. "Tell me, Sir Caelen, what does your homeland make of unrest? Do they stamp it out or let it burn itself to ash?"
He studied her as though weighing what truth she could bear. "We listen to the flames. If they roar too loudly, we smother them. If they are small, we feed them until they consume the ones foolish enough to light them."
Her lips curved, appreciating the honesty cloaked in metaphor. "Then perhaps our kingdoms are not so different."
As they turned a corner, Mariel hurried toward them, her expression tight. "Your Grace, Lord Rennic requests a private word. He awaits in the east gardens."
Lyria's brows arched. Bold of him, to seek her so openly. "Very well. Prepare my things for the evening, Mariel. I'll see him now."
Sir Caelen inclined his head, though his eyes betrayed no surprise. "Be cautious," he murmured. "A man who summons a princess in gardens seeks more than idle talk."
"I should hope so," she replied.
The east gardens were quieter than the rest of the castle, shielded by tall hedges and fragrant blooms. Lord Rennic stood near the fountain, his broad frame cloaked in a traveling cape, his eyes darting to every shadow.
"Your Grace," he greeted, bowing quickly. "Forgive the urgency, but time grows thin."
Lyria folded her hands gracefully, though her voice carried steel. "Urgency without discretion is recklessness, Lord Rennic. Speak before the walls learn to listen."
He swallowed, lowering his tone. "The western lords are restless. The king refuses to grant them audience, and his council dismisses their concerns. They look to me for guidance, but even my influence frays. They will rise if something is not done."
"And what would you have me do?" she asked, though she already knew the answer.
"Stand with us," Rennic urged. "Lend us your name, your presence. The people would rally behind a Valemont who sees their plight. Together, we could force the king's hand—or replace it altogether."
His words carried weight, dangerous and tempting. Lyria let silence stretch between them, studying the ripples of the fountain as though her reflection held answers.
At last, she turned to him. "I will not lend my name so cheaply. If your rebellion collapses, I fall with you. If it succeeds, I must ensure it serves me, not merely another grasping lord."
Rennic bowed his head, a mixture of relief and frustration crossing his face. "Then what would you demand?"
Her smile was slow, deliberate. "Patience. Loyalty. Proof that your cause is not just a fleeting tantrum. I will watch, and when the moment comes, I will choose. Until then, speak carefully of my name."
Rennic pressed a hand to his chest. "You will have it, Princess. And when the time comes, I swear, we will not fail you."
She inclined her head, though her mind churned with calculation. Promise and peril twined together like the roses at her back.
As she returned toward her chambers, the shadows shifted. Sir Caelen stepped from the colonnade, his arms folded. "You play a dangerous game."
"Better a dangerous game than a losing one," she countered.
His gaze locked onto hers, steady and unyielding. "Do not trust too easily, Lyria Valemont. Men like Rennic would crown you today and bury you tomorrow."
"Then I will make certain they need me alive," she said softly, her smile a blade in the dim light.
For a long moment, they stood in silence, two predators circling in words instead of steel. Then Caelen inclined his head, as if acknowledging a move well played, and vanished back into shadow.
Lyria watched him go, the night air cool against her skin. She touched the sleeve where Rennic's letter still rested, the weight of it pressing against her arm like a promise—or a chain.
This kingdom would not consume her again. She would weave every whisper, every threat, every shadow into her armor.
And when the moment came, she would not merely survive. She would rule.