The throne room had never felt so small.
Morning light poured through high stained-glass windows, painting the marble floor in red and gold, but the air was thick with suspicion. Every noble who entered did so under the eyes of doubled guards. No one sat until Elandor gave permission. No one spoke until spoken to.
Star stood at the king's right hand—not on a lower dais anymore, but on the same step. A deliberate message. He wore the deep blue consort's coat trimmed in silver stars, the one Elandor had chosen for him weeks ago but he'd never dared wear in public. Today he wore it like armor.
Elandor's voice rang out, calm but edged with steel.
"Lord Varyn Thornewood is declared traitor to the crown. His lands are forfeit, his titles stripped, his name erased from the rolls. Any who aid him will share his fate. This is not negotiation. This is law."
Silence answered him. A few nobles paled. Others shifted, eyes darting to empty seats where yesterday's allies had sat.
Then Elandor did the unthinkable.
He stepped aside and gestured to Star.
"My consort will now speak."
Gasps rippled. A commoner addressing the high council? Unheard of.
Star felt every stare like needles, but he drew a slow breath and stepped forward.
"I'm not noble," he began, voice steady. "I don't know your fancy words or your bloodlines. What I do know is hunger. I know what it's like when the tax collector takes the last sack of grain and leaves children crying. I know villages burning because border lords play games with rebels."
He let that sink in.
"Lord Varyn didn't just try to kill me. He tried to keep the kingdom rotten so men like him could stay on top. I have proof."
He lifted the packet Mira had given him weeks ago—letters, ledgers, seals. "These show grain hoarded while people starved. Gold sent to rebels to keep the war profitable. Names. Dates. Amounts."
He tossed the packet onto the long table. It landed with a slap that sounded like a judge's gavel.
One by one, council members leaned forward, faces growing grim as they read.
A woman near the end—Duchess Calera, old and sharp-eyed—looked up first. "My lands border Thornewood's. I've seen the empty storehouses. I thought it was mismanagement. It was theft."
Another lord, younger, red-faced, stood. "My brother died fighting rebels Varyn claimed to oppose. If this is true…"
"It is," Elandor said quietly. "And it ends today."
Star wasn't finished.
"There's more. The prophecy everyone whispers about? I've read the full version—not the pretty pieces Varyn liked. It doesn't say a noble consort saves the realm. It says a consort 'born of earth and sky' will break the chains of gold and blood. I was born in a dirt-floor cottage under open sky. That's me. And I'm not here to prop up a broken system. I'm here to fix it."
Dead silence.
Then Duchess Calera did something no one expected. She rose, walked forward, and knelt—not to Elandor, but to Star.
"I pledge my banners to the consort as well as the crown."
One by one, others followed. Not all—some sat stiff, eyes cold—but enough. A tide turning.
When the last pledge was given, Elandor's hand found Star's again, hidden in the folds of their coats, squeezing tight.
Later, in the war room maps spread, generals arguing Star stood at Elandor's side again. Scouts reported Varyn had reached the northern passes, rallying old allies and rebel bands. War was certain now.
Elandor looked at the gathered commanders. "We ride in five days. I will lead the center. The consort rides with me."
A general opened his mouth to protest—then remembered the throne room and shut it.
Star met Elandor's eyes. "You sure about this?"
Elandor's smile was small, fierce, and utterly certain. "Never more sure of anything. You and me, Star. Like the forest. Like the city night. Like every promise we've made."
Star leaned in, voice low enough only Elandor heard. "Then let's go burn Varyn's world down."
Outside the windows, banners snapped in a rising wind.
The council of intrigue was over.
The war for the kingdom...and for their future had just begun.