The small council chamber was buried in parchment.
Maps of the great hall covered one wall, marked with coloured pins indicating where each noble would sit. Seating charts that seemed to multiply overnight spilled across the table, covered in cross-outs and arrows. Lists of invited guests from every province—northern elders, southern alphas, eastern delegates, human council members—filled three leather-bound ledgers. Sample oaths lay in stacks, written and rewritten until the ink smeared and the parchment grew soft from handling.
Lysa stood at the head of the table, a stack of documents in her hands, her expression that of a general preparing for war. Baby on her hip—her daughter, now a toddler, chewing on a wooden spoon—she pointed at the seating chart with her free hand.
"You were never formally crowned," she said. "Three years ago, after your father died, you just assumed authority. No ceremony. No oaths. No celebration. No crown placed on anyone's head."
