Chapter Twenty-seven: What They Could Not Tolerate
The eastern tower did not sleep.
It never truly did. Not when matters of succession, power, or blood were involved.
Isolade stood near the tall arched window of her father's private council room, watching the courtyard below. The torches burned steady. Guards rotated. Everything looked controlled.
Orderly. Predictable.
Everything except Kael.
She clasped her hands behind her back to keep them steady. She did not fidget. She did not pace. She had long ago learned that visible agitation weakened an argument before it even began.
Lord Valerius sat at the head of the long oak table, broad shoulders rigid, silver streaking through his dark hair catching the firelight. Age had not softened him. It had sharpened him.
Seraphina stood slightly apart from them, closer to the hearth. Her posture was relaxed, but there was nothing careless about her stillness. She observed before she spoke. Always.
