The echo of heavy footsteps and clipped voices filled the marble halls of the palace. The court had grown restless in recent days. The mood was brittle, every conversation laced with suspicion. What had begun as whispers now throbbed at the heart of the Empire like an infected wound. The Vessant inquiry had shaken the foundation, but it was Seraphina's public accusation and the return of a long-lost witness that had truly split the court.
Several nobles who once smiled in the open now sent envoys instead. Others claimed illness. The high garden council stopped meeting entirely. There were reports of sudden trade delays. One house sent double its usual tribute to the Empress. Another didn't send anything at all. Word reached Seraphina through Lyria that a coalition of minor houses was quietly forming, trying to hedge bets without choosing sides. Even the neutral ones had gone quiet.
By mid-morning, Seraphina stood in the high council room, the same place where wartime logistics were once devised. Now, it held a different kind of war. Scrolls and maps were unrolled across the table. Red markers denoted loyal houses, black those in question, and a growing number had no color at all. Uncommitted. Watching. Waiting.
Thalion leaned over the opposite side of the table, his brow furrowed. "We're losing the center. The nobles who used to back neutrality are sitting on their hands. They're afraid to side with anyone."
Seraphina tapped her finger near House Dairon's sigil. "They've always traded in whispers. They'll wait until they can sell their loyalty to the highest bidder. House Orelan sent an unsigned letter yesterday asking if you'd step down if it brought peace."
Caelan entered quietly and scanned the table. "Two more houses pledged support to you this morning. Small ones, but public. It's starting to shift."
"We need to press it," she said.
"We could stage a closed briefing," Caelan offered. "One where only loyalists are allowed to speak. If we seed the right documents there, it could nudge the fence-sitters."
Thalion rubbed the back of his neck. "Too much of this is happening in the open. We can't rely on discretion anymore. The moment someone slips, the court will demand a spectacle."
"They already are," Seraphina said. "They just haven't called it one yet."
She moved to the balcony. The cold morning air snapped against her cheeks. Below, the courtyards bustled with activity. Conversations disguised as pleasantries. Nobles repositioning their loyalties with every rumor.
Thalion followed her but kept a few steps behind. He gave her space. Their silence was not uncomfortable. It was familiar. A kind of quiet they had earned.
"Do you regret it?" he asked.
She didn't turn. "Which part?"
"Pulling the court apart like this. Leading the charge."
She took a slow breath. "I regret that it was necessary. Not that I did it."
He stepped closer. Close enough that she could feel his presence.
"You're different now," he said. "Sharper. Quieter. Not colder, but heavier."
"I've had to be."
He looked at her hands, resting lightly on the stone railing. "But you're still here. Still standing."
Seraphina turned to face him. The sunlight caught the faint scar along his jaw. One he never spoke of. His eyes weren't looking for strategy or plans. Not this time.
"Would you have done it differently?" she asked.
He smiled, but it didn't reach far. "No. But I might have leaned on someone sooner."
A pause stretched.
"It's harder when you're used to leading alone," she said.
"Then maybe stop leading alone. Just once."
She didn't answer. But her expression shifted. Thalion reached for her hand, slow and careful. He didn't take it, just rested his fingers lightly against hers.
She let the contact stay.
They stood like that for a long moment. The air between them warmed. That familiar pulse of warmth and magic moved between their hands, tingling up her skin and settling deep in her chest. Her chest tightened.
Seraphina knew this feeling. She knew the warmth of this moment, and how much she'd missed it. This time, she didn't want it to stop.
She let herself move closer. Her breath hitched when his eyes met hers. Her lips parted slightly. That spark didn't just burn. It beckoned.
Thalion stepped in. He lifted a hand to her cheek and brushed a strand of hair from her face. He didn't speak. Just leaned closer. The space between them thinned with every breath.
He hesitated. Just a second. He had wanted this for weeks. Every close moment. Every look she didn't shy away from. He had told himself to wait. That her world was too fragile. That she didn't need the distraction.
But he couldn't wait anymore.
Seraphina felt it too. Her pulse rushed in her ears. She let herself get pulled in.
When the kiss landed, it was soft but certain. His lips met hers, and the warmth that bloomed through her chest chased away every sharp edge. She moved her hand to his chest, fingers resting over his heart. He deepened the kiss slightly, just enough to show her it mattered.
When they finally parted, neither spoke. They didn't need to.
Caelan saw them as they stepped back from each other. He caught only the moment they broke apart, but it was enough. The closeness, the timing, it spoke volumes.
He said nothing. His jaw flexed once. His chest tightened, but he pushed the feeling down fast. This wasn't the time. There was too much happening.
He stepped into the room and cleared his throat. His voice was clipped. "Come quickly. Something's wrong."
They returned to find one of the maps curling at the edges. The ink of the sigils was bleeding outward. The black markers pulsed faintly, as if responding to something.
Caelan crouched beside the table and reached out. "Don't touch it," Thalion warned, but it was too late.
Caelan's fingers brushed the map, and jerked back. A shallow burn lined his palm. He winced. "It's charged."
"With what?" Seraphina asked.
"Something old. Something laced into the ink or paper," he muttered.
A sudden gust rushed through the chamber even though the doors were closed. Scrolls lifted off the table. The torches flickered blue, then green.
Thalion's eyes narrowed. "This isn't a natural reaction. This was triggered."
Seraphina moved to the desk and yanked open a drawer. She grabbed a glass vial of grounding dust and scattered it across the table. The ink bled slower but didn't stop.
"Someone planted a spell in here," she said. "A long-term trigger keyed to proximity or movement."
Caelan's hand still throbbed. He gritted his teeth. "This room was swept last week. That means it was planted after that. By someone who has access."
Outside, the wind howled through the streets. There was no storm. No rain. Just sound. Metal clanged in alleys. Bells rang without a hand to strike them. From across the capital came the low groan of magic shifting underfoot.
A small paper folded neatly was pushed beneath the council door. Lyria's handwriting. It read: House Wendell broke ranks. Their archive was set on fire. No survivors.
Seraphina read it twice, then folded it silently.
No one moved. The silence said enough.
And the court, already fragile, began to crack.