Gai comes to with a tongue that feels like sandpaper and the taste of burnt toast. The room is mostly blueish light and headache, his left eye throbbing. He’s glued to Elle’s library chair by a streak of drool on the velvet. The fire in the grate has almost given up—one dull coal left. Gai blinks, confused for a second before it all clicks into place: the book, the hexagon, Elle reading until her words got thin and her eyes went out of focus.

  He pushes himself upright, hissing at the crick in his neck. Books line every wall, blurring together because he still hasn’t blinked away the sleep. The old book sprawls open on the table, covered in notes from people with wildly different handwriting. Elle is slumped over it, arms crossed, one cheek pressed into her elbow. Her other hand is splayed out on the table, like she just folded in a card game she never wanted to play.

  Suddenly, someone knocks—a steady pounding that makes the nearest bookshelf shiver. For a split second, Gai debates pretending to be dead asleep. Whoever it is can knock all day for all he cares. But then comes the voice:

  “Gai. Up. An emergency council meeting has been called. Let’s go.”

  Raimondis. Only he could make “good morning” sound like a threat.

  Gai wipes his mouth with his sleeve and hopes for the best. The fire is useless now and last night’s rain lingers in the air; it’s like breathing through a wet rag. He staggers to his feet and steadies himself before heading over to Elle. Her braid’s falling apart—white hairs stuck at her temple, ends sticking out awkwardly around her head. Her face looks sharper this morning; sleep deprivation does her no favors. For a moment, he just stands there watching her barely breathe against the page, noticing freckles he swears weren’t there yesterday.

  He wants to say her name but thinks better of it. Instead, he puts his hand near her elbow and taps lightly.

  “Elle? Sorry to wake you—Raimondis says a council meeting has been called.”

  She comes around fast—inhales sharply, blinks back to life, then looks for her place in the book without missing a beat. She glances up at him—not pissed off or anything, just bone tired.

  “What time is it?” she croaks.

  Gai looks out the window and shrugs. “Light says early—maybe sixth bell if we’re unlucky.”

  She scrubs at her nose, then stretches, her joints popping in protest. “Brilliant. Fell asleep with nothing in my stomach,” she grumbles, voice gravelly, “and now I get to parade into a council meeting.” Her eyes dart from the mess of notes to Gai; the sound she makes is equal parts exasperation and resignation.

  The knocking returns, harder this time—flat-palmed and impatient. “Gai! Open the door before I break it down. And if I have to wake you up, it will be with a cold bucket!”

  Gai grimaces and heads over, fumbling with the latch on hands that barely feel awake. As soon as he cracks the door, Raimondis barges in, every inch of him pressed and polished for battle with the morning. He barely glances at Gai before sizing up Elle’s rumpled form and smudged sleeve.

  “Highness.” The title comes out sharp enough to chip a tooth. “Council’s waiting. They expect you immediately.”

  Elle’s lips flatten. “Do they sleep in shifts or not at all?” she deadpans. She rakes a hand through her tangled hair, scans the table for something salvageable to drink, sniffs her mug, winces, and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.

  Raimondis looks scandalized. “If you’d like a fresh pot—”

  “Don’t bother,” Elle cuts him off, shooting Gai a look. “Just find me something that won’t taste like despair. Bring it to my room while I try to look less like I crawled out of a well.” She tugs at her braid, trying to tame it back into place.

  Raimondis swings open the door for them without another word, jaw clenched so tight you’d think he was chewing rocks. Gai follows Elle’s slow shuffle out; her fingers drift along the shelves as they pass by. Out in the corridor, Gai catches a whiff of his own stale clothes and wonders if everyone else will too.

  They walk in silence until Elle stops at her chamber door, offers Gai a weary smile. “Coffee. Please. Then come in.” She closes the door behind her with a quiet click.

  Gai hovers in the hallway, his brain feeling slow and sloshy. Then he lurches off toward the dining room, where the staff are already shuffling around with clean linens and trays. He heads straight for the biggest coffee pot he can find—the kind they roll out for embassies and emergencies—fills it to the brim with that strong, almost-black kavé, and snatches up two chipped mugs from the table. He grabs a round of flatbread from the nearest basket; nobody bats an eye. The bread nearly scalds his hand, but he’s oddly glad for something real to hold onto.

  Elle’s quarters are tucked away behind two deadbolts and enough velvet to outfit a theatre. He balances the tray on his sore hand and knocks. Her reply is muffled: “Come in.”

  He slips inside. The place is all blue silk and reflections, cool air fogging up the glass. Elle isn’t in sight—just the privacy screen pulled across one corner, fabric shifting with movement behind it. Gai sets the tray on a side table and waits, not sure if he’s supposed to say something or keep still. The fresh bread steams between them.

  She steps out a beat later, perfectly put together in a dark dress with red trim and cuffs that could slice bread. Her hair’s twisted into a glossy braid, though it looks like she gave up halfway through tying off the end. There are shadows under her eyes but her posture says she’s ready for anything.

  She pours herself a mug, tears off half the bread and eats it while eyeing him. “You really slept in those clothes?” she asks, eyebrow raised.

  He tries to play it off with a shrug. “Didn’t want to miss anything important.”

  Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

  Her mouth quirks up as she grabs a second cup, fills it for him, and loads it with so much sugar he wonders if she’s making syrup instead of coffee. She stirs it with a knife and slides it over.

  “Drink,” she orders. “You’re going to need every bit of energy.”

  He takes a sip. It might as well be melted candy—but at least his brain starts to wake up. Elle finishes half her own mug before setting it down hard enough that he glances up. She braces herself over the table like she’s waiting for bad news.

  “See anything odd during the night?” she asks. “Anyone sneak in or out?”

  He shakes his head. “Just you, me, the book—and Raimondis loitering outside for most of it. I’m pretty sure he dozed off.”

  She considers this, tearing at the bread with her teeth. Her eyes are not angry, just… calculating. Gai has the sense that she’s already planned out the next five steps.

  “I want you in the chamber during council,” she says.

  “They’re not going to like that,” Gai says, blowing on the coffee. His tongue is already starting to tingle; he’s sure it’ll be stripped raw before the council gets to their first order of business.

  “I don’t care,” Elle says. “Not after yesterday. If Zephyrian is playing games, I want you where I can see you, and where he can see you too.” She cracks her neck, picks at the edge of the bread, and looks through him rather than at him. “Back home, they only call council before dawn if someone’s dead or about to be. Here, it’s politics, but the nobles still hate early bells. If they’re meeting now, something’s wrong.”

  Gai tears off a piece of bread for himself, chews, and tries to catch up. “Is it the gate? The book?”

  Elle shakes her head. “If it was the book, they’d send a runner. Council’s always about power, not knowledge.” She drains her mug, then stands abruptly, smoothing the line of her dress like she wants to iron the day flat before it starts. “Let’s go.”

  When they hit the main corridor, the palace is already humming—staff mopping up puddles, buckets banging against marble as they go. The air reeks of metal polish and wet stone, with torches throwing just enough smoke into the mix to sting Gai’s nose. He spots twice as many guards as usual, planted at every crossroads, eyes darting between servants and each other. A couple of his old squadmates are on duty—no nods, but one gives him a look that says loud and clear: word’s out, and whatever’s coming is a lot bigger than ancient mysteries.

  They pick up Raimondis outside the council chamber. He stands there like he’s supervising an inspection: arms crossed, mouth pinched tight. His uniform is immaculate, boots so shiny Gai catches his own reflection in them for a split second. Raimondis gives Elle a once-over, then Gai. “Council won’t wait for us. Let’s go.”

  Elle just nods.

  As they walk, Elle leans in close enough so only Gai can hear her voice: “If things go sideways, listen to Sheh’zar first, then me. Don’t trust anyone else—not even the captain of the guard. Especially today.”

  Gai nods back. He has no idea what she thinks is about to happen, but he doesn’t argue.

  The council chamber looks even grimmer than he remembers—walls of blue granite stretching up out of sight. Faded banners droop from the galleries overhead; each one marks a different noble house, but none are looking festive this morning. The doors could eat a horse whole and are locked up tight behind iron bands stained dark as pitch. Voices bounce around inside—some sharp with irritation, others anxious and clipped.

  Sheh’zar waits at the entrance with her arms folded. She dips her head as Elle approaches but skips any ceremony for Gai or Raimondis. “Both of them?” she confirms with Elle—a tired question more than anything.

  Elle answers simply: “Yes. Both.”

  Sheh’zar sighs and lets them pass, falling in right behind them. The council already fills most of the room—officials packed into curved rows of tables, every one buttoned up in their finest. At the far end, King Reynard sits elevated above everyone else, his robes spread out neat and heavy around him. Above him hangs the Bodubanian crest—gold daggers across blue fire—a reminder they’re all supposed to be on the same side. Zephyrian is beside him in all black, severe-faced, hands resting on a pile of scrolls. Every minute or so Zephyrian bends toward the king to whisper something while scanning the crowd like he’s counting problems rather than people.

  To Gai’s left sprawls a table absolutely buried under a detailed relief map—borders and rivers etched into rolling wooden panels, every inch crowded with tiny tokens: red and blue for city troops, green for allies, scattered black ships crowding the coastline. Whoever arranged it had been up all night—or maybe roped in half the staff—because not a single piece is out of place. Around the edges, aides and junior officials huddle in tight groups, pale and jittery, trying to look useful and not give away how nervous they are.

  Elle walks straight to her designated seat at the front, head high. Sheh’zar peels off and takes a station just behind, arms folded. Gai, expecting to be stopped, instead finds himself ushered to a chair at the wall behind the princess. He sits, still pulsing with caffeine and residual dread, just in time to hear the room’s hum collapse into hush as the king lifts a finger.

  The council falls silent. Even the guards posted at the door stand a fraction taller.

  King Reynard’s voice is raw, not loud but cutting clear through the room. “We convene under duress. The ranger corps have confirmed the size of the Nobyvinmaan fleet. Three days ago it was thirty sails. Yesterday, forty-four. As of this morning, fifty-seven longships and at least a dozen unmarked troop carriers. They’re making speed for the Northern delta and the Pelugian river port at Oldbay.” He does not look up; his eyes are locked on the map, a strip of silver in his short beard picking up the cold torchlight.

  At the edge of the dais, Zephyrian places a hand flat on the board. “I have reports from the coast—harbours emptied, whole towns conscripted for labour. No one’s seen a build-up like this in a decade.” His voice is flat, almost bored, but every word lands like a hammer.

  A murmur rises from the council—half outrage, half terror. The old baroness from the marshlands is first to speak. “They wouldn’t risk open war. Not so soon after the treaty. They haven’t rebuilt—”

  “They don’t need to,” Zephyrian interrupts. “They have Pelugia.”

  A sharp intake of breath cuts through the table; even Elle’s composure cracks. Pelugia. The worst rumour made solid fact. Even the normally impassive faces of the veteran commanders showed concern at the news from the northern frontier.

  "The Nobyvinmaan vanguard arrived at the Pelugian border three days ago," said a grizzled commander, his weathered finger tracing the line on the map. "Initial reports suggested they were merely establishing a forward position, but now we know differently”. He gestured to the recently arrived tokens marking Pelugian positions. "Their armies didn't resist. Instead, they formed honour guards along the roadways, welcoming the Nobyvinmaan columns with banners unfurled."

  The baroness leaned forward, brow furrowed. "How many?"

  "Five thousand Nobyvinmaan regulars, with another seven thousand expected within the week. The Pelugians have contributed close to eleven thousand."

  Several lords began to protest at once—the portly duke in the wine-red sleeves shouting about citizen safety, a wizened countess stabbing her cane into the boards and demanding to know what happened to the neutrality treaty. Elle just watched, eyes dead level, as the chaos spread. No one listened to anyone else. The King didn’t even try to stop them.

  A shout echoed through the corridor outside, followed by the clank and rattle of plate armour. A door at the back of the chamber slammed, then opened again—this time deliberate, controlled. Yami stepped in first, her cloak still dripping with rain, the hood thrown back to reveal a shock of dark hair slicked to her forehead. Her eyes swept the room, pausing when she saw Gai. If there was ever a trace of affection in her face, it was gone now; what remained was a razor grin and the brittle delight of a wolf let loose in a sheepfold.

  She moved to the chamber’s edge and leaned against the cold stone, arms folded. Gai saw a bruise on her jaw—fresh, ugly, purpled up—and the way her boots left little crescents of mud on the flagstones. She was flanked by two other rangers: both strangers to Gai, both with the same lean, predatory build, faces set like traps. None of them looked at the councillor’s table. Their eyes tracked only the doors, the windows, and the spaces between.

  The room’s attention lasted less than a breath before it was claimed by the next arrival. Captain Maric, in full parade plate, swept in with the clatter of command, and for a moment even Zephyrian’s poise wavered. Maric was broad everywhere—shoulders, cheeks, voice—and he had the kind of presence that made lesser men want to salute or shrink away. But he was not the last.

  The final figure through the door made even Maric look human. The helmet came first, shaped like a lion’s head, its mane wrought in hammered steel and actual fur, mane draped over the shoulders and down the back like the pelt of a hunt trophy. The rest of the armour was matte-black and impossibly dense, every inch etched with runes or sigils that caught the torchlight and spat it back in tiny, starlike flakes. The man moved with a slow, careful grace, boots landing so precisely they barely made sound.

  He stopped at the council’s edge, surveyed the room, then pulled off the helmet and held it to his side. The face inside was older than Gai expected, but not old in the way of barons or frail grandfathers—just lined, battered, the skin tight over a jaw that looked like it could break a walnut. The eyes were dark, unyielding, and Gai felt himself shrink to about six years old under their gaze.

  The man held the helmet in the crook of his arm, brought his boots together, and went to one knee. “Your Majesty. Forgive my delay. I have arrived as ordered and am at your service.”

  There was a silence, ragged with surprise. Even Zephyrian’s mask slipped a hair; Gai saw it, the quick scan of the room as if he were recalculating every prediction he’d made about the next hour.

  The King’s mouth almost smiled. “General Lionel,” he said, a warmth swirling under the iron, “you are always welcome, but today, especially. Rise and stand with me.”

  Lionel did. He stepped up to the King’s side, a span away from Zephyrian, and set the lion-helm on the table. The thing watched the room with hollowed eyes, and Gai caught more than one nobleman shifting their focus so as not to meet its stare.