The next morning, Elara wore black.
Not mourning black—war black.
Tailored silk. High collar. No frills. No jewelry save the moonstone ring, which glinted with a faint, violet sheen. It wasn'ta request from the palace wardrobe. It was a message.
To the nobles who mocked her.
To the prince who used her.
To the soul in the mirror, biding its time.
She descended to the royal strategy hall without summons. A place reserved for heirs, war generals, and the seven high houses. Guards hesitated at first, then parted like reeds in a storm.
She stepped into the hall like she'd always belonged.
"When the cock crows in a new compound, it must crow boldly or be silenced forever."
Heads turned. A few scoffed.
Others narrowed their eyes.
And at the center of it all, Caelum Dravemir leaned against the massive obsidian table, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
"Did I invite you?" he asked.
"No," she said, walking toward him. "But I belong here."
Whispers surged like wind in dry leaves.
Caelum studied her, one brow lifting.
"And why do you think that?"
Elara reached into her sleeve and pulled out a scroll—sealed in gold wax with the sigil of House Wari, the realm's third most powerful noble family. The scroll trembled with faint heat—enchanted paper.
"I received this an hour ago," she said, unrolling it on the table.
It wasn't a threat. Not a challenge.
It was an invitation.
To attend the next Moon Debate—a closed-door meeting where bloodline heads discussed law, trade, and military moves.
"She's maneuvering," one noble muttered.
"She's no fool," another said.
"She's not a noble," someone sneered. "She doesn't even have a house sigil."
Elara turned to the speaker. "Not yet."
"Even the river that forgets its source eventually dries."
A dangerous smile curved Caelum's lips.
"You came into the den with bare hands and a lion's voice," he said. "You'll either rule beside me or be devoured by sunset."
"I'm still here, aren't I?" she replied.
That earned a ripple of tension—and something close to amusement from the prince.
He tilted his head, voice softer now. "And what will you do at this meeting? They'll eat you alive."
"Then I'll poison their wine with charm and smile while they bleed."
The silence was a crown she wore well.
Later that day, Elara wandered the Hall of Ancestral Names, hoping for quiet, but Moonspire rarely gave peace freely.
The hall was vast—ceiling domed with starlit glass, floor engraved with names in every dialect of the realm: wolves, rulers, traitors, saints. A history carved in bone and moonlight.
She traced the name Lycaena of the Unchained Fang. It pulsed beneath her fingers like a second heartbeat.
A voice drifted behind her.
"She was beautiful, you know. And mad as a hyena during drought."
Elara turned. A girl leaned against a pillar, skin the color of burnished bronze, eyes lined with coal. She wore green robes stitched with hawk feathers—House Ezima, the southern marsh clan.
"I saw you at the Widow's Dance," the girl said. "You made Morenji choke on her teeth. Nicely done."
"And you are?"
"Zela Ezima. Second daughter. Not important enough to marry, not wild enough to exile." She smiled. "Which makes me just dangerous enough to be useful."
"Useful?"
"To you. To the prince. To whoever wins this ugly game." She stepped forward. "I want in."
Elara studied her. "Why?"
Zela's smile didn't waver.
"When the fire passes, even the lizard learns to walk like a lion."
"I watched this court burn my sister for whispering truth. Now I want to set my own fire."
Elara extended her hand.
"Then let's burn it together."
That evening, in the privacy of her chambers, Elara stood before a cracked mirror.
Not the soul mirror.
Just glass.
She touched her reflection.
"You had your time," she whispered to the memory of Lycaena, "but this is my war now."
The moonstone ring shimmered.
But this time, Lycaena did not answer.
Elara smiled.
"The tree that knows the storm is coming does not wait to grow roots."