The drawing room felt smaller once the truth had been spoken.
Lady Cynthia Raventhorn remained on the floor where the dowager queen left her, knees drawn in, hands trembling in her lap. The echoes of Aelira's words still rang in her ears—sharp, merciless, final.
The doors opened quietly.
A servant stepped in and bowed low.
"Your Majesty," he said, addressing Aelira, "the king has sent word. The square is full. It is time for the royal family to present themselves."
Aelira inclined her head once.
"So soon."
She turned back to Cynthia, her gaze cool but not unkind.
"One last word of counsel, Lady Cynthia—take it, or don't. The Storm Lord is merciless only when provoked. If you value your life, your mother's life, or what remains of your name… do not provoke him."
Cynthia lifted her head, eyes red.
"I only wanted justice."
Aelira's voice hardened.
"No. You wanted a crown. And your father wanted power."
