The council chamber smelled of wax and dust, the kind of stillness that only followed weeks of chaos. Torches guttered along the carved stone walls, shadows stretching long and thin over the inlaid map of the kingdom that dominated the central table.
Elara stood at the head of that table. His dark hair was still damp from the morning's rain, the loose strands clinging to his temple. A ceremonial sash of deep crimson crossed his chest, its fabric heavy with stitched symbols of the royal line. Despite the formality, his sleeves were rolled to the elbow, showing forearms marked with fading bruises — a reminder that his regency had been earned in smoke and blood, not inheritance.
"You will serve as Interim Regent," declared an elderly noble in fur-lined robes, his voice brittle with age but still carrying weight. "Until the realm is stable."
Murmurs rose around the room. Not all in agreement.
"I didn't fight for a crown," Elara said, gaze steady.
"No," came a voice from the far corner, "but someone fought for you to have it."
The speaker didn't need to be named. Every head turned toward Lysander.
He leaned against one of the chamber's marble columns, dressed in a high-collared coat of muted black. His hair — silver threaded with dark — was tied loosely at the nape of his neck, a single lock falling forward over one eye. His expression, as always, was unreadable, but his presence filled the space more than the council's polished titles ever could.
"I want no crown," Lysander said softly. "My seat is not at the head of the table, but behind it — where the real work is done."
Some of the council exchanged uneasy glances, unsure if that was humility or warning.
By mid-afternoon, the chamber was empty. Decisions had been made. Elara's authority was sealed, at least on parchment.
Lysander found him afterward in the private war room, staring at a half-unrolled map. Rain tapped steadily against the tall windows.
"Interim Regent," Lysander said as he entered, tone flat but eyes faintly amused.
Elara gave a quiet snort. "I can already feel the knives being sharpened."
"That's good," Lysander replied. "It means they're predictable."
Before Elara could answer, the door opened to admit Councilor Myrene.
She was a narrow woman of perhaps forty, her pale skin almost luminous under the dim candlelight. Silver half-moon spectacles perched on the bridge of her sharp nose, catching flickers of light each time she shifted her head. She carried a ledger bound in pale green leather, clasped to her chest as though it were armor.
"Gentlemen," she said, voice smooth, words clipped. "If you intend to rebuild this kingdom, I would suggest beginning with the census records. Half of them are missing, the other half… contradictory."
Lysander's gaze flicked briefly to Elara before he answered, "Then we will conduct a new one."
Myrene's thin lips curved — not quite a smile. "That would be wise."
When she left, Elara exhaled. "Do you trust her?"
"No," Lysander said simply. "But I intend to make her believe I do."
That night, Lysander lay awake in the small chamber he used as his quarters. The rain had stopped, leaving the world unnervingly quiet.
Sleep came in fragments, broken by the same dream.
The woman again.
She stood on a wind-scoured plain, her hair a dark river whipped by unseen currents. Her features were blurred by distance, but her voice — low, deliberate — reached him in a language his waking mind did not know. The words carried weight, pulling at something buried deep inside him.
When he tried to move closer, the ground between them fractured like glass.
He woke to find his hand clenched tightly around the black chess king on his bedside table.
Outside, somewhere in the city, a bell tolled once. Long. Hollow.
Not an alarm. Not a call to prayer.
Just a reminder that the night was far from over.