The council chamber was colder tonight.
Not from draft or storm—the palace stones never shivered—but from the people inside it.
Red sat beneath the Sunantler banners, hands folded loosely on the table before him. He had lived through interrogation rooms colder than this. But then, interrogation rooms didn't wear velvet and jewels while sharpening daggers behind smiles.
The nobles had gathered in force, their voices cutting sharper than steel.
"Bylon's hand is clear," Lady Corna declared. Her fan snapped shut like a blade, her smile coy but her eyes flashing with heat. "An assassin bearing a Bylon-made herb? What more proof do we need? This is war. We must march now, before hesitation emboldens them."
Murmurs rose across the benches. Some nods. Some frowns. The chamber was restless, teetering like a coin on its edge.
Baram leaned forward, broad shoulders heavy in his armor. "Proof? A handful of leaves?" His voice didn't rise, but it rolled through the chamber like thunder anyway. "We do not commit Arleina's sons and daughters to graves on 'likely.' I will not waste soldiers' lives on smoke and guesswork."
Corna tilted her head, fan brushing her cheek in feigned thought. "How like a soldier, to confuse decisiveness with recklessness. The enemy moves against us. Delay, and you invite another blade into the prince's chamber."
Her words fell like embers. Every noble felt the heat.
Red said nothing. He let his crimson gaze slide between them, reading the room like a cipher. Too many were leaning toward Corna. She was winning them with fear. Fear was easy. Reliable.
Then Cerana Corvale leaned forward, voice as sweet as the wine in her jeweled cup. "Perhaps we are thinking too broadly. The question is not only about war." She let the words drip, each measured, slow. Then her dark eyes flicked to Red. "The question is loyalty."
The chamber stilled.
Cerana smiled faintly, her fan half-shielding her lips, gaze fixed on him. "Tell me, Your Highness. Where does your loyalty lie? With Arleina? With the Goddess? With… yourself?"
It was a test, and a trap both. A flirtation laced with poison. The nobles leaned in, hungry for his slip.
Red met her gaze evenly. A spy never showed the crack, even when the floor gave way beneath him. "I stand where Arleina stands," he said. "And I'll fight whoever threatens her. But a spy taught me something once." He let his tone flatten, cold and steady. "An accusation isn't proof. Proof comes from the field, not a perfume vial."
That shifted the room. A ripple of murmurs, uneasy, uncertain.
Brayl rose, her robes brushing stone. She carried a folded cloth, unwrapping it carefully before the council's eyes. Inside lay sprigs of pale green, dried but fragrant.
"This," she said, voice crisp, "is mora leaf. Commonly used in Bylon's luxury trade—perfumes, incense, teas. The sample we recovered from the assassin's satchel matches Bylon export strains precisely. I traced its scent to caravans along the southern passes. No other region in Arleina cultivates this plant."
She set it on the table. The scent drifted, subtle, cloying, an invisible thread tying the chamber to the foreign markets of Bylon.
Corna pounced. "There! Trade routes. Caravans. Bylon's hand, plain as dawn. How much longer will we pretend?"
Baram's gauntlet tightened on the table. "Trade does not prove intent. Any smuggler can carry leaf. Any peddler can line pockets. If we march, we give Bylon the excuse they may be waiting for."
The chamber erupted again, half in agreement, half in outrage.
Red listened. Calculated. His ribs still ached from the duel, his hands still remembered the Alside's warmth. He couldn't afford another fight of steel. But this was worse. Every word was a blade, and one wrong answer would cut deeper than any spear.
He let the nobles clash until the noise peaked. Then, softly, he cut through.
"Why must it be war or silence?"
Heads turned.
Red leaned forward slightly, eyes cool, voice measured. "Arleina does not need to charge blindly or cower quietly. We need facts. If Bylon's hand is behind the assassin, then we bring proof home. Not whispers. Not perfume. Proof."
Some nobles frowned. Others leaned closer, listening.
He pressed on. "Send a delegation. To Bylon. Public, official. Let them welcome us, or betray themselves. If they have nothing to hide, we return with peace. If they move against us, we catch them in the open. Either way, we control the board—not them."
Silence. Then the whisper spread like a tide.
"A delegation…""…fact-finding, yes…""…safer than war…"
Corna's eyes narrowed. She hadn't expected the boy to seize the center.
Cerana tilted her head, lips curling behind her fan. "And who," she purred, "would you send, Your Highness?"
Red didn't flinch. "Me."
The chamber froze.
Gasps. A cough. One lord muttered, "Insanity."
Baram's eyes cut to him sharply, a storm in their weight. "A prince does not walk into enemy hands lightly."
Red met his gaze. "A prince doesn't hide when his people are threatened, either."
For a moment, the chamber held its breath. Then one by one, the nods began.
Some reluctant. Some eager. Some calculating how best to use his risk for their gain.
But it was enough.
The herald's staff struck the floor. "The council votes. By majority, Arleina shall send a delegation to Bylon—led by Prince Alzein."
The echoes rang like a verdict.
[Quest Update: Diplomatic Gamble]Objective: Lead the delegation to Bylon.Failure = Capture / Death / WarReward = Political Standing + Hidden Paths
Red lowered his gaze slightly, concealing the twist of unease in his chest. He had bought time. Shaped the game.
But spies knew too well: sometimes walking into the enemy's court was safer than staying home.
Because in Arleina, the knives behind smiles were already aimed at his back.