The chamber fell into stunned silence at Halric's words.
Baron Garrick Hollowmere was the first to speak, his voice sharp as a blade.
"Your son? Deylan is barely of age. He has no experience in governance, no command of armies, no claim to the throne. This is nothing but a thin veil for your own ambition."
Halric's smile did not falter. "He is young, yes. But youth is not weakness — it is renewal. The people will see in him a fresh dawn, untainted by Lucan's tyranny. And he will not rule alone. The Regency Council will guide him."
Lady Virelle's eyes narrowed, her tone dripping with disdain. "Guide him? Or control him? We all know whose hand will truly rest on the throne."
Lord Verran of Stormhollow leaned forward, his rings glinting in the pale light. "Better a boy Regent with wise counsel than a kingdom torn apart by rebellion. The treasury bleeds already. The merchants demand stability. I cast my support for Deylan."
Lady Sareth, the High Magister, inclined her head. "And the prophecy speaks of renewal. A young Regent fits the narrative far better than another iron-fisted king. I too support this."
"Duke Rensic Albrecht isn't here," Baron Garrick observed, his voice calm but edged. His gaze swept the chamber, lingering on the empty chair marked with the sigil of the North. "Was he informed of this meeting? As Northern Warden, his presence is expected."
Halric did not look up from the scroll in his hand. "According to his informant, he has ridden to search for His Majesty himself."
A ripple of unease passed through the chamber.
Lady Virelle leaned back in her chair, fingers steepled beneath her chin. "How convenient," she murmured. "The one man who might challenge your authority is conveniently absent. And his informant, of course, reports directly to you."
Halric's gaze lifted slowly, his expression unreadable. "Are you implying something, Lady Virelle?"
"I don't imply," she said coolly. "I observe. And I find it curious that Duke Rensic vanished just as you began laying the foundation for a regency."
Baron Garrick cleared his throat, his tone clipped. "We all know Rensic has little taste for court politics. But he is no fool. If he suspected foul play, he would return with proof."
Halric's expression did not shift. "Then let him return. Until he does, the realm cannot wait."
Garrick's eyes narrowed. "You speak of urgency, yet you move with precision. As though this moment was not thrust upon you, but prepared."
Halric stepped away from the table, his cloak trailing behind him like smoke. "Prepared? No. Anticipated? Certainly. A king who vanishes without a trace, a prophecy fulfilled in blood, and a realm teetering on chaos — it would be negligence not to act."
Virelle's voice cut through the chamber like a blade. "Or opportunism."
Halric turned to her, his smile thin and sharp. "You mistake decisiveness for ambition."
Baron Garrick rose from his seat, slow and deliberate, his gaze fixed on Halric. "And you mistake silence for consent."
The chamber grew taut, the air heavy with division.
Halric's gaze swept the table, calculating. "Then let us put it to vote. Those in favor of Deylan of Veymar as Regent, raise your hand."
Lord Verran's hand rose first, steady and certain. Lady Sareth's followed, her jeweled fingers glinting in the candlelight. One by one, ministers lifted their hands — some eager, others hesitant, but all unwilling to stand against Halric's growing shadow.
"Those opposed?" Garrick's voice rang out. His hand lifted, joined swiftly by Virelle's.
But they were too few.
Halric's smile widened, cold and triumphant. "The majority is clear. The Regency shall be formed, and my son, Deylan of Veymar, will serve as Regent."
The decision struck like a hammer. Garrick's jaw tightened. Virelle's eyes burned with quiet fury. But the chamber had spoken.
Outside, the bells of Velmoria tolled — not for mourning, but for the rise of a new power.
---------------
The council chamber had emptied, but the echoes of the vote still clung to the air like smoke.
Baron Garrick Hollowmere moved through the dim corridors of the palace, his steps measured, his expression carved from stone. He pushed open the door to a small council antechamber, where Lady Virelle of Caerwyn was already waiting. She stood by the window, the moonlight catching the sharp angles of her face.
"So," she said without turning, her voice low and edged with bitterness. "The boy Regent. Deylan of Veymar. And behind him, his father's hand on every string."
Garrick closed the door softly. "The vote was decided before it began. Verran and Sareth were never going to break from Halric. The others followed like sheep."
Virelle turned, her eyes glinting. "And now the realm belongs to him. Not to Deylan — to Halric."
Garrick's jaw tightened. "He's clever. By putting his son forward, he avoids the stain of usurpation. To the people, it looks like renewal. To the council, it looks like compromise. But we both know what it truly is."
"A coronation in disguise," Virelle finished.
Silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken truths.
At last, Garrick spoke again, his voice low. "We cannot oppose him openly. Not yet. He has the treasury, the magisters, and now the council's blessing. But his foundation is not as strong as he believes."
Virelle's lips curved into a thin smile. "Rensic."
Garrick nodded. "If the Northern Warden returns, he could rally the lords who still hold loyalty to Lucan's line. And if his majesty is still alive…"
"Then Halric's regency will crumble," Virelle finished, her tone sharp with certainty.
She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "We must move carefully. My spies will track Rensic's movements. If he lives, I will find him. Let us pray that the Saintess is not alive because Halric will use her to his favor for His majesty."
Garrick inclined his head. "Then we are agreed. We bide our time, gather our strength, and wait for the moment to strike."
Virelle's eyes gleamed in the moonlight. "Halric thinks he has won. Let him. The higher he climbs, the further he will fall."
----------
That night, Elira lay awake on the narrow bed, staring at the ceiling. The room was dark, the only light the faint glow of the moon spilling through the cracked windowpane. Shadows stretched across the walls like silent watchers, unmoving and cold.
Lucan's breathing filled the silence — steady, measured, almost mechanical. He hadn't spoken since the chapel. He hadn't needed to. His silence was louder than any threat, heavier than any blade.
Elira shifted beneath the thin blanket, her body aching from the day's march and the weight of everything she couldn't explain. Her ankle throbbed, but she barely noticed. Pain was familiar. It was the unreality of it all that gnawed at her.
She closed her eyes, but her mind refused to rest. It spun, not just around Lucan's trembling grip or the way her touch had calmed the beast — but around everything. The moment it had all begun.
The title had appeared on her phone screen like a whisper from another world: The Ash and Vengeance. A novel she hadn't opened yet. Just a tap away. Then the invitation — cryptic, pulsing with strange energy. And then… nothing. A void where memories of him. A plunge into silver light. The lake. The cold. The unfamiliar sky.
She remembered waking on the shore, soaked and breathless, with no memory of how she'd arrived. The world had felt too vivid, too sharp. Like fiction made flesh.
And then the prophecy.
The Saintess. That was what they called her. Mistaken identity, they said. Or fate. She didn't know which was worse. She hadn't asked for power. She hadn't asked for anything. But something inside her had awakened — a light that burst forth in moments of fear, a force she couldn't name.
Lucan had seen it. Felt it. Clung to it.
She turned her head slightly, just enough to glimpse him in the moonlight.
He sat in the corner, still armored, his cloak draped over his shoulders like a mantle of shadow. His sword lay across his lap, one hand curled around the hilt. Not asleep. Not relaxed. Just waiting.
He hadn't removed a single piece of gear. Not even his gauntlets. As if he feared what might happen if he let himself rest.
She remembered the desperation in his voice, the way he'd whispered her name like it was the last thing tethering him to sanity. She had seen something in his eyes then — something raw, something human. And then it was gone. Buried beneath command and coldness.
Useful. That was the word he'd used.
Not ally. Not companion. Not even prisoner.
Just useful.
Elira rolled onto her side, facing away from him. Her fingers curled into the blanket, nails digging into the fabric. She hated the way he looked at her — like she was a key to a door he couldn't open alone. Like she was a weapon he hadn't yet figured out how to wield.
She hated that she didn't know what she was becoming.
And more than anything, she hated the quiet, impossible thought that crept into her mind: What if this is the novel?
What if she hadn't just read The Ash and Vengeance — what if she'd fallen into it?
The prophecy. The power. The silver lake. Lucan's vulnerability. It all felt too precise, too orchestrated. Like chapters unfolding around her.
She didn't know how she'd ended up here. She didn't know what the story wanted from her.
But she knew one thing.
She feared it.