Elara sat by the window, the pressed flower from Draven's book cradled in her palm, its fragile petals a stark contrast to the pendant's glowing gem at her throat. The northern winds howled outside, rattling the glass, but the warmth of Draven's touch lingered in her memory. The hunt and the Hall of Ancestors had woven a fragile thread of trust, yet the weight of her deception pressed harder with each passing hour. She had to make him love her, to shield her family from Cedric's blade, but the court's hidden currents—hinted at by Torin—threatened to unravel her carefully spun lie.
A knock shattered her thoughts. Sylvi entered, her cat-like eyes narrowing. "The king summons you to the great hall. A council meeting awaits." Her tone carried an edge, as if she sensed the storm brewing. Elara nodded, adjusting the green gown, its silver embroidery catching the torchlight as she followed Sylvi through the castle's labyrinthine corridors.
The great hall buzzed with tension, its high ceiling lost in shadow, the air thick with the scent of burning herbs and steel. Draven sat at the head of a long table, his presence commanding silence. Around him were northern lords—some human, others with clawed hands or glowing eyes—their gazes shifting between respect and suspicion. A woman with raven hair and a scar across her cheek, Lady Veyra, leaned forward, her voice sharp. "The southern alliance weakens, my king. Whispers say their princess is unfit—too frail for our lands."
Elara's stomach tightened. The words were a dagger, aimed at her fabricated title. She stepped forward, forcing a regal poise. "I've proven my strength," she said, her voice steady despite the tremor within. "The demon hunt stands as witness." Her mind raced, recalling the branch trick, the praise it had earned.
Draven's golden eyes flicked to her, a flicker of pride breaking his stoic mask. "She fought beside me," he said, his voice a rumble that silenced the hall. "Her courage is no lie." The lords murmured, some nodding, but Veyra's scowl deepened.
"Yet rumors persist," she pressed. "A southern spy claims the princess's blood is… questionable. We need proof of her lineage." Her gaze bore into Elara, a challenge laced with malice.
Elara's heart pounded, the lie teetering on the edge of collapse. She glanced at Draven, searching for support, but his expression hardened, the weight of his duty surfacing. "Proof will be sought," he said, his tone final. "Until then, she is my queen."
The meeting adjourned, but the air remained charged. As the lords dispersed, Torin approached, his grizzled face grim. "Watch Veyra," he muttered. "She's got allies—nobles who'd see a weaker king. Your hunt won you time, but they'll dig." His warning lingered as he melted into the crowd.
Elara returned to her chamber, the pendant feeling like a noose. She needed to counter this threat, to solidify Draven's love before the truth emerged. That evening, a feast was held, the hall filled with the clink of goblets and the low hum of conversation. Draven sat beside her, his hand occasionally brushing hers, a silent reassurance. She seized the moment, leaning close. "Tell me of your court's history," she said, her voice soft. "I want to understand your burdens."
He hesitated, then spoke of past betrayals—lords who'd allied with demons, a queen poisoned for her human blood. "Trust is rare here," he admitted, his fingers tracing the table's edge. "But you… you've given me hope."
Her chest ached with guilt, but she pressed on, weaving a tale of her "childhood"—a princess learning diplomacy, adapted from village barter lessons. Draven listened, his eyes softening, and she felt the bond tighten. Yet, across the hall, Veyra watched, her scar twisting with a sneer.
After the feast, Draven escorted her to a balcony overlooking the misty valley, the night alive with harpy calls. "You handle the court well," he said, his voice low. "But Veyra's challenge… it stirs old wounds." He turned to her, his hand cupping her cheek, the heat of his scales a stark contrast to the cold air. "I need you, Elara. Not just as a bride, but as my partner."
Her breath caught, his words a step toward love. "I'll stand with you," she whispered, leaning into his touch, her lips brushing his jaw in a daring move. His eyes darkened, a hunger flickering, but he pulled back, the moment fragile.
"We must be cautious," he said, his voice rough. "The court will test us."
Back in her chamber, Elara paced, the flower and pendant her only companions. Veyra's threat was real, and Torin's hint of division offered a chance. She needed allies, information—perhaps from the dungeon guards or Sylvi. A shadow moved outside—Sylvi again?—and Elara's mind raced. If she could expose Veyra's plot, it might buy time. But the risk of discovery grew, and with it, the fear that Draven's love might not survive her truth.
The next morning, she sought Torin in the lower halls, finding him near the dungeon. "Tell me of Veyra's allies," she urged, keeping her voice low.
He grunted, glancing around. "She's got Lord Kaelth—controls the mines—and a demon pact-breaker, Rukar. They want Draven weakened, a puppet king. Prove their treachery, and you'll turn the court." His eyes narrowed. "But move fast."
Elara nodded, her plan forming. She'd need evidence, a way to infiltrate their circle. That night, she approached Draven again, her resolve steeled. "I've heard whispers of unrest," she said, her hand on his arm. "Let me help you uncover it."
He studied her, then nodded. "Together, then. But beware—the court is a den of shadows." His hand covered hers, a pact sealed, and Elara felt the thread of love strengthen—yet the shadow of her lie loomed larger, a storm waiting to break.