The last of the councilmen bowed their way out of the hall, their robes whispering over the marble. When the doors closed, the sound of silence filled the vast chamber again-dense, deliberate silence, the kind her father seemed to command as easily as soldiers.
Elyon stood a few steps below the dais, uncertain whether she was dismissed or detained. Her father was still seated, his fingers pressed together in thought.
"Remain," he said finally, without looking at her.
The word froze her mid-step.
She lowered her head. "Yes, Father."
Roland rose from his throne, the steel of his boots scraping faintly against the stone. "Do you know what weakness looks like, Elyon?" he asked as he descended the steps toward her.
She hesitated. "Fear, perhaps?"
He shook his head. "Compassion."
Her heart faltered. "Is compassion a weakness?"
"It blinds reason. A ruler who feels too much cannot rule at all." He stopped before her, his shadow long and sharp under the torchlight. "You must learn this, for your own sake. You embarrassed me today in court."
"I-" She caught herself. "I did not speak, Father."
"Exactly." His gaze hardened. "Your silence spoke for you. It said you doubted me. Pity is betrayal when it favors those who break the law."
Elyon's lips parted, but no words came. Her father's tone allowed none.
He turned and began to pace, his hands clasped behind his back. "Still, there is something that may yet redeem your hesitation. Nitchgard's stability depends not only on the sword, but on alliance. Ludia has long sought our favor, and it is time we accepted their hand."
Elyon's stomach tightened. "Their hand?"
"Tomorrow night's gathering-the ball of union," Roland said. "It will not only mark a treaty between our kingdoms. It will mark your engagement to Crown Prince William of Ludia."
The words struck her like a sudden blow. "Engagement?"
"An arrangement most beneficial to both realms," he continued, unmoved. "You will secure our peace with your obedience."
Elyon took a step forward. "But Father, I-I hardly know him."
"You will," Roland said curtly. "And you will conduct yourself as a true daughter of the crown-composed, dutiful, silent when silence is wiser than words."
She could hear the echo of his dictum in every corridor of her memory. Discipline is the blood of order.
Her voice came out small. "Do I have no say in this?"
He looked at her then, really looked. The sharpness in his eyes softened for the briefest instant-almost human, almost paternal. Then it was gone.
"Say?" he echoed. "A princess has no need for opinions. Only purpose."
Elyon swallowed the rising ache in her throat. She wanted to ask him why her life had to be another treaty, another bargain struck with her freedom. But she already knew the answer: because she was his daughter, and daughters were pieces on the board of kings.
Roland returned to his throne. "You may go. The tailors will attend you this evening to prepare your gown. You will wear Ludian silk-it pleases their court."
Elyon curtsied low, her face a mask of obedience. "As you command, Father."
When she turned to leave, his voice followed her-quiet, but edged like a blade.
"Do not disappoint me again, Elyon. You are my last chance to prove that mercy has no place in power."
The great doors shut behind her with a heavy thud.
In the empty corridor, Elyon pressed a trembling hand against her chest. Her heart felt like a bird fluttering against the bars of a gilded cage.
Her reflection in the polished wall lantern flickered again-gold light shivering across her features as if something deep within her stirred in protest.
Purpose, she thought bitterly. Is that all I am to him?
The flame inside the lantern swelled suddenly, flaring brighter than it should have. Elyon gasped and stepped back. The light steadied, calm again, as if pretending innocence.
She looked around-no one had seen.
"Stay quiet," she whispered to the air. "Please, not now."
And the palace swallowed her voice whole.