The council chamber was colder than the rest of the citadel—a circular hall of dark stone and high windows that cut the daylight into hard, thin blades. Twelve council members sat in a semicircle, robes heavy with insignia, gazes heavier still.
When Elena entered at Soren's side, the air shifted.
Not in surprise.
In fear.
It hit her like a cold current—an entire chamber holding its breath because the man beside her had walked in. Claire had warned her they feared him. Elena had not understood how deeply until now.
Soren moved with a quiet that felt dangerous. His hand hovered near her back—not touching, but occupying the space like a silent wall of heat and threat.
Elena : Excellent. Nothing says "comforting work environment" like twelve politicians panicking because you brought your personal murder-prince.
Lord Eraven rose first. Tall. Bold and thin. Arrogance sharpened to a point.
"Your Highness," he began, "we must address the matter of the foreign woman you've brought into the citadel."
Soren did not respond. His silence was a blade placed deliberately between them.
Elena's brain: Oh no. The quiet thing. The quiet thing is worse than the sword thing.
Eraven continued, swallowing. "Her presence is… troubling. No lineage. No record. No proof of her abilities."
A whisper rippled through the council.
"Her skill in the infirmary was unnatural."
"Impossible."
"Dangerous."
Elena felt like an artifact someone had unearthed and immediately regretted touching.
Fantastic. First week here and she was already a national security risk. Ten out of ten.
Eraven straightened. "She should be examined. If necessary—"
Soren's head tilted the slightest degree.
Predatory. Precise. Elena's stomach flipped. Whatever was coming, she did not want it.
"—restrained," Eraven finished weakly.
The room snapped with tension.
Then Soren moved. Not a step. Not a stride.
A sudden, controlled violence.
His hand shot out, seized the heavy wooden chair beside Eraven, and hurled it across the room. It hit the stone wall with explosive force, splintering into a shower of shards.
Several councilors screamed. Claire flinched. Elena's heart ricocheted into her throat.
Her internal voice: Oh look. Diplomacy via interior design destruction. Bold, bold choice.
Soren stepped through the debris, boots grinding wood to dust. He grabbed Eraven by the front of his robe and lifted him off the floor. With one hand. Like Eraven weighed nothing.
Eraven's feet kicked helplessly.
"Restrain her?" Soren snarled, voice low and lethal. "You cannot stand beneath my hand without trembling."
"Your High—" Eraven choked.
Soren slammed him harder against the wall.
Elena stumbled a step backward. Fear spiked up her spine, hot and sharp. Rational fear. Human fear. This man could collapse a room without raising his voice.
Another councilor stood halfway. "This is—"
Soren snapped his free hand outward. He didn't touch the councilor, didn't even come close—but the man's staff flew from his grip and clattered across the floor.
"Sit," Soren growled.
One word. Cold. Absolute.
The councilor dropped into his chair like gravity had doubled.
Eraven gagged, voice cracking. "Please—"
"You will not touch her," Soren said, his voice dropping to something far more terrifying. "You will not question her rights."
He leaned in close, eyes dark and merciless.
"You will not look at her as though she is something you may cage."
Silence consumed the chamber. No one breathed. No one dared.
Elena's mind scrambled: Okay so… this is terrifying. On my behalf. Which is… sweet? No—terrifying. Very terrifying. Sweet adjacent? No. Focus.
"Enough, Soren."
Claire's voice sliced the tension.
He didn't release Eraven.
"Soren," she repeated, sharper. "Put him down."
A long moment stretched, taut as wire.
Then Soren let go.
Eraven collapsed to the floor, gasping, scrambling away like a man who had just touched lightning.
Soren stepped back, chest rising in slow, controlled breaths. Rage burned beneath his skin like embers refusing to cool.
He rolled his shoulders once. Reining himself in took effort.
He lifted his gaze—
And met Elena's.
Her breath caught.
He searched her face for fear. He found it.
She didn't hide it. She couldn't. For one awful, suspended second, Elena wondered if her fear hurt him—or fueled him.
Claire's hand slid around Elena's arm, grounding her.
Soren's eyes flicked to the touch. Something darkened in them. Not anger—something sharper. Possessive. Foreign. Too complicated for her to name.
"Her presence here is not up for discussion," he told the council, voice cold but controlled. "Elena remains under my protection."
His jaw flexed.
"And my patience for your insolence is gone."
The council bowed with trembling reverence.
Claire's grip tightened. "Come, Elena. You shouldn't stay."
Elena didn't argue. She couldn't. Claire guided her toward the door.
But Elena felt it—
Soren's attention, heavy and tracking every step she took. A weight on her back, like a tether she couldn't see and wasn't sure she wanted.
She didn't dare look at him.
She already knew:whatever had happened here today—whatever truth she had just glimpsed—Soren was not simply a protector.
He was a danger shaped like a man.
And she was standing far too close to him.
Also—and this was deeply inconvenient—her stupid heart had the audacity to think:
Great. Perfect. Amazing. I'm catching feelings for a man who throws furniture when irritated. Excellent life choices, Elena. Truly thriving.