The meeting in the Hall of Defense ended as it always did: with the silence of men who agree for lack of a better alternative.
Twelve councilors left, carrying folders and concerns.
Six remained. The hard core.
The room smelled of expensive cigars and aged leather.
Valerius Seravel, the grandfather, stayed at the head of the table, pouring himself a measure of brandy. Beside him sat Nussion—former Supreme General, now retired, though his dry cough could still paralyze entire regiments. Two other white-haired men with limitless influence, Lord Crassus and the Minister of Commerce, completed the circle around the fireplace.
And, of course, the two cousins.
Elion, seated at the far end, looked out of place—too young among those relics of power.
Aurelian stood by the window, hands clasped behind his back, watching the training yard.
"The northern border is pacified for now," Nussion said, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "You should decide all of this on your own, Aurelian. No one here argues with you. No one contradicts you. It's a tedious monologue."
Aurelian didn't turn.
"Contradiction without foundation is noise, Nussion. I eliminate noise."
Valerius let out a rough laugh, breaking the tension.
"Then bring my granddaughter-in-law in here. Elion's wife."
Aurelian's shoulders stiffened—just barely.
Elion lifted his head, alert.
"She doesn't just contradict you," Valerius went on, a thin, amused smile on his lips, "she leaves you speechless. I saw it happen yesterday at lunch. It was… refreshing."
Nussion raised a gray eyebrow, intrigued.
"Are you serious? An elf leaving General Seravel at a loss for words?"
Aurelian turned slowly. He looked at his grandfather with a mix of respect and irritation, exhaling a quiet, controlled breath.
"Yes," Aurelian admitted. The word came out dry. "She has… strong opinions."
"Structured opinions," Valerius corrected. "She dismantled the logic of the Property Law in three sentences, Nussion. Very abolitionist ideas. Quite similar to yours, old friend. Perhaps even more practical."
Valerius pointed his glass toward the retired general.
"You've been complaining that your Department of Social Integration is a nest of slow bureaucrats. You could call her in."
Elion stood abruptly, his chair scraping the floor.
"No, Grandfather. Keep Lyra away from politics."
The old men looked at Elion as if he were a child interrupting grown-ups.
"Politics is what we breathe, boy," Crassus said. "If she has a brain, it's a waste to leave her embroidering tablecloths."
"I might try to keep her away from politics," Elion said, his voice rising, "but she needs peace. She just got back from a trip. She's recovering—"
"She's already involved, Elion. Without me saying a word."
Aurelian's voice cut through the room—cold, precise.
Elion turned to his cousin, betrayed.
"It was just a trip, Aurelian. To take the refugees home. A humanitarian gesture."
"Humanitarian?" Aurelian walked to the table, bracing his hands against the solid wood. "She organized the transport logistics of thirty undocumented refugees, negotiated the route with Valen's Institute, and ensured the ship returned with commercial cargo so as not to raise suspicion from the Harbor Guard."
He looked at Nussion.
"She solved in two days what your department takes four months to plan."
An impressed silence settled over the room.
Aurelian wasn't praising her morals. He was praising her efficiency. And in Aurelian's language, that was the highest praise possible.
Nussion gave a low whistle.
"Impressive. Perhaps I really should speak with this girl."
"No," Elion insisted, but now his voice sounded weak against the wall of approval from the elders.
Valerius burst into laughter, slapping the table.
"There it is! New blood. Chaos is good for the system sometimes."
The grandfather looked at Aurelian with a mischievous gleam in his eyes.
"And you, Aurelian? When are you going to find yourself a woman? I expect you to give me a granddaughter like that too. Someone with the courage to tell you you're wrong."
Aurelian felt a bitter taste rise in his mouth.
He glanced at Elion, who looked pale and defensive.
"I don't need someone to tell me I'm wrong, Grandfather," Aurelian replied, adjusting his cufflinks, already preparing to leave. "I need things to work."
"It's the same thing, my boy," Valerius shot back, draining his glass. "Exactly the same thing."
Aurelian left the room without answering.
In the corridor, the echo of the old men's laughter followed him.
They wanted him to find a woman like Lyra.
The problem—one none of them knew—was that the only woman like Lyra
was already busy rearranging his mind.