Court began with steel striking stone.
Guards crossed halberds at the entrance to the great hall, the echo climbing into vaulted arches painted the color of night.
Constellations shimmered across the domed ceiling—silver leaf pressed into indigo plaster—so that even indoors Rowan stood beneath its stars.
Alara entered through the eastern passage reserved for council and record.
The hall was already filling. Nobles in layered silk and embroidered velvet lined two long rows flanking the central aisle, their colors forming a restrained but deliberate spectrum: deep blues of coastal lords, forest greens of inland houses, muted crimson of the southern dukedoms. Gold thread caught candlelight and returned it in quiet flashes. Their murmurs blended into a low, shifting current.
At the far end rose the dais.
Three shallow steps of white stone lifted the royal seats above the floor. Behind them hung Rowan's crest at full scale—the crowned sword dividing its shield of stars. It loomed not as ornament, but as verdict.
King Alistair sat at the center.
Broad-shouldered, iron-gray at the temples, his posture held disciplined even in stillness. The crown upon his head was angular and deliberate, echoing the sword upon the banner behind him. His expression was carved from patience and calculation in equal measure. He did not fidget. He did not whisper. When petitioners approached, his gaze fixed upon them with an intensity that made some falter mid-step.
At his right sat Queen Ellena.
Where the king was granite, she was polished marble—composed, luminous, watchful. Her deep green gown shimmered subtly as she moved, stitched with fine gold patterns reminiscent of branching constellations. Pale waves of hair fell over her shoulders, a slender circlet resting at her brow. She rarely spoke during petition, but when she did, her voice carried cleanly to the farthest column.
To the king's left sat Prince Caspian.
Twenty-one. Clad in blue darker than the midnight crest, gold embroidery traced the sigils and stars of Rowan's line. A sword rested at his hip—not ceremonial. Sun-touched hair fell unruly over his brow, softening little of the sharpness in his eyes. He leaned forward as each petitioner approached, attentive, assessing. He did not yet wear a crown, but authority already sat easily across his shoulders.
Beside him, Princess Lila held herself in rigid composure.
Fourteen, dark-haired and bright-eyed, her hands folded precisely in her lap. A thin silver circlet rested upon her brow, delicate as starlight. She watched everything—the nobles, the villagers, her brother. Alara noted how often the girl's gaze flicked toward the historian's table, as if already measuring how moments became memory.
At the base of the dais, slightly to the right, sat the Royal Historian.
Master Oren Vale.
His hair, once dark, had surrendered to silver, tied neatly at the nape of his neck. His mantle bore the embroidered sigil of stacked books in gold thread—the mark of his office. Before him stretched a narrow table, ink pots anchored in carved grooves, parchment stacked in disciplined order.
Alara took her place at his left.
No sigil marked her seat, yet space was always left for it.
Oren did not look at her as she settled. "You are punctual," he murmured, dipping quill to ink.
"I am always punctual," Alara replied.
A faint hum of amusement left him, though his eyes never lifted.
The first petitioner was announced.
A miller from the northern outskirts knelt at the center of the aisle, cap twisted in his hands, voice trembling as he spoke of flood-ruined grain stores and winter shortages.
Oren's quill moved without pause, capturing each word in elegant script. When the miller finished, the king asked measured questions. The queen inquired after neighboring villages. The prince requested clarification on supply routes.
Temporary relief was granted. An overseer dispatched.
Oren completed the final line with a practiced flick and, without looking, extended the parchment.
Alara accepted it at once.
Names. Dates. Terms granted.
She marked the upper corner with a precise symbol denoting provisional decree and placed it in the left-hand stack.
Archive.
The next petitioner approached—a lesser lord requesting adjustment of river tariffs. Then a duke disputing border jurisdiction. A widow pleading for intervention against a predatory steward. Each voice rose into the vaulted chamber and was captured in ink.
Oren wrote everything.
Every petition. Every royal question. Every hesitation before an answer.
When space ran thin, he sanded the page, shook it clean, and passed it to her.
She sorted without pause.
Archive.
Review.
Archive.
Review.
The right-hand stack—the one destined for the king—grew more slowly but carried greater weight: treasury matters, military levies, diplomatic response. Those required private examination before seal.
At one point, Prince Caspian's gaze drifted toward the historian's table.
It lingered briefly on Alara.
Not long enough to draw notice. Long enough to register awareness.
She did not return the look. Her attention remained on the parchment before her, though she felt the scrutiny settle and withdraw.
By midmorning, the hall had grown warm. The scent of wax and wool thickened. Nobles shifted as peasants gave way to titled men with sharper demands and smoother phrasing.
A duke of the western coast knelt, requesting expanded naval authority "in light of recent uncertainties."
The phrase was carefully chosen.
Alara's fingers stilled over the parchment.
Maritime authority.
The Chancellor's earlier request brushed the edge of her thoughts.
Oren's quill scratched steadily.
When the duke finished, the king's response was measured, noncommittal. The prince asked two pointed questions regarding fleet numbers. The queen observed the duke as one might assess a chess piece for range.
The matter was deferred.
Review.
Alara placed the parchment atop the king's stack.
Court stretched on until the final petitioner—a farmer scarcely older than Princess Lila—rose with tearful gratitude over a resolved land dispute.
Silence followed his departure.
King Alistair stood.
The movement alone stilled the chamber.
"Court is concluded."
The words were not loud. They were absolute.
Nobles rose. Guards struck steel once more. The royal family withdrew through the archway behind the dais, velvet and steel vanishing beyond carved doors.
Only then did Alara stand.
She gathered the two stacks—review balanced atop archive—and ascended the three white steps toward the vacant seats. At the central chair, she placed the review parchments upon the carved armrest table reserved for such matters.
The king would find them in his private chamber.
Precise. Ordered. Unaltered.
She descended and returned to Oren's side. He was already sealing the final transcript roll.
"Anything of note?" he asked quietly.
"There is always something of note," she replied.
A pause.
"And today?"
Her gaze lifted briefly to the great banner—the crowned sword dividing its stars.
"The sea is being measured."
Oren's mouth curved faintly. "Is it."
He handed her the bound transcript.
Together, they turned toward the shadowed corridor leading to the archives—where words, once spoken, hardened into permanence.
Above them, painted stars watched in silent configuration.
Court had ended.
The record had begun.