The hall was colder than usual the next morning, though no one spoke of the draft.
Elinora could feel it in the way the court members shifted in their seats, their gazes darting toward the stranger who stood at the center of the chamber. Kaelen Nightblood didn’t appear unsettled by the attention; if anything, he seemed to thrive on it. His stance was loose, confident, his dark green cloak pooling around his boots.
The head elder’s voice broke the murmuring. “Kaelen Nightblood, you have come before this court claiming blood kinship to the girl known as Elinora. Do you have proof?”
Kaelen’s silver-flecked eyes slid to her. “I do.”
He reached into his cloak and withdrew a small, flat disk, no larger than a palm. It was carved from obsidian, its surface etched with the same curling sigils
