Blake POV
I don’t often admit when I’m wrong.
Not because I believe myself infallible—far from it—but because a lifetime under a crown teaches you that confession is currency. Every admission becomes leverage in someone else’s hand. Every moment of uncertainty becomes a hook. So you learn to hold your ground, even when the ground shifts beneath your feet.
Tonight, though, there is no mistaking it.
I was wrong.
The sitting room is quiet in that peculiar way only ancient places manage—stone warmed by fire, wards humming softly, the fortress breathing like a patient beast that has seen empires rise and rot. The four sit with me around the long table, their postures relaxed but their attention sharp. They are here because I finally did the one thing I should have done from the beginning.
