The council moved quietly.
Too quietly.
No horns.
No public summons.
No panicked messengers racing the halls.
Only sealed doors, whispered orders, and the steady hum of old wards being rewritten beneath the keep.
From the Queen’s Prison, I felt every alteration like a finger tracing a new fault line beneath my skin.
They were preparing the path.
Not to defend.
To deliver.
The ancient presence coiled in my veins with soft, satisfied amusement.
They think they are bargaining with Frostclaw, it murmured. But they are only borrowing the attention of beings far less patient.
“I told you,” I whispered into the stone. “No surprises. I walk into this with my eyes open.”
You will, it agreed. They will not.
Myra returned at dusk.
This time, she brought the guards.
Six of them.
Elite
