Arielle had never set foot in the capital, but she had studied its shape for years — in stolen letters, forgotten maps, whispered stories from passing traders who didn't know who she was.
The city was a contradiction: white stone towers above, rotting slums below. Prayer bells in the air, blood in the gutters. Power dressed in gold, but it walked on bones.
From her perch in the upper balcony of the Hall of Accord, she watched the kingdom's pulse in motion — four noble houses seated like lions in a cage, each pretending they didn't want to rip out the others' throats.
At the dais, King Maeric IV leaned forward on trembling hands. His voice cracked like dry paper. "The Veilfall grows near. We must root out any starborn blood before it takes root again."
Murmurs swept the chamber like wind through dead leaves.
Lord Raventhorn stood — all crimson and steel, the sun catching on the sigil of a burning sword at his chest.
"With respect, Your Majesty," he said, voice like iron scraped against stone, "House Raventhorn has already executed thirteen suspected starborn this month. If the rest of the realm had our resolve—"
"—the realm would burn itself hollow," interrupted Lady Therwin, folding her sea-blue sleeves. Her smile was all teeth. "Unless you plan to fight magic with torches and salt, perhaps we ought to learn from it, not slaughter it blindly."
Gasps. A dangerous silence.
Maeric's eyes narrowed. "Do I hear treason, my lady?"
"Of course not, my king," she said smoothly.
"Only strategy. Not all threats come with horns and glowing eyes."
Arielle watched from the shadows, unseen in her plain gray cloak, her eyes never still.
There it was — the shape of the court, the truth behind the masks.
House Raventhorn bathed in flame and righteousness, but starved for power.
House Therwin, sly and calculating, always playing two sides of a coin.
House Calreth sat silent, but their scribes took notes on everything.
And House Veylan — her house — didn't even have a seat anymore.
Her stomach twisted. Not with grief. With purpose.
In the far corner, a priest of the Inquisition leaned to whisper in the king's ear. His robes were pure white, but the shadows around him bent oddly. Arielle couldn't hear the words, but she didn't need to.
Something was coming. And it would not be clean.