The following two weeks were a relentless whirlwind. Kaelen became her drillmaster, her co-conspirator, and her sanctuary all at once. Their private sessions moved from the library to his personal chambers, a space as severe and powerful as the man himself. There were no tapestries here, only maps and weapon racks, and a great window that looked out over the training yards.
He grilled her mercilessly. He played the part of a Southern duke, a visiting ambassador, a gossiping lady-in-waiting. He demanded she recite the lineage of every major Southern house, the terms of every minor treaty, the favorite poets, the secret scandals, the culinary preferences of the Veridian court.
Elara's mind, honed by years of meticulous transcription, proved to be a formidable vault. She recalled details she didn't even know she remembered: the name of Seraphine's first pony, the specific shade of lace she preferred on her gowns, the petty rivalry between the Duke of Pearlwater and the Countess of Rosewood over a prized chef. She learned to mimic the princess's slight lisp on certain syllables, her habit of tapping her third finger when bored, the particular way she held a fan to signal disdain.
Kaelen watched her transform, his golden eyes alight with a mixture of pride and fierce possession. "Again," he would say, when she flawlessly recounted a complex piece of political gossip. "You are not Elara. You are Seraphine. Believe it."
During these intense preparations, Theron was conspicuously absent. Kaelen had reassigned him to lead a prolonged patrol along the now-quiet Eastern border, a command that was both an honor and a deliberate exile. The wolf had been removed from the board, for now.
But the fox remained.
Lysander watched the increased closeness between King and Queen with the patience of a predator. He did not approach Elara directly again. Instead, he began to weave his web in the shadows. A carefully placed compliment about her "remarkable recovery" from her alleged dust allergy. A casual question to a courtier about whether the Princess's handwriting had changed since her arrival. He was gathering threads, preparing to stitch together a tapestry of doubt.
Five days before the delegation's arrival, Elara, desperate for a moment to breathe, retreated to the Royal Library. She sought not strategy, but solace in the familiar scent of parchment. She found herself drawn back to the alcove where she had discovered the book on the mate-bond.
To her surprise, a single scroll lay on the stone shelf where the codex had been. It was new, the parchment fresh, the ink dark. There was no seal, no identification. With a trembling hand, she unrolled it.
It was a list. Names. The members of the incoming Southern delegation. And beside each name, in a elegant, spidery script, was a note.
Lord Valerius: Proud, traditionalist. Suspects the alliance is a Northern ploy for Southern resources. Test the Princess on the "Golden Concord" of 312. Lady Beatrice: Seraphine's former governess. Sharp-eyed, deeply loyal. Watch for signs of recognition. She taught Seraphine an obscure finger-game called "Starfall." Sir Gideon: Young, ambitious. Had aspirations to court Seraphine himself. Likely to be resentful. Probe him about the "Midnight Hunt" at the last summer solstice.
The list went on, a devastatingly precise dossier of her enemies' strengths and weaknesses. It was a weapon. A gift.
And at the bottom of the scroll, a single, stylized drawing of a fox, its brushy tail curled around a single, sharp thorn.
Lysander.
He wasn't trying to expose her. He was arming her. The realization was more terrifying than any direct attack. What game was he playing? Why help the woman whose existence threatened to destabilize the very alliance he, as a courtier, should want to protect? Unless… unless he wanted the alliance to survive, but under his control. By providing her with the tools to succeed, he made her indebted to him. He was ensuring that when the dust settled, the new Dragon Queen would have a powerful, and compromising, ally in the Fox Clan.
It was a masterstroke. He was simultaneously protecting the kingdom (and his own position within it) and securing a hold over its future queen. He had seen Kaelen' favor shifting towards her and had decided to bet on the winning side, ensuring he held the reins.
Elara stared at the scroll, her mind reeling. She should burn it. She should take it to Kaelen. But she couldn't. The information was too valuable, too vital to her survival. To reject it would be suicide.
She had just accepted aid from the most duplicitous creature in the court. She had stepped into the spider's web, and the spider had not eaten her; he had offered her a thread to climb. She knew it was a trap, but with the abyss yawning beneath her, she had no choice but to take it.
She committed every word on the scroll to memory, then, with a final, lingering look at the thorn-pierced fox, she held the parchment over the flame of a glow-moss orb. It blackened and curled, turning to ash in her hands. The secret was now hers alone.
When she returned to her chambers, her heart was a frantic drum. She had Kaelen's fire and trust. She had Lysander's cunning and secrets. And she had the ghost of Theron's hatred waiting in the wings.
The Southern delegation was coming. And Elara, the scribe, the princess, the dragon's chosen mate, was now armed for war. The final act was about to begin.