The air in Aethelgard grew thick with anticipation, a palpable tension that coiled in every corridor and courtyard. The arrival of the Southern delegation was no longer a distant threat; it was a storm cloud darkening the mountain peaks. The Northern court, usually so raw and direct, began to polish its edges. Banners were beaten free of dust, armor was buffed to a high sheen, and the great hall was strewn with fresh rushes and winter-blooming hellebore.
For Elara, it was a period of suspended animation. The intense drills with Kaelen had ceased, replaced by a quiet, steadying calm that he exuded like warmth from a hearth. He no longer tested her; he fortified her. His presence was a constant, grounding force—a hand on the small of her back during court functions, his deep voice a quiet rumble in her ear, reminding her of her own strength.
"They are players on a stage you have already designed," he told her the morning of the delegation's arrival. They stood on their secluded rooftop, watching the first light of dawn paint the snow pink. "You hold the script. Remember that."
She nodded, her stomach a nest of fluttering nerves. She was dressed in a gown of Southern make, a deep sapphire velvet that had been among Seraphine's trousseau. It felt alien, a costume of a life she had never lived. But as she looked at her reflection, she saw not Elara the scribe, but the cool, regal mask of the Princess. She had worn it for so long it was beginning to fuse to her skin.
The sound of horns echoed from the walls, a long, low note that was answered by others, winding their way down from the highest towers to the main gates. They were here.
The entire court assembled in the Sun-and-Steel Hall, a sea of fur, scale, and feather. Kaelen sat upon his obsidian throne, Elara in a slightly smaller, but equally imposing, seat of silver-wrought wood at his side. Theron, returned from his patrol just hours before, stood at rigid attention to the King's right, his silver eyes cold and distant, his presence a warning and a promise. Lysander stood among his Fox Clan courtiers, his expression one of polite, neutral interest, but his amber eyes missed nothing.
The great doors swung open. The Southern delegation filed in, a splash of jewel-toned silks and polished leather against the Northern monochrome. They moved with a different rhythm, their steps lighter, their bows more fluid. Elara's heart hammered against her ribs. She recognized them instantly from Lysander's scroll.
Lord Valerius led the party, his back straight, his white beard trimmed to a sharp point, his eyes sweeping the hall with barely concealed distaste. Behind him, Lady Beatrice, a small, bird-like woman with sharp, intelligent eyes that darted everywhere, missing nothing. And Sir Gideon, handsome and broad-shouldered, his gaze fixing on Elara with an unsettling mix of nostalgia and possessiveness.
The formal greetings began. Lord Valerius presented scrolls sealed with Queen Isolde's insignia, his voice a dry recitation of diplomatic pleasantries. Elara responded with the exact, measured tone Seraphine would use, her words perfectly calibrated to be gracious yet aloof. She felt Kaelen's quiet approval like a physical warmth beside her.
Then, it was Lady Beatrice's turn. The old governess stepped forward and curtsied, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "Your Highness," she said, her voice trembling with genuine emotion. "You look… so well. The Northern climate agrees with you."
"It is a land of striking beauty, Lady Beatrice," Elara replied, offering a small, fond smile—the smile of a former pupil to a beloved teacher. "Though I do miss the gardens of home."
"As you should, my dear," Lady Beatrice said, her sharp eyes scanning Elara's face, searching. "Do you remember the little song I taught you to help you sleep? The one about the silver moon and the jasmine bloom?"
It was a test. A simple, devastating one. It wasn't in any scroll. It was a private memory.
Elara's mind raced, a panicked whiteness threatening to descend. She had no memory of such a song. This was it. The first crack.
Then, a fragment from the dossier surfaced in her mind. 'She taught Seraphine an obscure finger-game called "Starfall."' A children's game. A shared secret.
Elara's smile didn't waver. She gave a soft, self-deprecating laugh, a perfect imitation of Seraphine's light, airy tone. "Oh, Beatrice, you know I was a terror at remembering songs. I was always more taken with the games. I still find my fingers tracing the patterns of 'Starfall' when I am deep in thought."
She lifted her hand slightly and made two subtle, interweaving motions with her fingers—the opening move of the game.
The effect was instantaneous. Lady Beatrice's face crumpled into a beatific smile, all suspicion vanishing in a wave of maternal affection. "You remember! Oh, my child, you remember." She seemed satisfied, the intimate memory confirming the identity of her precious charge more than any song ever could.
Elara's heart slowly resumed its normal rhythm. She had passed the first, and most dangerous, test. She caught a flicker of movement from the corner of her eye. Lysander, ever so slightly, inclined his head.
The rest of the formal reception passed in a blur. Sir Gideon approached, his bow a little too deep, his gaze a little too intense. "Princess Seraphine," he said, his voice thick. "The court is not the same without your light."
"You are too kind, Sir Gideon," Elara replied, infusing her voice with a touch of coolness, the way Seraphine would dismiss an unwelcome suitor. "I trust the Midnight Hunt was a success this year? I heard the boar was particularly fierce."
His eyes widened in surprise, then a flush of pleasure colored his cheeks. She had used the specific event Lysander had provided, acknowledging their shared past while maintaining her royal distance. "It was, Your Highness! A magnificent beast. I… I had hoped to present its tusks to you upon my return, but you had already departed."
"A kind thought," she said, dismissing him with a slight turn of her head, a move she had practiced a hundred times. He retreated, suitably put in his place but strangely gratified.
As the delegation was shown to their quarters, the tension in the hall eased. The first battle was won. Elara felt a wave of exhaustion so profound it made her legs tremble.
Kaelen's hand found hers where it rested on the arm of her throne. His grip was firm, warm, and hidden from view by the folds of her gown. "You were magnificent,"he murmured, his voice for her alone. "A queen playing a princess, and outshining the original."
She looked at him, at the fierce pride in his golden eyes, and felt a surge of love so strong it stole her breath. In this den of beasts and liars, his truth had become her anchor.
But as the court began to disperse, her gaze fell on Theron. He was watching her, his expression unreadable. He had seen the exchange with Lady Beatrice, the subtle finger motions. He had seen her deft handling of Sir Gideon. He saw not a woman surviving, but a consummate actress perfecting her role. And in his cold silver eyes, she saw the unshakable conviction that her performance only proved the depth of her deception.
The masquerade was far from over. It had only just begun.