Chapter 24

Moonlight streamed like silver blades through the lattice of the war chamber windows, cutting across the polished map table where markers of armies and banners rested in fragile balance. The great hall of Dawnspire felt colder than any dungeon Serenya had endured. Shadows pooled in the corners, and every torch sputtered as though uncertain of its right to burn.

Serenya stood rigid, her palms pressed flat against the table. Around her, voices clashed like steel, each noble and captain arguing their path to survival. But it was not survival she sought. It was victory—and victory required more than numbers.

Kaelen leaned near her shoulder, his voice low enough to belong only to her. “They quarrel like children while the Duke sharpens his knife. We will bleed before dawn if they cannot be silenced.”

She turned her gaze briefly toward him. In the flicker of torchlight, Kaelen’s eyes carried the weight of storms. She wanted, for a heartbeat, to let the tempest of her thoughts rest in him. But the room demanded a queen, not a woman longing for refuge.

Eloria Thorne’s voice cut sharp through the din. “We cannot waste time fortifying Black Hollow again. It’s lost. The Duke holds it, and every day he draws more coin and swords from its mines. We must strike his supply lines, not his fortress.”

“Madness,” barked Darian Crestfall, armored shoulders broad and steady as a wall. “To harass his lines is to scatter ourselves thin. He would crush us like ants. The fortress must be reclaimed, or every village that swore fealty will turn to his banner.”

The nobles broke into another uproar. Serenya’s nails dug into the oak of the table. Black Hollow—the prison of roses she had barely escaped, a nest of Thalric Veynor’s cruelty. The fortress reeked not only of stone and iron but of humiliation. Its banner snapping over her people’s horizon was a brand burned into their pride.

Maelis Rowan, the seer cloaked in indigo, lifted her staff and tapped it once against the stone floor. The sound reverberated like a bell tolling for silence. “You argue over walls and mines, but the stars whisper otherwise. The Duke cannot be undone by force of arms alone. His crown of deceit rests on secrets unbroken.”

All heads turned to her. Maelis’s eyes, pale as moons, lingered on Serenya a moment too long.

Secrets. Serenya’s heartbeat thudded with the unspoken truth of her hidden birthright. If she revealed herself now, half the lords would bend the knee, and half would demand her death. Timing was her weapon—too soon, and it cut her down. Too late, and it cut her kingdom.

Cyrion Duskbane shifted his dark cloak, his voice cool and deliberate. “We must use his arrogance. Thalric believes us desperate, divided. Let him believe further. Let us feed him the illusion that we will march recklessly upon Black Hollow. When his forces shift to entrap us, we move elsewhere.”

“A feint,” Serenya said softly, the word catching the room.

Cyrion inclined his head. “A feint, yes. But more than that—a noose. We draw his strength toward Black Hollow, and when he reaches to crush us, we strike at his throat: his alliances, his stores, his heart.”

Darian frowned. “Such games may suit shadows and whispers, but soldiers starve on illusions. Where would you have us strike?”

“Here.” Cyrion moved a carved marker across the map, setting it upon the river that twisted like a serpent through the plains. “The River Myr. His supply barges run fat with grain and steel. Cut them off, and Black Hollow itself will choke.”

The room hushed, tension coiling. It was dangerous. Daring. And it might just bleed the Duke faster than any siege.

Eloria smirked, though her eyes sparkled with reluctant admiration. “Perhaps the fallen heir knows more of war than I thought.”

Cyrion ignored her jibe. His gaze found Serenya’s, steady and unflinching. “But such a strike requires unity. If even one among us betrays the plan, all is ash.”

Betrayal. The word slithered through the room like smoke. Serenya’s throat tightened. Too many alliances hung by fraying threads; too many hearts weighed with secrets.

She straightened, gathering every fragment of resolve. “Then unity we must forge. Enough squabbling. Each of you claims to love this kingdom, to fight for its survival. Prove it—not with words, but with action. Swear it here, upon this table, upon your honor.”

Murmurs rippled. A nobleman coughed nervously. But one by one, hands touched the scarred oak—Darian’s calloused, Eloria’s jeweled, Cyrion’s pale and deliberate. Even Kaelen laid his hand, though his oath was already written in every scar he carried.

Serenya set her palm atop theirs last, her voice unwavering though her heart thundered. “By dawn, we move not as rivals, but as one. The Duke expects division. Let us shatter his expectation before we shatter his crown.”

For a moment, unity glimmered. Fragile as spun glass, but real.

Maelis’s staff struck the floor again, her voice distant, almost mournful. “Midnight crowns more than strategies. Beware the hand unseen, Serenya Vale. Not all who swear tonight will honor their words when the eclipse darkens the sky.”

The chamber chilled. Serenya’s gaze swept over the circle of faces. Who would betray them? Who carried the unseen hand Maelis warned of?

Her stomach clenched, but she forced a calm mask. “Then we guard not only the river, but each other.”

The council dispersed into the whispering corridors of Dawnspire, each lord and captain carrying both oath and suspicion. Serenya lingered, staring down at the map long after the others had gone.

Kaelen approached, his shadow falling beside hers. “You led them as a queen tonight. Yet I saw the doubt behind your eyes.”

She allowed herself a sigh, soft and weary. “Because I know Maelis speaks true. Someone here will betray us. And I do not know who.”

His hand brushed hers, fleeting, forbidden in its comfort. “Then we plan not one strategy, but two. A blade in the light, and another in the dark. When the traitor strikes, we must already be ready.”

Serenya turned to him, caught by the fierceness in his eyes. Dangerous. Comforting. Necessary. “And if the traitor is closer than we think?”

Kaelen’s jaw tightened. “Then we cut deeper still.”

Her heart ached with the weight of choices. Love, loyalty, betrayal—all entwined like thorns around her destiny. But she could not falter.

Outside, the bells tolled midnight. The strategy was set. The noose drawn. And somewhere in the shadows, a hand unseen tightened its grip.