The Summit

(Paige’s POV)

Above Highvale, the hall feels different than Blackstone’s. Smoke-stained walls are missing here. Instead, silence hangs thick, laced with beeswax polish and something softer - a whisper of rot beneath flower arrangements that look just a little too neat. Damp wool and pine sap leave no trace in these corners.

A splash of colors fills the space, bright like morning light. Nobles from each great southern family sit lined along ornate seats, forming half a circle. Silk drapes one shoulder here, velvet another there - quiet fabric stories under watchful stares. Up ahead, built higher than the rest, stands the seat of rule. Waiting. Not used just now.

Even though King Nolen stays away, his empty chair pulls focus. Without him there, tension creeps into every glance. Power usually fills that space - now it yawns wide open. Others shift in their seats, nerves frayed by what's missing.

Ahead and slightly left of the raised platform, that is where we stand. Not hidden, not overlooked - seen clearly. Stiff as stone, Noah fills the tall chair, his frame tense, each angle saying how badly he wants a sword instead of silence. Black clothes him head to toe, nothing soft about it. Only break in the dark: a silver clasp fastened at his neck, shaped like the Wingknight beast, hammered fresh by hands from the northlands. He does not seem humble here. More like victory made still, seated against its will.

Frozen in place next to him, spine rigid, fingers locked together just to stop the shake. Grey clothes wrap me - same shade as cliffs up north, same as my gaze. Plain fabric, no trim, nothing extra. Speaks without words. Strands twisted into a braid, then wound tight, though chaos always wins in the end. Eyes press against me from every corner, sharp as needles through cloth.

Facing us, Lord Prestwick holds position - leader of the old guard, seated with his allies. Not a flicker crosses their features, yet sparks dance behind their stares. Eager tension hums beneath stillness, like predators coiled at the edge of silence.

A hush falls when the old Chancellor begins, his voice cracking like brittle paper. From the throne dais, he talks about peace - how the King wants it, how betrayal by Greymont tore things apart, why mending matters now. Yet each phrase rings empty, bouncing off walls that hold their breath. Silence swallows every sound.

Then he turns to Noah. “Duke Wingknight. The assembly recognizes you. You may present your… perspective.”

Stillness takes hold when Noah rises. Not moving toward the dais, he shifts instead to meet the half-circle of authority lined up before him. His eyes travel across their faces. Silence settles like dust on stone.

“My perspective is simple,” he begins, his voice clear and cold, carrying to the farthest corners without effort. “I was given a poisoned chalice - the Northern Duchy. A punishment. I went to a land I did not know, to people who had every reason to hate me. With me, I took my wife.”

His hands stay still. No signal comes my way. All at once, faces turn. My skin feels their gaze before I see it.

“We found not a prize, but a people neglected and proud. We found land that was harsh but fair. We built a bridge. We mended a roof. We faced an army sent not for conquest, but for eradication, and we defended our home.” He pauses, letting the memory of Greymont’s fate hang in the air. “The North is not a resource to be mined. It is not a buffer against wildlings. It is part of this kingdom. They’re your kind, standing right beside you. Now they won’t vanish into silence, stripped away by greed, left behind like broken tools of failed power

A hush moves across the people. Not protecting himself - he points at them instead.

Prestwick stands, a smooth, unruffled movement. “A stirring defense of your rule, Your Grace. Yet it glosses over the means. The… unnatural events that facilitated your victory. The kingdom seeks stability. Not rule by… omens.”

A single word - ‘omens’ - sits like poison in quiet water. His jaw locks, Noah holding back words. Then sound slices through: someone else speaks first. From the west comes Argon, commander type, built tough, voice rough with command.

“Unnatural or not, Prestwick, he broke Greymont’s army when you lot were still wringing your hands over port tariffs. I’d take a few timely avalanches over a cowardly tax collector any day.” A rough laugh echoes from a few of the more martial lords.

Midway through, voices splinter off in ten different directions at once. Noise builds without warning. Still on his feet, Noah stays put while opinions crash like currents around him.

Frozen in place, my heartbeat hammers through silence. Here we are. The edge of conflict. Yet standing still, I become the quiet doubt no one names.

A hush creeps in after the Chancellor taps the gavel, his words shaky. Silence takes hold, piece by piece. His face shows no color, like he does not know what comes next. Glancing at the vacant throne, he seems to hope someone else appears. Only when his stare finds me does he stop searching.

Something gives way under me, like falling through wood I thought was solid.

“Perhaps,” the Chancellor says, his voice gaining a thread of desperation, “we should hear from the other party most central to these events. The Duchess Paige.”

Heavy quiet drops, thick enough to press down on everything. The space around us empties out, breathless. Every gaze lands at once, sharp and fixed. At my side, Noah goes rigid without a sound. Out of nowhere, it hit me - this wasn’t how it was supposed to go. He spoke first, long before my turn came. The air shifted. Now I’m standing here, caught off guard, words stuck somewhere behind my ribs.

A slight grin tugs at Prestwick’s mouth. This moment is what he aimed for. Watching the witch twist under pressure - that’s what holds his attention now.

A hush drops when Noah bends close, words rumbling under his breath just within my reach. "Running isn't needed. I could..."

“Stop.” It sounds sharper than I thought it would. Up I get. Legs shaky, nearly folding, yet I hold them straight. Moving ahead, leaving behind the cover he gave me, crossing the emptiness that stretches from seats to platform.

Out here, silence sits thick, broken only by fabric brushing against skin, pulse thudding under ribs. Across the space, rows of eyes watch - some waiting, others narrowed like shut doors. Memories rise: Mara’s steady gaze, Gareth’s worn hands, those people who handed over wood and rope without hesitation. Up above, behind locked walls, Lysander waits, untouched. Words form in my throat, heavy but clear - not theirs anymore, mine to carry.

My gaze stays away from Noah. Staring would show him too much. His fear could crack me open. The vacant seat pulls my attention now.

“You wish to hear from me,” I begin. My voice is quiet, but it doesn’t shake. It carries. “You have heard many names for me. Seer. Witch. Duchess.” I pause, letting the words hang. “I was a girl who knew she was going to die.”

A hush broke loose. Then silence again.

“I woke up one day with the certain knowledge of my own death. A story I had read, with an ending I could not change. I was a ghost in my own life.” I take a slow breath, my eyes finally sweeping the crowd. “I did not ask for this knowledge. It was a curse. It isolated me. It terrified me. And then, it became the only tool I had to fight my fate.”

Some of the women tilt ahead slightly, faces changing - not just scorn now but something deeper slipping in. They know it.

“I used what I knew to strike a bargain with the Duke. Not for power. For survival. We made a deal. Protection, in exchange for my… gift.” I say the word with a twist of irony. “What began as a transaction, in the cold reality of the North, became something else. It became respect. It became partnership. It became…”

His eyes meet mine across the space - Noah, still as stone. Behind that quiet surface, something sharp burns bright. Not a word passes between us. Yet I feel it pull through my chest like wind. Strength rises, sudden, from somewhere deep. His gaze holds nothing else but sureness.

A home took shape over time. Built not by hiding things or holding control, yet through mending what had cracked apart. Voices of those once called subjects reached our ears. When fire marched toward us on footsoldiers’ boots, standing guard felt like breathing. With every means we had.” My voice grows stronger, laced with the steel I found in the mountain’s shadow. “Yes, I have visions. They are not parlor tricks. They are a weight. And sometimes, they are a warning that allows us to protect the innocent. Is that so different from a scout’s report? From a spy’s intelligence? Or is it only frightening because you cannot control it?”

Prestwick stands again, his face flushed. “This is all very touching, Duchess. A tale of personal redemption. But we are here to discuss the stability of the realm! Your very existence, your unnatural child, is a source of division and fear!”

A single syllable can catch fire when spoken aloud. Flame spreads fast through quiet air after someone says it. Breath shapes meaning before thought arrives. Sound wakes what silence held still.

Faster than a blink, Noah stands up, the chair screeching across the floor. His voice cuts through the air - don’t you ever mention my boy

A hush settles inside the walls. One after another, they strike - neither backing down.

Out of nowhere, another noise slices into the thick silence.

Coughing hard, drenched with effort. The air shudders each time.

Out of a shadowed corner near the platform, noise swells. The fabric divides. With aid from two servants, King Nolen enters. Thin as bone under rich violet cloth, his flesh nearly see-through, yet fire lives behind his stare. Step by step he drags forward, each movement stiff. Down onto the seat he lowers himself, air scraping through his chest.

Now everyone watches. Here comes the king who is fading.

There I stand, caught in his slow sweep across the room - eyes touching mine, sliding to Noah, resting on Prestwick. Out of that stillness comes a voice like dried leaves scraping stone, thin yet stopping every breath.

“I have heard enough of lawyers and fears.” He takes a labored breath. “The Duchess has spoken of her truth. The Duke has spoken of his land.” His sunken eyes fix on Prestwick. “You, my lord, speak only of rules written by dead men.” He waves a trembling hand. “I am a dying man presiding over a realm that may die with me. I am tired of ghosts and rules.”

His gaze shifts toward me, each inch of movement heavy, deliberate. Facing me now, the motion clearly takes its toll.

“Duchess Paige,” he says. “You speak of warnings that protect the innocent. You speak of a home built from partnership.”

For a moment he stops, breathing heavy. Every person there holds their breath too.

“Tomorrow,” the King whispers, the word a decree, “you will present your vision. Not for defending a keep. For ruling a kingdom. Show us what this… partnership… has truly built. Show us the map for the future you see.”

Slumped in the seat, breath ragged, silence cracks open around him like thin ice. A hush ripples outward, voices tangled in disbelief.

Still, he did not condemn me. Instead, a challenge came my way.

His gaze locks on me, sharp as fire, then dims when his lids drop. I understand what he means.

One day ahead holds something wild. Impossible tasks wait - no way around them. The clock ticks forward regardless.

A king’s path ahead needs drawing. Where things go depends on each step planned now.