Chapter Eight-War Meeting

Cassius POV

The war room smells like old paper and older men.

I sit at the head of the table. My counselors sit on both sides. The Grand Adviser sits at the opposite end. His face is smooth. Calm. Like still water hiding sharp rocks beneath.

I do not trust him.

But I cannot prove anything yet.

"Let us begin," I say.

The room goes quiet.

Elder Octavia speaks first. She is old. Older than my father would have been. Her voice is dry like autumn leaves.

"The werewolves are gathering at the border," she says. "Three packs. Maybe four. They are preparing for something."

"Preparing for what?" I ask.

"War, my Lord. What else?"

I lean back in my chair. Stare at the map spread across the table. Little wooden figures mark troop positions. Blue for us. Red for them.

Too much red.

"How many soldiers?" I ask.

"Fifteen thousand. Maybe more."

"And how many do we have?"

"Twelve thousand ready. Eight thousand in training."

"Then we are outnumbered."

"For now."

The Grand Adviser clears his throat.

Every head turns to him.

He is not old. Not young. Somewhere in between. His beard is gray at the edges. His eyes are dark and steady. He has served my family for thirty years. My father trusted him.

I do not.

"We should strike first," he says.

His voice is soft. Reasonable. Like he is suggesting what to eat for dinner, not whether to send thousands of men to their deaths.

"Explain," I say.

"The werewolves are gathering, but they are not ready. Their supply lines are weak. Their commanders are fighting among themselves. If we attack now, we catch them off guard. We win quickly. Fewer deaths."

"Or we start a war we cannot finish."

"We can finish it, my Lord. I have no doubt."

I look at the map again.

Fifteen thousand werewolves. Twelve thousand dragons.

Even if we win, we lose. Too many dead. Too many families are mourning. Too many children without fathers.

"No," I say.

The room goes silent.

"My Lord—" the Adviser starts.

"I said no."

"We cannot afford to wait. Every day we delay, they grow stronger. Every day we wait, they move closer to our border. Soon they will be at our gates."

"Then we defend our gates."

"Defending is losing, my Lord. Attacking is winning. That is how war works."

"War is not a game."

"No. It is survival."

I stand up. Walk to the window. Stare out at the training grounds below. Soldiers are drilling. Sweating. Preparing to die for a piece of land neither side really wants.

"I will not send our men to die because you are impatient," I say.

"I am not impatient. I am practical."

"You are bloodthirsty."

The Adviser's face does not change. But his eyes harden.

"I am loyal, my Lord. Everything I do, I do for this kingdom."

"Everything you do, you do for yourself."

The words hang in the air.

No one speaks.

The counselors shift in their seats. Elder Octavia stares at her hands. The others look anywhere but at me.

The Adviser smiles.

It is not a warm smile.

"You are tired, my Lord. Perhaps we should continue this tomorrow."

"I am not tired."

"You have not been sleeping. The guards say you walk the halls at night. You visit the slave's room. You stand outside her door like a lovesick boy."

My blood turns hot.

"You watch me?"

"I protect you. There is a difference."

"I do not need your protection."

"Every king needs protection. Your father learned that too late."

I turn from the window. Walk toward him. Slow. Deliberate.

Every step echoes in the silent room.

"Do not," I say quietly, "mention my father."

The Adviser does not flinch.

"Your father was a great man. But he trusted the wrong people. He paid for it with his life."

"Are you threatening me?"

"I am warning you. The same people who killed your father are still in this kingdom. Still plotting. Still waiting for their moment."

"Then name them."

"I cannot. Not yet. I need more time."

"You have had years."

"And I will have more years. Patience, my Lord. Rushing leads to mistakes. Mistakes lead to death."

I stare at him.

He stares back.

The room is so quiet I can hear the candles burning.

"Leave," I say.

"My Lord—"

"Everyone leave. Now."

Chairs scrape against the floor. Counselors gather their papers. They file out of the room like sheep escaping a wolf.

The Adviser is the last to go.

At the door, he pauses.

"The slave," he says. "Be careful with her."

"Why?"

"She is not what she seems."

He leaves.

I am alone.

I stand at the window for a long time.

The sun moves across the sky. Soldiers train below. The world continues like nothing has changed.

But everything has changed.

She is not what she seems.

What does that mean? What does he know? What does he suspect?

And why does he care about a slave?

I press my palm against the glass.

Her heartbeat echoes in my ears.

Two drums. Not one.

Mother and child.

If Massimus is right.

If she is pregnant.

If the child is not mine.

I close my eyes.

Why do I care so much?

Massimus finds me an hour later.

"You missed the afternoon briefing," he says.

"I was not in the mood."

"The counselors are worried about you."

"The counselors are always worried about something."

He walks to the window. Stands beside me. Does not speak. Just stands there.

That is why I trust him.

"What do you know about the Adviser?" I ask.

"Which Adviser?"

"The Grand Adviser."

Massimus is quiet for a moment.

"He has served your family for thirty years. Your father trusted him. Your grandfather trusted him. He knows every secret in this kingdom."

"And?"

"And nothing. He is loyal. As far as anyone knows."

"But?"

Massimus turns to face me.

"But he has been meeting with people he should not be meeting. Lords from the borderlands. Mercenary captains. People who profit from war."

"Proof?"

"Circumstantial. Nothing solid. Yet."

I nod.

"Keep watching him."

"Always."

The sun sets.

I should eat dinner. I should review the troop reports. I should do a hundred things a king should do.

Instead, I walk.

The castle is quiet at night. Servants move through the shadows like ghosts. Guards nod as I pass. No one speaks to me. No one tries.

They know better.

I find myself outside her door.

Again.

The guards step aside.

I do not go in.

I just stand there. Listen.

Her breathing is soft. Slow. She is asleep.

I press my palm against the wood.

Why does your heartbeat sound different?

She did not answer. Could not answer. Or would not.

Either way, the question haunts me.

I stand there for a long time.

Then I walk away.

Back in my chambers, I pour a glass of wine. Drink it. Pour another.

The fire crackles in the hearth. Shadows dance on the walls.

I think about her hands. Small. Pale. Bruised when she arrived. Now healed.

I think about her eyes. Green. Bright. Full of fear but also fire.

I think about her stomach. Flat beneath my palm. But warm. Too warm.

Mother and child.

If she is pregnant, the child will be born in seven months. Eight maybe. A baby. Small and helpless.

Whose eyes will it have? Hers? Or his?

I drain the glass.

Stop thinking about her.

But I cannot.

There is a knock at the door.

"Enter."

Massimus walks in. His face is grim.

"What is it?" I ask.

"The doctor. The one who treated her. He is gone."

"Gone where?"

"Disappeared. His house is empty. His belongings are gone. No one knows where he went."

I set down the glass.

"When?"

"Sometime in the last two days. The servants say he packed in the night and left. Did not tell anyone where he was going."

"Find him."

"I am trying, my Lord. But he is Oathbound. If someone paid him to leave, he would not tell us why."

"Someone is hiding something."

"Yes."

"Her?"

"Maybe. Or someone else. Someone who does not want us to know the truth about her condition."

The Adviser's face flashes through my mind.

She is not what she seems.

"Double the guards on her door," I say.

"Already done."

"And assign a maid to her. Someone loyal. Someone who will report everything."

"I have someone in mind."

"Good."

Massimus turns to leave.

"Massimus."

He stops.

"If she is pregnant... if she is carrying a child... I want to know whose."

"How, my Lord? She will not tell you. The doctor is gone. The only person who knows the truth is her."

"Then I will wait."

"For what?"

"For her to slip. For her to make a mistake. For her to trust me enough to tell the truth."

Massimus looks at me for a long time.

"You care about her," he says.

It is not a question.

I do not answer.

He leaves.

I sit by the fire until the flames die.

Ash and embers. Nothing left.

Tomorrow, there will be an

other war meeting. Another argument. Another push for battle.

Tomorrow, the Adviser will smile and lie and pretend to be loyal.

Tomorrow, I will walk past her door and pretend I do not want to go inside.

Tomorrow, everything will be the same.

But tonight, I sit in the darkness and think about her heartbeat.

Two drums.

Mother and child.

And I do not know which one scares me more.