The war room smelled faintly of parchment and dried herbs, the heavy scent of wax and leather clinging to the walls from generations of strategy carved into scrolls and maps. Sunlight streamed in through the high stained-glass windows, casting soft hues across the large oak table in the center. I stood at its head, the Queen now not just in name, but in command.
Alastair and Eli stood before me—both bandaged, still bearing the marks of the tournament. Alastair's silver hair was tied back, the edge of a bruise blooming beneath one eye. Eli had his arm bound in linen, his chestnut hair slightly disheveled but eyes bright, alert. They were warriors, each in their own right. Each had bled for this court. Each had earned their place. The fact that they were yet to be fully healed just speaks to how severe their injuries were that even with advanced wolf healing they were still both limping.
