The throne room was colder than it looked.
Morning light filtered through the stained-glass windows, casting fractured color across the stone floor. The room echoed with the weight of tradition. Long columns, high arches, and a scent of aged wood and iron.
At the far end, raised on three shallow steps, the throne sat carved from black stone, wolfbone, and silver.
Elinore sat tall in it.
She wore deep green today. Measured, formal, and polished. A soft braid circled the crown of her head like a quiet nod to her family's old sigils.
To her right, sprawled like he might nap between petitions, sat Prince Randall Astor. Legs wide, posture intentionally disrespectful, he looked entirely unbothered by the sanctity of the court around them.
"I thought this would be more exciting," he muttered.
Elinore didn't look at him. "You're welcome to leave."
"And miss the show? Not a chance."
At the foot of the throne steps, the steward's voice rang out.
"Killem Thornwright of the north villages, seeking permission to reclassify his farmland."
A man stepped forward. Thin, nervous... human. He clutched his hat in both hands as he bowed.
Elinore offered a polite nod. "Speak."
"My lady, Your Highness," he said, glancing at Randall, who winked, then quickly looked back to Elinore. "The land's too rocky for grain now. The herds won't stay, and I'd like to petition to convert it to quarrying rights. There's stone there. Good stone."
"Do you have a claim already mapped?"
The man fumbled for a folded parchment, handing it to a guard, who passed it up to Elinore.
As she studied the details, Randall leaned closer, resting his chin in one hand. "You know, in the old days, we'd just take the land, kill the owner, and call it a day."
The man visibly blanched.
Elinore didn't look at him. "And in the old days, half the kingdom was on fire."
"I never said it was efficient." Randall smiled.
She looked up from the parchment and addressed the man directly.
"Your request is reasonable. You'll have temporary quarrying rights until the next land review. Hire licensed workers. No unregulated blasting."
The man bowed so quickly he nearly fell over. "Thank you, my lady. Truly."
He backed out of the room in a rush, and the steward called out the next name.
Two more petitions followed. A wolf pack requesting more patrols near disputed borders, a merchant complaining about tolls being tripled in the southern trade route. Elinore handled both with clarity and authority. Randall offered occasional commentary. Some mocking, some strangely observant, but made no effort to interfere.
Until the next one.
"Petitioner, Gerwyn of Halmark. Claims unpaid royal wages."
A middle-aged man with a gray-flecked beard stepped forward, dressed in faded armor.
Elinore recognized the name. He'd served in the eastern campaign nearly forty years ago. A veteran, a werewolf.
"Lady Regent. Prince." He bowed stiffly.
Randall offered a mock salute. "Sir Backpay. Go on."
Elinore shot him a sharp look, but Gerwyn either didn't notice or didn't care.
"My contract was for five years of service. I served eight before being discharged without explanation. I was promised land or coin. I received neither."
Elinore leaned forward slightly. "Do you have records?"
"A copy of my oath. Witnessed by two captains." He handed the document to the guards.
Elinore studied the paper. It was authentic. She didn't need to verify it with magic, she remembered the signature of the officer who'd recruited him.
"Your claim is valid," she said. "The delay is inexcusable. I'll see that you're paid within the fortnight. Coin, not land."
Gerwyn nodded once. "I thank you."
As he turned to leave, Randall said loudly, "Or we could give him a goat and a shovel. Very symbolic, much more ceremonial."
Elinore closed her eyes for a breath. "Randall."
"What? It's a classic gesture. He could carve his own destiny."
The throne room was quiet. Too quiet.
Elinore looked at him. "Do you think any of this is a joke?"
Randall met her gaze without flinching. "No. I just think your throne could use a little less dust and a little more air."
"And you think disrupting the process earns you what? Applause?"
"Not applause, " he smiled lazily. "Just your attention."
She held his stare for a moment, then turned back to the steward.
"Next petitioner."
But her hands curled just slightly around the armrest.
The court resumed. More voices, more requests. But under the weight of it all, she felt Randall watching her.
Another petitioner stepped forward. An elderly woman wrapped in layers of worn wool, her hands clasped tightly in front of her as if they were the only things holding her together.
"My lady," she said, her voice rough with age. "Forgive the intrusion. I—I came not for land or coin but to speak of my granddaughter. She's gone missing."
Elinore's posture shifted almost imperceptibly.
"Name?"
"Raya. Sixteen. She went to deliver herbs to the outer watch camp and never returned. It's been four nights."
"Was she traveling alone?"
"With another girl," the woman said. "But they parted ways after the drop-off. The other returned, but she didn't."
Elinore glanced toward one of the guards posted near the edge of the room.
"Check with the eastern camp. Send riders to the surrounding woods. If there's any trace of the girl, I want it reported by nightfall."
The old woman bowed deeply, trembling. "Thank you, Regent."
As she was escorted out, Elinore heard Randall shift beside her. He didn't speak right away.
"You remember all their names," he said under his breath.
Elinore didn't answer.
"You don't write them down. You just... carry them around in your head."
"I remember the ones who need something," she replied quietly. "And the ones who never get it."
Randall didn't say anything after that. But his fingers drummed lightly against the armrest of his chair, and the usual sarcasm in his expression had faded to something quieter. Thoughtful, almost human.
The steward was just raising his voice for the next name when the doors at the far end of the hall slammed open.
All heads turned.
A man in bloodstained armor strode through the doors, flanked by two guards who looked visibly shaken but didn't stop him. He knelt at the base of the steps, his voice hoarse and urgent.
"My lady, there's been an attack on the western road. A patrol was ambushed. Half the men are dead. It wasn't bandits."
Elinore stood. Randall was already rising beside her, eyes sharp now, playfulness gone.
"Who, then?"
The soldier looked up, his face pale. "We think it was a rogue pack. Organized. Swift, not random."
Elinore's stomach turned cold.
"Where exactly?"
"Southwest of Duskwatch. Near the old ruins."
She glanced at the steward. "Clear the court. Now."
The man hesitated. "Regent, we still have—"
"Clear it."
Within moments, the room was moving. Petitioners were ushered out quickly but with order. The doors closed with a heavy thud, and silence fell.
Elinore turned to Randall, whose expression had shifted entirely. Relaxed no longer, now all prince, all predator.
"Well," he said, cracking his knuckles. "Looks like we've got something real to handle."
She gave him a sharp glance. "This isn't a fight to entertain you."
His eyes met hers, gold and gleaming. "Maybe not. But you'll need me either way."
She hated that he was probably right.
There was blood in the dirt now. And the peace she'd been holding together by the skin of her teeth?
It was beginning to tear.