Later that evening, a summons arrived.
The same steward returned with a scroll sealed in crimson wax. The message was brief.
You are to present yourself in the High Council Hall at dusk. Be punctual. No entourage.
No signature. No warmth. Just a command.
Elira read it twice, then handed it back. "Very well."
Lysa gripped her arm. "Are you sure you want to go alone?"
"If I'm to face this new world, I must walk into it myself."
—High Council Hall, Dravendor Fortress—
The High Council Hall was not a place for comfort. The walls were lined with iron banners and etched with the names of ancient battles. Twelve chairs lined the blackstone table, each filled with a man or woman bearing sharp eyes and sharper tongues.
And at the head sat Crown Prince Kaelion Draeven.
He didn't rise when Elira entered. He didn't nod. He only stared, those steel-gray eyes unreadable.
"Princess Elira of Velanthia," one councilor said, voice smooth like oil. "Welcome to the seat of Dravendor's power."
Elira stepped forward, bowed slightly, and replied, "Thank you, Lord Veyron. I am honored."
A few raised brows.
"Tell me, Princess," another asked, a woman with short silver hair and a hawk-like gaze. "What skills do you bring to Dravendor's court, aside from being a political token?"
Elira smiled sweetly. "I am fluent in five languages, trained in negotiation and court diplomacy, studied battle strategy under General Tyrik of Velanthia, and I once defused a trade war between three border cities using only cake and common sense."
Silence.