The war table was strewn with maps, troop markers, and hastily scrawled reports. The head of every noble family had been summoned—this was not a meeting that could be missed. Not anymore.
Elliott sat at the head of the long table, his expression deceptively calm. Regal. Distant. Almost unreadable—until you looked closely. Beneath the composed exterior, there was tension. He looked like a man waiting for the inevitable, and knowing full well it was coming. The crown on his head glinted dully under the chandelier light, and the shadows under his eyes had grown darker.
By his right, Aiden stood with arms crossed and jaw set. His shoulders were tense, his back rigid—he looked like he hadn't slept in days. He hadn't slept. Not really. The weight of the almost-confession still coiled in his chest like a living thing, burning in the corners of his mind. But this— this war- this was something solid. Something he could focus on. Something he could fix.
The meeting was already underway. Nobles whispered behind raised hands; generals argued in clipped tones, voices rising every so often before being brought back down by a sharp look from Elliott. But one thing had become clear—war was no longer a matter of if. It was a matter of when.
Elliott had tried. Even after the poisoning, even when his hands trembled and his vision blurred, he had tried. He offered peace in every form—diplomacy, withdrawal, economic concessions. Anything to prevent bloodshed. To keep his people safe.
But the Altherians' stunt—the ploy to lure Aiden to the border under the pretense of telling him about the Rosethorne Massacre, only to ambush him—had been the final blow. That line could not be uncrossed.
A grizzled general stood up with a scowl, his scarred hand jabbing the map laid out before them. "There are mountains and valleys here," he barked, stabbing the region along the Altherian border. "We strike now—hide our men in the passes. When they try to cross, we'll be ready. The terrain will bleed them for us."
A wave of murmurs rolled through the room—some of agreement, others uncertain. The air had grown thick with tension.
Before anyone else could speak, a sharp knock echoed against the heavy doors.
Everyone stilled.
A guard stepped in with a crisp bow, his eyes darting to Elliott. "Your Majesty. A messenger requests audience. Shall I let him in?"
Elliott gave a tight nod. "Let him in."
Moments later, the door swung open again. A messenger stumbled into the room—young, disheveled, breathless from his sprint. His face was pale, eyes wide with urgency. "Your Majesty—the city—"
Elliott raised a hand, calm but commanding. The room fell silent immediately.
"Speak clearly," he said, voice gentle despite the fatigue. "Breathe. Take your time."
The messenger gulped down a breath, visibly collecting himself. "The people... they're gathering," he managed. "The newspapers caught wind of the poisoning—it's all over the Empire. Every tavern, every inn, every square..."
A beat of stunned silence followed. Aiden's fingers dug into his arms, nails biting through fabric. The poisoning had been a carefully guarded secret. Only the council, the medics, and those present that night had known. Elliott had ordered it so himself—because he still believed there was hope for reconciliation, and because that kind of news... it would poison the heart of the people against the Altherian empire beyond repair.
Elliott's eyes closed slowly. When he finally spoke, his voice was grave. "...How?"
"We don't know," the messenger admitted. "But it's everywhere now. It's all anyone is talking about."
Of course it was. Secrets were fickle things—especially when so many people had a reason to whisper.
Elliott exhaled tiredly through his nose. The headache pulsed behind his eyes. Well. Any hope for negotiation had already crumbled into dust. But even now, panic would help no one. His people deserved better.
"Very well," he said at last, straightening. "Prepare a public address. I will speak to them myself. If they want answers—they'll have them."
Aiden's gaze flickered to him. The look in his eyes was unreadable, but Elliott didn't miss the hesitation, the tightness in his stance.
He understood what Aiden was afraid of.
The Altherians were out for his blood. And now that the people knew—now that everyone knew—stepping in front of a crowd, even on a guarded balcony, would be a risk. The crowd would be large. There would be chaos. Security was strong, yes, but nothing was foolproof. Not anymore.
Elliott's hand moved under the table and found Aiden's, fingers wrapping around his in a silent promise. His grip was firm, reassuring.
"I'll be alright," he said quietly.
Aiden's expression didn't shift. But something flickered in his eyes.
"I'll be alright, Aiden," Elliott repeated, more gently this time.
Aiden was silent for a long moment. Then—barely audible—"...What if it's a trap?"
Elliott didn't flinch. "Then I trust you to protect me."
Aiden's voice broke, just slightly. "...What if I can't?"
They weren't thinking about the others in the room anymore. Not the generals. Not the nobles. Not even the council. It was just the two of them now—two people, who only had each other in their worlds.
"I couldn't. Last time," Aiden admitted, clearly referring to the posioning.
Elliott's hands tightened around his. "...You did," he said quietly. "And I came back, didn't I?"
A beat.
Aiden exhaled slowly. "...Yes. You did."
The worry didn't vanish. But something in his chest eased. Just a little.
----
Pearl Estate, Paulam Fields
The rain lashed against the arched windows like an omen. Outside, the trees bent low beneath the weight of the storm, the wind howling through the hills. Thunder cracked across the skies, stark and relentless, illuminating the old marble of the estate for brief flashes at a time.
Inside, the drawing room was cloaked in dim candlelight and silence.
Gabriella Lancaster sat alone by the tall glass, one hand loosely cradling a half-filled wineglass, the other resting in her lap like a dormant blade. Her hair—once a famed cascade of blood-red fire—fell in softer waves now, darkened by age but no less captivating. Even now, she was intimidating. Regal without trying to be. Her dusky skin looked ghostly in the stormlight, and her sharp green eyes stared past the glass at the churning clouds above, unreadable.
She had always hated this kind of weather. It was too loud, too chaotic, too honest.
The door creaked open behind her. Footsteps—quiet, trained, and deliberate—approached across the carpet. A woman entered and bowed low, her manner more soldier than servant. Not just a maid.
"My lady," the maid said softly, the words weighed and careful. "The rumors are no longer rumors. It's confirmed. The Altherians tried to poison him. The whole capital knows."
Gabriella didn't move. Not at first.
The fingers around her wineglass twitched.
"Saffron," the maid added.
A breath, very slow, escaped Gabriella. "...he's always been deathly allergic to saffron." Her voice was quiet.
The maid glanced up. "He survived. But... the physicians say his condition is still precarious. The nobles are restless. Another incident against the prince seemed to have happened- Some are calling it a declaration of war."
Another flash of lightning cut across the sky. Gabriella raised the wineglass to her lips and took a slow sip. Her expression didn't change.
"I see," she said.
There was no hysteria. No visible concern. Just the glint of steel behind tired green eyes, the subtle tension in her shoulders, the echo of every calculated move she had ever made to put her son on the throne—and keep him there.
The maid hesitated. Then, "...What shall we do, my lady?"
Gabriella looked away from the storm, setting the glass down with deliberate care. "Prepare my carriage," she said, already rising. Her voice was calm, but there was something final in it.
The maid blinked. "But... Your exile—"
Gabriella's eyes cut to hers. "—is irrelevant," she said, coolly. "It became irrelevant the moment they dared to touch him."
A beat of silence.
"He's the emperor," the maid said, almost hesitantly. "He can protect himself now."
Gabriella turned her gaze back to the window. Lightning flickered, casting her reflection in the glass—older, perhaps, but no less formidable.
"No," she said. "He can't. Not from this."
The exile had always been a formality—something Elliott could tell himself was justice. A way to soothe his burden of being a good man in a bloody world. He hadn't banished her. He couldn't have. Not truly. The decision had been hers—because she knew that staying would only make things harder for him.
But now?
Now, they had tried to kill her son.
The rest of the world could burn. She would not stand by again.
Outside, lightning split the sky once more. The Pearl Estate stirred with sudden activity—servants moving like shadows, orders relayed down echoing halls. They all knew what this meant.
Her exile was over.
And Gabriella Lancaster was going to the capital.
---