The council chamber was colder than Clara remembered.
Not because of the stone walls or the vaulted ceilings—but because of the eyes.
Dozens of them.
Watching. Judging. Whispering behind painted fans and velvet gloves.
At the center sat Cedric Thorne, expression carved from marble, and beside him… Chancellor Varrick, with that same polished calm Clara had come to fear more than Cassian's threats.
But it wasn't them she searched for.
Her gaze moved—slow, hesitant—until it found him.
Alaric.
He stood just behind the witnesses' table, dressed in black and silver, eyes locked on her like she was the only thing keeping him grounded.
He didn't speak.
He didn't need to.
He was there.
For her.
"Clara Whitmore," Varrick's voice rang out, too smooth for comfort. "You are accused of inciting unrest, withholding royal documents, and—most gravely—threatening the unity of the crown."
Clara didn't flinch. "I protected the truth. My mother was framed. And you all helped bury it."
Murmurs stirred through the crowd. The council wasn't used to defiance. Especially not from a girl they once called a pawn.
"You speak as if you carry weight in this court," Cedric said, lips curling faintly.
She met his gaze. "I carry blood. Whitmore blood. And I'll bleed for the truth if I have to."
That silenced even the whispers.
When the court recessed for deliberation, Clara stepped outside into the balcony overlooking the gardens.
Wind tangled through her hair. Her heart wouldn't stop racing.
The weight of what she'd said… of what could come next… pressed down like a stormcloud.
"I should be afraid," she whispered.
"You're shaking," Alaric's voice said behind her, soft and close.
She turned, startled—but not really.
Somehow, she knew he'd follow.
He leaned against the stone railing beside her, eyes scanning the horizon. "You stood alone in there. And still, they listened."
She laughed, hollow. "They listened like wolves listen before they bite."
Alaric didn't smile. "Let them try."
He reached out slowly, brushing her hand with his. Not a bold move—but enough to spark something wild in her chest.
"Don't do that," she said, breathless.
"Do what?"
"Touch me like you'll stay. Like I can trust it."
Alaric's eyes darkened. "I'm not touching you because of the crown. I'm touching you because I care."
Her breath caught.
"I know what they'll do to you," he went on, voice quieter now. "But if they come for you again, Clara—I'll be in their way."
Silence fell between them, full of things unsaid. He didn't move closer. He didn't need to.
Because somehow, the way he looked at her now—like she was more than a symbol or a scandal—felt louder than a kiss.
And just for a heartbeat, Clara let herself believe.
Maybe she wasn't alone in this fight after all.
[ To be continued…]