The grand hall of the Citadel was a maze of opulence and menace. Light from towering chandeliers spilled over marble floors, gilded pillars, and the sea of noble faces—a crowd of carefully painted masks, each hiding ambitions sharp enough to kill.
Elena's fingers tightened around the folds of her midnight-blue gown as she stepped into the hall beside Lucien. The weight of the Witchblood pendant resting against her chest was a steady reminder of everything she had to prove—her worth not only as a woman caught between worlds but as a powerful player in the deadly game unfolding before her.
Whispers rippled like wind through the room. Some voices held admiration, others disdain. Elena's gaze scanned the nobles—faces she'd seen in the court, and many more that carried the cold poison of envy or fear.
Lucien's voice was a low anchor. "Remember, Elena, they will test you in ways sharper than steel."
She nodded, swallowing the tightness in her throat.
Lord Harlan, the silver-haired noble with a smile as thin as a blade, rose from his seat. His voice slid through the hall like silk over a knife's edge. "King Lucien, it is bold to bring a Witchblood to our sacred court. Change is unsettling, and her presence threatens traditions that have kept our realm stable for centuries."
A murmur of assent followed him.
Elena took a steadying breath. When she spoke, her voice rang clear, calm, and unwavering. "Traditions are only worthy if they protect the people they serve. We face threats beyond old grudges and customs. We need strength and unity—not fear and suspicion."
Lady Maris, seated near the dais, lifted a hand delicately, her icy gaze fixed on Elena. "Strength forged through recklessness can bring ruin. Witchbloods have been the cause of fires and bloodshed in past generations."
Lucien's tone grew steelier. "Fear of magic has long been a tool to divide us. It will not rule this court any longer."
The hall echoed with uneasy silence. Elena felt the tension crackle beneath the polished surface of civility. Then, without warning, a sudden stir at the back of the room caught her eye.
A figure, cloaked in deep black, slipped silently toward a side exit. Lucien's gaze sharpened instantly, and he gave a curt nod.
Two guards moved swiftly, but the figure was already gone.
Mira's voice was a whisper in Elena's ear. "The summit is more dangerous than the battlefield. Watch every shadow."
Elena's heart hammered in her chest. This was not merely a meeting—it was a war of secrets.
As the summit progressed, alliances were tested openly and in whispered corners. Elena found herself pulled into conversations with nobles intrigued by her resolve and the power stirring beneath her calm exterior. Some sought to ally themselves; others watched with veiled hostility.
When the council broke for the evening feast, Elena and Lucien stood apart, their eyes meeting across the room.
"We are not yet safe," Lucien said. "But you held your ground."
Elena allowed herself a small smile. "So did you."
The feast was a swirl of wine, politics, and dangerous games. Elena's senses were sharpened, noting every glance, every hushed exchange. She knew that tonight, more than ever, trust was a fragile thing.
Later, as they retreated to the quiet of Lucien's chambers, Elena allowed herself to relax against him.
"We have enemies at every turn," she whispered.
Lucien pressed a kiss to her temple. "But we have each other. That is our greatest strength."
Elena closed her eyes, the weight of the day easing, replaced by a fierce hope. The road ahead was perilous, but with Lucien beside her—and the power awakening within—she was ready to face whatever came next.