Chapter 45 - Fangs in the Court
The council chamber was colder than usual.
Not from the weather, but from the presence of too many powerful men in one room, all of them watching each other, all pretending to be allies while sharpening their knives beneath the table.
Zara entered behind Lucien, her head high, dressed in a deep crimson gown that matched the flames licking along the edge of the hearth. Her presence caused a visible stir—small shifts, subtle coughs, downturned eyes.
She wasn't supposed to be here.
Wives didn't attend military briefings. Queens didn't sit in on matters of treason.
But Lucien had pulled a chair out for her at the head of the table.
And no one dared question it.
---
General Ronin cleared his throat. "Your Majesty, we've received word from the Western Post. Supplies have been intercepted again. Three wagons gone. No survivors."
Lucien said nothing, but Zara saw the tic in his jaw.
"It's the same signature," another noble muttered. "The black-marked blades. Poison on the arrows. It's the Hand."
The room fell still.
The Hand.
A secret rebel group with no face, no location—only death in their wake. They were growing bolder, faster, more organized. And now they were hunting royal supply lines.
Zara leaned slightly forward. "Do we know who leads them?"
A pause.
Ronin glanced at Lucien before answering. "We believe it's someone within the court."
Zara's stomach twisted.
Lucien's voice was low and sharp. "Do not speak half-truths in my presence, Ronin."
The general stiffened. "We suspect your uncle, Lord Malric. But he hides behind his wealth and title. We have no proof."
Zara looked around the room. The fear wasn't just of the Hand—it was of each other. Every man in that room had the potential to betray.
Even the walls felt untrustworthy.
---
Later that day, in the shadowed library, Zara paced between shelves stacked with ancient war scrolls and maps of forgotten kingdoms.
Lucien sat in a corner chair, eyes closed, head resting on his fist. He hadn't spoken in an hour.
"I want to confront your uncle," Zara said.
Lucien opened one eye. "And say what?"
"That we know. That we're watching. That if he so much as breathes the wrong way, we'll burn everything he owns."
Lucien stood, walking toward her. "You think threats will stop a man who's been planning a coup for five years?"
"I think silence will kill us faster."
He stared at her, then nodded slowly.
"You're not the same girl I married."
"No. I'm worse."
Lucien smirked faintly. "Good."
---
The confrontation came that night.
In the grand banquet hall.
The court had gathered under candlelight and gold—music, wine, laughter… all of it a mask.
Lord Malric stood near the head table, surrounded by nobles. His smile was sharp as a blade, his eyes cold when they landed on Lucien and Zara.
Zara walked straight up to him.
"Lord Malric," she said sweetly. "I've been thinking of you lately."
He raised a brow. "Oh?"
"I had a dream," she continued. "You were kneeling in chains, blood on your hands, and rats crawling from your mouth."
The room hushed.
Malric's smile didn't fade. "Sounds like quite the nightmare."
"No," Zara replied. "It was a promise."
Gasps rippled across the room.
Lucien said nothing—but his gaze never left his uncle. Every word Zara spoke was like a blade sliding into the cracks of power.
Malric's eyes hardened. "You should learn your place, girl."
"I have," Zara said. "Beside the throne. And not beneath it."
---
That night, in the safety of their chamber, Lucien pulled her close.
"You declared war."
"So did you. When you married me."
He laughed softly, brushing her hair from her face. "They'll come for you now."
"Then let them."
Lucien kissed her.
Not as a tyrant.
Not as a prince.
But as a man in love with the storm he helped create.