ALISTAIR
Rain pressed softly against the high windows of Montclair Hall, tracing silver lines across the glass. Inside, firelight cast a low, amber glow across the council chamber, where Alistair stood before his assembled allies. The air smelled faintly of smoke and damp wool, the kind of scent that lingered when plans were made in secret.
"Ravenscroft grows confident," Alistair said. "Too confident for a man who holds no title of his own."
The nobles seated before him exchanged uneasy glances. Their Duke rarely raised his voice, but tonight the quiet was sharp enough to draw blood.
Lord Maren of Ashvale folded his gloved hands. "He is the Crown Princess's brother and the heir of Ravenscroft, Your Grace. That connection grants him enough influence to stand beside the Crown Prince himself."
"Influence borrowed is not influence earned," Alistair replied. "Lucian of Ravenscroft sits at the royal table because his sister married well, not because he deserves to be there. Yet the Crown listens to him before it listens to me—or to any of us."
A heavy pause followed. Alistair could feel the storm building both outside and within.
"The Crown Prince trusts his wife," said the Count of Hatherleigh cautiously. "And through her, Ravenscroft has his ear. To move against him may appear an attack upon the royal household itself."
Alistair stepped closer to the fire, its light cutting across his face. "It will appear only when we allow it to. I do not seek to wound the Crown Princess. But I will not kneel before a man who hides behind her skirts and whispers policy into her brother's hand."
A murmur of approval moved through the chamber.
At the far end of the table, Baron Willowsmith sat back in his chair, his expression politely blank. "I would caution restraint, Your Grace," he said, voice smooth. "Ravenscroft is no fool. He has friends in every corner of the court, and not all of them wear crowns."
Alistair met his gaze evenly. "Friends, Baron, or accomplices?"
Willowsmith smiled faintly, as though amused by the question. "In politics, I find the difference rarely matters."
The fire popped, sending a stray spark up the chimney.
Alistair studied him for a moment longer. He knew Baron Willowsmith favored Ravenscroft before, though he cloaked it well behind charm and moderation. Still, the Baron's presence here tonight was no accident. Alistair wanted him to hear what was coming.
"The Crown Prince grows complacent," Alistair said at last. "He believes the throne will be his by right, and that his wife's counsel, that Ravenscroft's counsel will keep him beloved by the court. But the realm does not love weakness. It devours it."
Lord Maren's voice was soft. "You mean to challenge the Crown Prince."
"I mean to protect the kingdom from what it is becoming," Alistair answered. "A stage for flatterers and dreamers while real power slips through our fingers."
He straightened, the full height of his bearing commanding the room. "The Crown Prince will stumble soon enough. When he does, we will be ready. The nobles must already doubt him. Spread word that the treasury bleeds, that the Crown Prince's brother interferes in matters beyond his station. Whispers travel faster than armies."
Willowsmith nodded grimly. "And when those whispers reach Ravenscroft?"
"Then he will do what he always does," Alistair said. "He will defend himself with speeches and charm. But words cannot outshine suspicion. Not forever."
Willowsmith 's eyes flicked toward the fire. "You play a dangerous game, Your Grace."
"Power is always dangerous," Alistair said. "That is why it belongs to those who can bear it."
For a moment, silence ruled the room. The storm outside broke, rain lashing against the glass as thunder rolled across the sky.
Alistair turned away from them and looked out toward the city below. The lights of the capital blurred in the downpour, soft and distant.
He thought of Evelina Everleigh. Her laughter in the ballroom still echoed somewhere deep within him. The way she had looked at Ravenscroft that night, open, unguarded and had burned itself into his mind.
She had not seen how dangerous that man was. Or perhaps she had, and simply did not care.
Either way, Alistair could not allow it.
"By dawn," he said quietly, still watching the rain, "the court will begin to shift. Let Ravenscroft believe he stands secure beside his royal sister. When the storm finally turns, he will find that every door he once trusted has quietly closed."
He faced them again, his eyes cold and steady.
"This is not just politics. This is preservation. Of the crown. Of the realm. Of all that Ravenscroft threatens to corrupt."
A single flash of lightning lit the chamber. For an instant, the faces around him looked pale, spectral, bound to something far larger than themselves.
Then the thunder followed, and Alistair's voice cut through it.
"Let the storm come," he said. "I am done waiting for fair weather."