The summons came not from a handmaiden, but from Captain Theron himself. His knuckles rapped sharply against her chamber door, his voice cutting through the wood like a blade. "The King requires you in the War Room. Now."
Elara's heart, still unsettled from the confrontation in the corridor, gave a fresh lurch. The War Room. This was not a place for a delicate Southern princess. This was the heart of the North's military might, a sanctum she had only heard whispered about. Had Lysander acted? Had her secret been unveiled in the most brutal of forums?
She dressed swiftly, her fingers fumbling with the fastenings of a practical, high-necked gown of grey wool. When she opened the door, Theron's silver eyes scanned her from head to toe, his expression unreadable. Without a word, he turned and led the way.
The War Room was located in the deepest, most fortified part of the mountain fortress. The air grew colder, smelling of forged steel, leather, and a faint, ozone-like charge of magic. Theron pushed open a pair of massive, iron-banded doors, and Elara stepped inside.
The room was circular, hewn from black basalt. A great table of polished obsidian dominated the space, its surface etched with a glowing, three-dimensional map of the Northern Kingdom and its wild borders. Kaelen stood at its head, his presence seeming to suck the air and light from the room. He was clad not in courtly robes, but in functional, scaled armor the color of burnt charcoal. Flanking him were his most trusted war-chiefs: the bear-shifter, Borin, his face a map of old scars; a stern, hawk-faced Avian clansman with feathers threaded through his braided hair; and Theron, who moved to take his place at Kaelen's right hand, a silent, silver-eyed shadow.
Lysander was also there, leaning against the wall near a tapestry depicting a great dragon in flight, his posture deceptively casual. His fox ears were perked, absorbing every word.
"Ah, Princess," Kaelen said, his voice a low thunder that vibrated in the stone floor. "Your timing is impeccable." He did not look at her with the conspiratorial glint from the library, but with the flat, assessing gaze of a commander. "We have a situation."
He gestured to the map. On the eastern border, near a range of mountains called the Dragon's Teeth, a section of the glowing terrain was pulsing with an angry red light.
"The nomadic tribes of the Scarred Wastes are testing our borders," Borin grunted, jabbing a thick finger at the red zone. "Larger raids than usual. They've overrun one of our outermost garrisons."
"The Snow Leopard Clan garrison," the hawk-faced chieftain, Korbyn, clarified, his voice a sharp talon-scrape. "They were overwhelmed. No survivors."
A cold knot tightened in Elara's stomach. This was not courtly intrigue; this was death, real and brutal.
"The question," Lysander purred from his corner, "is one of response. A swift, overwhelming strike to cauterize the wound? Or a more… diplomatic approach? Perhaps the mere presence of our new Southern alliance will be enough to deter them." His eyes slid to Elara, laden with meaning. "The sight of the Dragon King and his beautiful bride, a symbol of united strength, could be a powerful message."
It was a trap, beautifully laid. He was pushing for her to be involved, to be put in a situation where her lack of royal bearing or knowledge of military matters would be exposed under the most unforgiving scrutiny.
Kaelen's gaze remained fixed on the map. "Diplomacy is a language these tribes do not speak. They understand only strength." He finally looked at Elara. "Princess. Your Southern military strategists are renowned. What is their doctrine regarding insurgent border threats?"
Every eye in the room turned to her. Theron's stare was a physical pressure, willing her to fail. Lysander's was a mask of polite expectation, hiding a smirk. Borin and Korbyn looked on with open skepticism. She was a decoration, an object of political value, and she was being asked to comment on war.
Panic, cold and sharp, threatened to close her throat. She knew nothing of Southern military doctrine. But Elara the scribe had read voraciously. She had transcribed countless historical texts, including dry, tactical analyses of ancient battles. She had read of supply lines, of terrain advantages, of the psychological impact of siege warfare. And she had just spent days buried in Kaelen's own library, studying the very tribes they now faced.
She stepped forward, her posture straight, her voice clear and steady, though her palms were damp. She would not give Lysander the satisfaction.
"The Southern doctrine is one of measured escalation, Your Majesty," she began, praying the title sounded natural. "But it is built for different terrain, against different enemies." She moved to the map, her eyes tracing the glowing lines of the Dragon's Teeth. "The texts in your own library describe the tribes as fragmented, prideful. They raid not as a unified army, but as rival clans seeking glory and resources."
She pointed to a narrow pass leading from the Scarred Wastes into the Northern valleys. "An overwhelming strike, as Lord Lysander suggests, would be like swinging a great axe at a swarm of gnats. You might kill many, but you would expend immense resources and solidify their hatred, uniting them against a common foe."
Kaelen was watching her intently, his golden eyes narrowed. "Your alternative?"
"Target their pride, not their people," Elara said, the ideas forming as she spoke, drawn from a dozen different histories she had consumed. "Do not meet their main force. Instead, send small, elite units—Wolf Guard, perhaps Avian scouts." She glanced at Theron and Korbyn. "Strike their supply caravans coming out of the Wastes. Intercept their raiding parties before they can coalesce. Seize the loot they have taken and return it to the garrison's families. You show strength, but also precision and justice. You prove that the Dragon's reach is long and his intelligence flawless. You make raiding an unprofitable, and more importantly, a dishonorable endeavor."
She took a final breath, her finger tapping the red zone. "You force the clan chieftains to explain to their people why their sons are dying for empty hands. A unified enemy is dangerous. A fractured, shamed one collapses from within."
Silence descended upon the War Room, thick and heavy. Borin was staring at her with a new, grudging light in his small eyes. Korbyn's head was cocked, as if reevaluating a strange new bird. Theron's expression was stone, but she saw the faintest flicker of surprise in the tightening of his jaw.
Lysander's polite smile had frozen on his face.
Kaelen did not smile. He did not praise her. He simply continued to watch her, his gaze so intense she felt scorched by it. The air around him seemed to shimmer with suppressed heat.
After a long, pulse-pounding moment, he turned back to the map. "Theron. Korbyn. You heard the Princess. Organize the wolf packs and hawk flights. Implement the strategy. Swiftly. Quietly."
It was a dismissal, and an endorsement. Her plan, her scribe's strategy born from ink and parchment, was being put into action.
The war-chiefs bowed and filed out, Borin giving her a slow, respectful nod as he passed. Lysander pushed himself off the wall, his charming mask firmly back in place, though his eyes were cold.
"A most… inventive strategy, Your Highness," he said, before slipping out the door.
Soon, only she and Kaelen remained in the vast, dark room. The glow from the map cast his face in sharp relief. He walked around the table until he stood before her, so close she could feel the warmth radiating from his armored chest.
"You continue to surprise me, Elara the Scribe," he murmured, his voice a low thrum that resonated deep within her.
"You asked for my counsel," she replied, her voice barely a whisper.
"I did." He reached out and, with a single, claw-tipped finger, traced the line of her jaw. The touch was possessive, branding. "I had expected a recitation of Southern dogma. I did not expect a mind that could look at a map and see the hearts of men."
His golden eyes burned into hers. "The Fox thought to trap a songbird. Instead, he unleashed a falcon." His hand dropped. "The court will hear of this. Your standing here is no longer based solely on my protection. You have earned a measure of your own. Use it wisely."
He turned and strode from the War Room, leaving her standing alone in the darkness, the ghost of his touch burning on her skin, and the terrifying, exhilarating realization that she had just stepped from the shadows and into the forge fire. She was no longer just playing a princess; she was becoming a queen.