Elira had never seen so many royals in one place.
The Great Hall shimmered with gold and obsidian. Servants scurried like ghosts across the polished floors, careful not to draw attention. Chandeliers flickered overhead. Every corner reeked of incense and secrets. But Elira's eyes weren't on the lords or ladies—they were fixed on the three thrones at the end of the hall.
Three kings.
Cassian of the East, radiant as ever in his gold-trimmed robe. Thorne of the North, tall and grim, wrapped in dark furs despite the warmth. And Alaric of the South, lean and calculating, his fingers tapping his knee with restless precision.
They sat apart, like wolves forced into a den together, watching each other through narrowed eyes.
The Summit was tense. Everyone could feel it. Talks of war dressed as peace. Smiles stretched too tightly. Elira had lived among nobles long enough to know the difference.
But her focus was on something else.
