The council chamber was much too still.
Princess Charlotte perched at the high table, pale beneath her folds of silk and fur. Her gloved hands hid the subtle tremor that hadn't quite left her since the poisoning. Amelia stood at her side—not as a noble, but as both royal kin and court physician. Mira lingered at the back, motionless as carved obsidian, her sharp eyes tracking every flicker of tension in the room. Elias stood just behind Charlotte, one hand resting loosely on his sword hilt, gaze unreadable.
The nobles formed a loose circle, their smiles too polished, their eyes too eager.
"My lords," Charlotte began, her voice calm despite the weight pressed against her lungs. "The roads to the eastern farmlands are cleared. Refugees have been housed for the winter. The missing grain stores have—miraculously—ceased vanishing. Contrary to what some whispers suggest, the kingdom is not in disarray."
Duke Regnar, older than the northern cliffs and twice as weathered, cleared his throat. "Your Highness, with the deepest respect… rumors of your lingering illness persist. Naturally, the realm wonders—about succession."
Amelia stepped forward. "The Princess is in my care. Her health is stable, her mind unclouded."
Regnar didn't even glance at her. "With due respect, madam… whatever title you now bear… a sister called forth from obscurity, with no training in our medical halls, cannot be accepted on claim alone."
Elias's knuckles whitened around his blade.
Charlotte lifted her chin. "Then accept my clarity of thought as proof, Your Grace."
Regnar's voice was softer now. "And yet your hand trembles. The realm cannot be ruled on sentiment. It demands stability."
A rehearsed line. A planted seed. Meant to divide.
Amelia exhaled through her nose, her fingers twitching. Behind her, Mira signed rapidly: They want you gone—not because you're weak, but because you're strong enough to scare them.
Charlotte's lips curved.
Then, she rose.
"Would any of you here question my memory, my mind, or my command?" Her voice rang with steel. "Because while my body continues its battle, I assure you—my will is untouched."
No one spoke.
"I won't dance around it any longer." Her voice lowered. "Yes, I was poisoned. Yes, I fell ill. Yes, I live in danger—because some of you would rather slit my throat than place a crown on my head."
A shocked silence.
"But I am here."
She took a step forward.
"And I will remain here."
Amelia joined her, a calm but formidable presence, placing a steady hand at Charlotte's back. Mira moved beside her, arms crossed, chin raised. Elias remained behind, a silent, steady shadow.
"You may doubt my strength," Charlotte said, her voice a blade in silk, "but mark this: this kingdom has never been ruled by someone who would bleed so openly for it."
Then she smiled—sharp, wicked, sovereign.
"And I rather think that frightens you."
—
Later, Charlotte stood alone at the tower window, shoulders sagging now that no eyes watched her.
"You took years off the Duke's life," Elias said, quiet pride beneath the words.
"I'd rather have taken his chair," she muttered.
Across the room, Mira leaned against the wall and signed with a smirk: You're still the crown's favorite chaos.
Amelia handed her a cup of tea. "Next time, let me threaten them."
"Tempting," Charlotte murmured, accepting the cup. "But there's value in reminding them I'm not buried yet."
Thunder cracked beyond the mountains.
Outside, riders disappeared through the palace gates—spies, scouts, or something worse. The nobles wouldn't retreat. Not yet. The prophecy. The poison. The hidden hand behind it all. It was drawing closer.
But Charlotte did not flinch.
She had her allies.
And she had no intention of falling quietly.