The morning after Clara publicly dismantled Lord Maynard's accusations, the court chamber felt colder—not in temperature, but in mood. Whispers had shifted. New eyes followed her now, sharper, warier.
She had exposed one of their own. Not just humiliated him, but outwitted him on his own turf. And now, she wasn't just the girl who refused to kneel—she was a threat.
Clara kept her steps calm and deliberate as she walked into the council chamber. Her dress today was simpler than usual, but the deep maroon color still whispered defiance. No jewelry, no fan. She didn't need ornaments to draw attention. She already had it.
"Lady Whitmore," Lord Percival greeted with a clipped nod. His smile didn't reach his eyes. "You look... emboldened."
"I sleep better when lies are corrected," Clara said, letting her gaze rest on him just long enough to make her point. "Don't you?"
A few heads turned. A few mouths tightened. They weren't used to her having teeth.
But today, Clara wasn't here to merely survive the court. Today, she would start shaping it.
The Queen had subtly offered Clara a seat closer to the table's center. Not in the front row—not yet—but enough to signal: This girl has the Crown's ear.
She noticed Lord Maynard's absence. Either nursing his bruised pride or plotting. Likely both.
As the discussions began—on resource tariffs and border reinforcements—Clara said little. She listened.
And when Lord Percival tried to corner a young noble into agreement, Clara finally spoke.
"With all due respect, Lord Percival," she said, voice calm but clear, "pressuring a vote without discussing the numbers isn't leadership. It's coercion."
The chamber stilled.
Lord Percival's face twitched. "I was not pressuring anyone. I was clarifying—"
"You cut off Lord Iven before he finished his sentence."
A beat of silence.
Lord Iven, barely twenty and nervous as a cat, looked between them and finally nodded. "She's right."
Clara didn't smile. She didn't need to. Every council member was now reconsidering her position. She wasn't the outsider anymore. She was becoming the mirror—showing them who they really were.
By the end of the session, Clara had spoken only three times. But each time, it left a mark.
Later that afternoon, as she walked back to her chambers, Alaric found her near the palace gardens.
"You're making enemies faster than I expected," he said, falling into step beside her.
Clara didn't glance his way. "Wasn't that your plan all along? Throw me into the fire and see if I burn."
He gave a short laugh. "You're not burning. You're lighting torches."
She paused. "That's the only way to make shadows move."
He stopped walking. "Just don't forget, Clara... the court bites back. Quietly. When you least expect it."
Clara looked up at him, her expression unreadable. "Let them bite. I'm not as easy to swallow as they think."
That night, when she returned to her chambers, a sealed note awaited her on the table.
There was no name. Only five words in sharp ink.
You're not untouchable, Whitmore.
Clara folded the paper slowly.
And smiled.
Let them come.
[ To be continued....]