The chamber was dimly lit, the scent of Myrish incense curling through the air like a whisper. Serala sat beside the great window of the Dun Fort, the night beyond as black as a spilled inkwell. Below, the town of Duskendale slumbered, unaware of the storm she wove within these walls.

Denys paced before her, restless. The weight of his crown—of his choices—hung heavy on his shoulders. He spoke of the king, of risks, of duty. She listened, watching him with those unreadable golden eyes, fingers idly tracing the embroidered lace at her wrist.

At last, she sighed, tilting her head.

"You call it treason," she murmured, "but I call it dignity. Shall Duskendale kneel forever, while lesser lords grow fat on the king’s favor? If we are to prosper we need to make decisions that is unconventional. Darklyns were once kings, you should live like that."

She reached for his hand, her touch light as silk. She knew how to get to him.

"Don't I deserve to live fit that of a queen?"