The Council Chamber smelled of polished wood and old secrets.
Clara stood just behind Alaric, her chin lifted, every inch the noblewoman they all refused to see. Whispers hummed through the room like insects—soft, sharp, and biting.
She caught snippets.
"Why is she here?"
"The bastard queen thinks she's already won."
"Mark my words—she'll bring the crown to ruin."
Alaric heard them too. But he didn't flinch. Instead, he reached back—just slightly—and his fingers brushed hers. Not a full touch. Just enough.
Clara didn't move away.
At the head of the chamber, Chancellor Varrick cleared his throat. "Your Majesty. Before we proceed, there's one concern raised by the Council."
Alaric's eyes sharpened. "Speak it."
The old man bowed slightly. "The lady Clara Whitmore. Her presence here—without title, without official standing—raises questions."
"And yet she's still more loyal than half the men in this room," Alaric replied coldly.
A few nobles shifted in their seats. One even stood—Lord Renley, gray-haired and venom-tongued.
"She's no queen. She's the daughter of a disgraced line, with ties to rebellion and traitors. We do not answer to her."
Clara stepped forward. Her voice was calm but clear. "Then perhaps you should answer to the truth."
Gasps fluttered across the room like startled birds.
Lord Renley narrowed his eyes. "And what truth is that, girl?"
Clara smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "That the palace walls have ears. That your servants talk in the dark. And that not every betrayal is written in blood—some are signed in ink, hidden in archives no one's supposed to touch."
The chamber fell quiet.
Alaric didn't stop her. He let her speak.
Because power wasn't just swords and crowns.
It was knowing.
By the time the session ended, Clara's name had been spoken more than the king's. And not just in anger.
In fear.
Outside the chamber, the corridors felt colder.
Clara didn't slow her pace until she reached the marble stairwell near the eastern wing. There, waiting with a glass of wine and a lazy smile, stood Lord Cedric Thorne.
He looked exactly as she remembered—too handsome, too sure of himself.
"My lady," he said, bowing low. "You wear defiance well."
"I didn't dress for your approval," Clara replied flatly.
He laughed. "Oh, but you did make an impression. Whispers of rebellion, secret archives, veiled truths... You're playing a dangerous game."
Clara stepped closer, refusing to be the one who flinched. "So are you. Only difference is—I know what I'm fighting for."
Cedric leaned in, his smile sharpening. "Do you?"
Before she could answer, footsteps echoed behind her. Alaric's voice cut through the tension.
"She does. And she won't be answering to you."
Cedric straightened, amused. "How charming. Still protecting your... pet cause?"
Alaric's eyes were stone. "Call her that again, and you'll be answering to me."
The silence between them was heavy.
But Cedric only tipped his head, lips curling. "Then I'll let you both enjoy your little illusion of control. For now."
He turned and walked away, robes sweeping the floor like a storm about to break.
That night, Clara sat by the fire in the observatory, knees pulled to her chest, the flames casting long shadows across her face.
Alaric sat across from her, silent for a long time.
"You were bold today," he said.
"I was desperate," Clara replied softly.
Alaric looked at her. Really looked. "You don't have to carry it alone."
Clara hesitated. "If I don't, someone else will bleed for it."
Alaric stood, crossed the space between them, and knelt beside her chair. He reached for her hand—this time fully—and held it.
"Let them come," he said. "We stand together now."
And for the first time in days, Clara let her head rest on someone's shoulder.
Not because she was weak.
But because she chose to trust him.
[To be continued...]