The dining hall of the North Palace is dressed in quiet grandeur, the golden light of chandeliers casting a warm sheen over polished marble floors and the long, gleaming table set for six. At the head sits the King, robed in navy and silver, his expression unreadable as always. Beside him is the queen, who look at Elira with cold and calculated smile.
On the other side, Kael sits between the Princess and his wife, Elira.
Princess Ilyana leans slightly toward him, her voice light as she comments on the evening’s wine, but her gaze lingers just a moment too long. Elira doesn’t respond—she’s too aware of the Queen’s stare, too aware of the tension curling like smoke beneath every civil exchange.
The clink of utensils and murmured pleasantries feel like a fragile performance. This isn’t a dinner—it’s a stage, and each of them is playing a part. 
"I’m glad to finally congratulate you directly on your marriage, Commander Kael and Lady Rennar. Thank you for attending my invitation" the king is the one who speak first, breaking the ice inside the room.
"There is no way we would reject your summon, your majesty" Kael respond politely, bowing his head slightly. The king smile, then his eyes darted to Elira.
"I believe this is the first time we’ve shared a table. I’ve always valued your contributions in council meetings. You offer… unusually wise perspectives, Lady Rennar"  the king praise Elira's intelegent for the first time. She never aware that he had take a note about her like that. 
She takes a moment to answer. She was unaware that he had given her any special attention, much less recalled what she had said. This praise carries quiet weight for a man whose approval was seldom expressed and even less frequently given. Despite the sudden pressure in her chest, Elira maintains her composure as she meets his gaze.
"You honor me, Your Majesty. I only say what I think is best for the realm." her voices remain calm as she respond. 
And then, a low snicker escapes from the Queen—soft enough to be brushed off, yet sharp enough to cut. 
 “How refreshing,” she says, lifting her goblet with practiced grace. 
“To have wisdom so freely offered by one so young. The council must be quite fortunate to receive such... clarity.” The remark is wrapped in velvet, but the thorns beneath are unmistakable. Elira offers a faint smile, the kind that hides more than it reveals. 
“I only speak when I believe it is needed, Your Majesty. And only when permitted.”
The Queen appears to measure herself by the slight narrowing of her eyes.
"The thing about the refugee crisis at the eastern border doesn't let me feel calm lately. Perhaps you could offer me your advice now?" the King continues, his tone measured, though the words carry weight. "What should I do to pass through this crisis?"
He says it almost casually, as if offhand—but Elira knows better. The phrasing is too deliberate, the moment too well-timed. This wasn’t spontaneous. He had planned to ask her this, here, in front of the Queen, the Princess, and Kael.
She doesn’t respond right away. Her posture remains composed, but her mind sharpens with quiet urgency. What is the King’s purpose in asking this now? Was he truly seeking her insight—or was this a test?
And if it is a test... why?
To gauge her usefulness? Her loyalty? Or perhaps to see how she navigates pressure, how she thinks on her feet when the stakes are steep and the audience watchful?
Her eyes flick, briefly, to Kael. He says nothing. Neither does the Queen, though Elira feels her scrutiny like a blade resting just shy of skin.
"The eastern villages sit empty while our capital’s slums overflow. Why not offer land grants in those villages to refugees? They rebuild abandoned farms, the crown regains taxable land, and we weaken bandit recruitment in the slums." she respond carefully, watching the king expression as she speak.
The king tilt his head, then nod.
"A practical solution... "The King’s gaze lingers on Elira. "Land grants are a bold proposal. Bold enough to offend certain lords who profit from those empty villages." he glances at the the queen who stiffen by his remark.
A beat. "Would you stand by such a plan, Lady Rennar, even if it meant opposing your father?"
The King’s words settle heavily in the room.
The mention of her father sends a chill through Elira, though she hides it well behind her composed expression. Duke Malven had never liked her speaking out without his permission. To him, her voice was only valid when echoing his agenda. Even if the King himself had extended the invitation, she doubted her father would welcome it. She was meant to support him, not overshadow him.
“I only offer what I believe serves the realm, Your Majesty,” she replies steadily, choosing her words with care. “Not to please—nor to oppose—anyone in particular.”
The King smiles, slow and deliberate.
“Then perhaps you’ll join tomorrow’s council, Lady Rennar,” he says, his tone smooth but his intent unmistakable. “I doubt Malven will dare obstruct his own daughter.”
Elira opens her mouth to answer—to navigate this delicate suggestion with cautious diplomacy—but the Queen cuts in, her voice like silk wrapped around a blade.
“How … domestic,” she mused, lifting her goblet with false sweetness. 
"One admires Lady Rennar’s... unconventional ideas. Though I wonder if stability is best served by those whose own houses are so... divided." the queen talk to the king with sweetly vicious tone then divert her attention to Elira again.
“I recall your mother had rustic ideals before her… tragic decline.”
Elira’s throat went dry. The mention of her mother—her vanished mother—felt like a blade sliding between ribs. Her fingers tighten around her fork, her pulse thrums in her throat—but her face remains calm.
It’s a name rarely spoken. A subject avoided like dust swept beneath the fine carpets of Malven Hall. Elira’s knowledge of her is a collection of half-truths and silences. She had been the Duke’s second wife, kept out of public view, her presence quiet, her legacy quieter. And her bloodline—her secret—buried deeper than any grave.
But tragic decline?
Elira’s fork stilled mid-bite. She’d heard whispers of her mother’s "melancholia"—a convenient lie for a woman who’d scratched at her own skin during full moons. Was the Queen dangling a threat? Or merely savoring her discomfort?  What exactly had the Queen meant? Her words are poised enough to pass for civility, but they bristle with intent. Was it a reference to her mother’s disappearance? Her rumored death? Or something more… deliberate?
Elira frowns slightly, not from visible anger, but from calculation.
"I never knew her well enough to say, Your Majesty." Elira said, her voice cool as marble "But I’ve learned silence often speaks louder than... unsupported rumors."
"Your mother had such... passionate opinions. Pity they unsettled her mind in the end. Blood tells, doesn’t it?" the queen continue.
Blood. Does she knows_ or suspects it? Does the queen what to make it clear that she is aware about werewolf bloodline that her father desperately hide? And if they make the King believes madness runs in Malven blood... the concubine’s son would lose his strongest ally. Was that her warning?
 The Queen exchange a knowing glances with the princess. They knew more than she let on—and she wanted Elira to know it. Yet the queen refuse to speak more.
"Kael, remember our campaign? True stability requires strength, not charity," Princess Ilyana says smoothly, her voice laced with warmth—and something else beneath it. She leans closer, Ilyana’s fingers traced the embroidery on Kael’s sleeve. 
Her eyes challenged Elira across the table. Kael remained statue-still, though Elira saw the muscle leap in his jaw. His heartbeat thudded—a trapped drum against the cage of his ribs. Was it anger? Shame? She couldn’t tell. And that uncertainty stung more than Ilyana’s touch.
The message is unmistakable: a contrast to Elira’s softer, more diplomatic tone. Ilyana doesn’t just offer her opinion—she frames it as a shared memory, a bond forged in the field, beyond the reach of court politics. And her choice of words? Precise. Meant to challenge, to corner Elira subtly under the guise of casual conversation.
Ilyana’s fingers lingered on Kael’s sleeve—a display of intimacy, yes, but more: a branding. See where his loyalty belongs? The message wasn’t for Elira. It was for the King watching them. For the Queen. For the ghosts of the court who whispered that a warrior’s hand could steady a princess’s crown.
Kael didn’t pull away from Ilyana’s touch, but his knuckles whitened around his wineglass. Elira noted the tension in his shoulders—the same rigidity he wore on the battlefield when awaiting an ambush. Was he shielding her? Or himself? 
The silence stretches—thick, taut—until the King, with an ease that feels almost rehearsed, lifts his goblet and breaks it.
"Oh well, my bad," he says with a light chuckle, the kind that smooths over tension without ever truly easing it. "I invited you two to have dinner. We're not supposed to talk about politics here."
The King’s chuckle was too smooth, too rehearsed. His eyes—sharp as flint—never left Elira’s face. This dinner wasn’t a celebration; it was a snare. He’d flushed his quarry into the open: her loyalty, her fears, her father’s weakness.
The rest of the meal passed in a blur of forced smiles and flavorless courses. The ambrosial roast lamb lay cold and unappetizing on her plate.
After saying goodbye to the royal family, Elira and Kael strolled softly into the deserted hall after the dinner was over. Elira was still thinking about what had happened in the dining hall. She frowns at each of them.
Ilyana’s laughter, bright and possessive. The Queen’s icy scrutiny. The King’s watchful calm. They weren’t just enemies—they were architects of a game where Elira was both pawn and prey. Kael’s favor with the King was Ilyana’s key to the throne. 
Ilyana’s hand on Kael’s arm wasn’t just a claim—it was a statement. With Kael as her consort, the Princess wouldn’t just inherit the throne; she’d command its armies. And Elira? She was the splinter in their boot. The Malven daughter who’d married the Queen’s favorite weapon.
The Queen’s smirk lingered like poison. If they discovered what she was… Kael’s loyalty wouldn’t save her. Silver wouldn’t just burn her skin—it would end her line.
Her father’s face flashed in her mind—cold, ambitious. He’d sold her to Kael to buy influence for the concubine’s son. Now the Queen would scorch that plan to ash... and Elira with it.
They were three paces from the carriage when the night air fractured.
"Commander Kael..."
Princess Ilyana's voice dripped like honeyed wine as she materialized behind them. Before Kael could turn fully, she'd already claimed his arm - her fingers slithering through the crook of his elbow with practiced ease. That saccharine smile flashed first at him, then at Elira. A challenge wrapped in silk.
Elira observed the display with glacial composure. How quaint. The princess still plays the hungry wolf circling another's kill.
But Kael—his body turned to stone the moment Ilyana made contact. And those eyes... those traitorous eyes immediately sought Elira's. What did he search for? Anger? Hurt? Some performative wifely outrage?
The real question coiled sharper in her ribs: Why should she care to give him one?
Princess Ilyana rose onto her toes, her lips brushing the shell of Kael's ear in a mockery of intimacy. The scent of her rosewater perfume clashed with the winter air as she whispered:
"It's about your father."
Kael's breath hitched—his pupils swallowing irises whole. The transformation was instantaneous: warrior to wounded boy. His mouth parted, ready to break their year-long stalemate—
"Take your time, husband."
Elira's voice cut through the night, colder than the steel at Kael's hip. She turned away before seeing how the word husband made him flinch—as if she'd driven a blade between his ribs instead of wielding their contract like the weapon it was.
Yet she felt it. That burning gaze following her retreating form, lingering long enough to blister. Let him stare. Let him choke on the first term of endearment she'd ever granted him.
Ilyana's nails sank into Kael's forearm, dragging him back. "You'll want to hear this," she purred, but Elira's hybrid ears caught the tremor beneath the threat.
The carriage door shut with finality. Only then did Elira's claws pierce her palms—twin crescents of pain to match the one carving through her chest.
Stupid.
That word—husband—changed nothing. Not the terms of their agreement, not the wolf-hunter's blade hanging over her throat, and certainly not the princess's letters hidden in his study.
Blood would tell. It always did.