Velastra while eating spotted a soldier—armor blackened, stamped with the sigil of the Court of Chains—stood at rigid attention in the archway. Steam from the kitchens curled around his boots. His expression was carved from stone.
He didn't bow.
He didn't need to.
"Your Highness," he said. "You are summoned."
Cael's spine stiffened. As long as she is in the east wing, the king never summoned her. Thus, somehow he felt a trigger of suspicion.
"The full circle sits," he said. "The high seats are occupied. All twelve."
She stilled.
That hadn't happened in a century.
Even the most vital matters—war, famine, bloodline disputes—rarely drew more than half.
"All twelve?" she repeated, voice clipped.
"They wait," the soldier said.
Velastra's hand unconsciously tapped his hand— calming him. Every changes in his gaze, she can tell. She knew, the soldier's presence challenged his wit.
But the Court of Chains never waited long. Thus, she stood to obey.
Behind her, Cael's voice was faint.
"Is something wrong?"
She did not turn. But his voice, strengthen her, calmed her blazing spirit and brought a smile.
"Eat the last one," she said, not answering his question. "When I come back, make me some again."
Cael stared at her- hoping his gaze can stop her.
---
Metals clashing. It was not the slam of anger.
It was the hush of armor being re-fitted.
He sat alone, elbows on the table, surrounded by the aftermath of their failed cooking—cracked rice balls, bitter wine, a single scorched leaf curled like ash on the plate between them.
It would have been funny once.
He might have laughed.
But now, the silence pressed in differently.
He picked up the last Suveril ball. The one she told him to eat.
He bit into it.
It was terrible, not warm, not even edible. She lied.
But he chewed slowly, swallowing the taste, tasting something else beneath it—something that wasn't food . And in his mind, he speaks, 'Even bad rice is better than cold regrets.'
Cael looked at her. Then, he stood, ajar by a breath.
Then, without waiting for permission, Cael stepped forward, his hands steady as he reached for the buckle at her side and helped her.
His fingers brushed against the bruised leather, the still-tender fabric beneath. She didn't flinch this time—but her breathing changed.
"Your help came late," she murmured, not moving away.
"I know," he said, tightening the strap just enough.
Their eyes met—brief, quiet. No chains between them now. No commands. Only something raw and quiet and nearly unbearable.
Cael looked away first.
"The Court doesn't like waiting," she said.
Cael didn't answer.
Instead, he pulled something from his wrist.
"I made this," he said, unfolding it slowly.
It was a bracelet—simple, but immaculately woven. Thin cords of charred-black and silvered thread, braided together in a pattern only someone with too much time in isolation would have the patience to craft.
She reached for it wordlessly.
"It's warded," Cael added. "Old Nirhaleth's weave of protection. It'll warm your meridian. Cool them when your pulse spikes. I thought... it might help."
Velastra took it like it was glass.
"Is this—"
"It's not a collar," he said. "And it's not an apology."
She nodded, her throat working. "Then what is it?"
"A tether," he said. "So you remember where to come back."
Velastra smiled faintly.
And when she left moments later, it was on her wrist.
And the corridor never felt so long.
---
Cael hadn't seen the soldier's face, only the way Velastra's body changed when she saw him. Her posture. Her breath. How her eyes fired.
He knew where she will be going, even if it hadn't been spoken aloud.
The Court of Chains.
Only once in his life had he been taken there. When his people still resisted. When the king still feared him.
He remembered the room as a pit, its ceiling too high and its seats too far—twelve shadows watching from on high, while the condemned were made to kneel, their words stripped from them like skin.
He remembered the smell of fire and old iron.
And Velastra.
She'd stood between him and them even then.
That moment, he cannot hate her, even if he wanted to.
Cael rose slowly, walking to the window. The palace below was quiet, glowing gold with oillight. The celebrations had long since faded—no drums, no horns, just the usual night patrol and the hush of courtly dread returning like fog.
"Will she be fine?" He murmured to the air.
---
The chamber swallowed sound.
Twelve thrones loomed above, black-stone and ancient. No torchlight. No warmth. Only the pale, shifting glow of the oathflame suspended from the high dome—fueled by blood and law.
Velastra stood beneath it.
Her boots echoed faintly as she stopped at the circle's heart.
Her fingers stayed at her side—lightly brushing the bracelet Cael had tied to her wrist. It pulsed faintly with warmth.
Calming her.
Above her, the twelve finally spoke—one voice at first, joined in ritual.
"Velastra Sael'Vareth. Commander of the Eastern Flame. Daughter of the Crown. Oathbearer to the Bound Flame."
The titles dragged behind her like chains.
A different voice—old, cold, female—spoke next:
"You have been summoned for acting against our people's justice."
Another voice, male, clipped and precise:
"Cael of Nirhaleth is not your kin. Not your equal. He is oath-bound, body sealed, power nullified not for you to care nor to protect—you violates the spirit of the Chain Doctrine."
"He was meant to be contained, to be tortured, to be weak," another said. "Not… claimed."
Velastra lifted her eyes. There was no fire in her expression—only clarity.
A breath passed. She glanced down—just once—at the bracelet on her wrist. Then raised her head again.
Her voice sharpened, not in volume, but in truth, in warning for their next words.
"If Cael dies…."
Silence.
It didn't fall.
It crashed.
Even the oathflame above her dimmed.
She stepped forward—just one pace but it felt she stepped closest to each of them.
"If he will be gone, so does my sanity. I will burn cities to the root. I will tear the chains from their altars. I will become madness itself."
She paused and turned around.
"He is not a threat to Irithiel."
"But I am."
There was no sound for a long time.
Then the thrones stirred.
A low ripple of motion—robes shifting, oaths humming, ancient breath drawn as though the chamber itself had been holding it.
The First Speaker leaned forward. His voice was no louder than wind across a blade.
"Is that a threat, Velastra Sael'Vareth?"
Velastra didn't answer.
She stepped one more pace forward.
Her hand moved—not fast, not sudden—but certain. And she drew her sword.
Not the ceremonial blade of her rank.
Not the gilded longsword granted to her by the eastern flames.
No—this was her personal blade.
Forged in her youth. Tempered in blood by her mother.
And as it slid free, the oathflame flickered wildly, throwing shadows against the walls like devouring wings.
Twelve voices—some surprised, some unsettled—spoke across each other.
"You unsheathe a weapon in the Court—"
"You breach sacred law—"
"You are armed before the Thrones—"
But it was the Elder, seated in the throne of Judgment, who silenced them all with one word.
"Stop."
He rose—slowly. Robes the color of ash trailed down the carved steps as he stepped forward to show his face. His skin was translucent, eyes like burned bone, voice the sound of dying stars. It was her Grandfather, her mother's.
"This is not defiance…"
His gaze pierced Velastra. Velastra meets his. The Elder smiled- somehow proud.
"This is lineage."
Murmurs broke.
The oldest among them remembered.
Remembered her mother—Serathe of the Hollow Crown.
The only woman in the last age to stand in this Court, eyes dark as black suns, and declare:
"If you will force me to marry another, I will unmake the sky."
She had nearly done it.
The old ones knew what madness looked like.
Velastra's sword dipped slightly, not in submission—but in reminder.
And her voice came, low and clear:
"You speak of justice. I speak of grief."
"And there is no rebellion more complete… than a woman with nothing left to lose."
Then—her pupils shifted.
The color left her irises, until only pale grey remained. Dim. Cold. Hollow.
The air dropped.
The oaths tethering the chamber groaned, threads quivering like harp strings stretched too tight.
And in that instant, the Court knew.
Irithiel would not burn.
It would fall.
Into a chasm deeper than war.
Deeper than flame.
Into the abyss her bloodline knew too well.
The Elder stepped forward, robes trailing, pale eyes steady.
The other lords bowed their heads, slightly—not out of respect, but reverence sharpened by fear.
Only Velastra met his gaze.
"Orren Vhailar," one of the judges whispered, "Ash-Seer… her blood…"
He looked not at the others, but only at Velastra.
"You carry her fire, child," he said.
Velastra did not lower her blade.
"You knew this would come," she replied. "You watched it rise in me all these years. And still you did nothing."
Orren didn't answer.
The king stepped once from the shadow. Then, his pale hand raised—not in command, but in finality.
The eleven thrones hesitated.
But slowly, one by one, they nodded.
The Ninth Throne—the Throne of Ash—spoke the decree.
"Let it be recorded. By blood-right and witness of flame, the Court of Chains shall not lay hand nor blade on Cael of Nirhaleth—"
A pause.
"unless he breaks the sacred law of Irithiel."
A ripple of murmured approval followed, though none dared speak too loud.
The decree sealed itself in the oathflame above, flaring once in brilliant silver before dimming again.
Velastra's fingers loosened on her blade—but she did not sheath it yet.
The king sharp-robed, impatient—answered. "Do not let him become your blindfold."
Orren lifted a hand. And the eleven elders didn't add words.
Then, softly, to Velastra:
"Do you accept the Court's condition?"
Her gaze narrowed. For a moment, the threat still lived behind her eyes.
But finally, she lowered the blade.
"He will not break your laws," she said.
"Because I will break first whatever dares provoke him."
She turned, cloak sweeping behind her like smoke rolling off battlefields long past.
The king said no more, but his eyes, ancient and dim as dusk, watched her leave with something almost like hatred.