Chapter Four: The Gathering Without a Crown

  The hall was smaller than the Grand Accord, but no less dangerous. This was House Vaelthorn’s private assembly chamber—elegant, dimly lit, and far too beautiful for anything honest. Polished black stone underfoot. Sculpted columns shaped like twisting vines. Oil-lamps flickered low in glass cages, casting moving shadows across the room like creeping hands.

  The queen was absent. So were the rules.

  Lysara stepped through the arched doorway, her cloak trailing like smoke behind her. She wore the same diplomatic mask—porcelain white, gold-lined, expressionless—but tonight, it felt heavier. Not in weight. In meaning.

  There were only twenty nobles present, but it felt like a hundred eyes turned her way. Some nodded. Some whispered. Some stared too long.

  She said nothing. Only offered a slight tilt of her head as she crossed the floor, her footsteps barely audible on the obsidian tiles. She didn’t need to speak first. The silence always spoke for her.

  At the far end of the room, a voice cut through the quiet.

  “I must admit, Lady Korr… I was hoping you’d arrive unmasked this time.”

  Lysara paused.

  The voice belonged to the same young lord from the summit—elegant, clean-cut, a touch too sharp in the jaw to be truly harmless. Lord Ciernan Vale. His coat was ash grey with a crimson collar, and a sigil of a broken mirror was pinned at his breast.

  He offered a small, ironic bow.

  “I find myself endlessly curious about the face behind the diplomacy.”

  Lysara turned her head just slightly toward him.

  “Then I suppose I’ve done my job.”

  That earned a few quiet chuckles from those nearby.

  Ciernan smiled—not wounded, not flustered. Amused. He stepped a little closer, not too close, holding a crystal glass of something golden. “You know, there are whispers in the lower courts that you don’t have a face at all. That you were born with the mask.”

  “Then they’re clearly speaking with people who’ve never seen me negotiate,” she replied.

  Another ripple of laughter.

  Ciernan’s smile didn’t fade. “I’ve seen you negotiate. That’s what worries me.”

  Lysara let that one linger. She didn’t smile, didn’t move. Just tilted her head slightly and said, “You should be worried. But not about me.”

  That silenced him—for just a breath. But it wasn’t a retreat. It was interest.

  He gave a slow, respectful nod, then stepped aside to let her pass. “Enjoy the evening, Lady Korr.”

  She didn’t look back. But she could feel his eyes on her all the way to her seat.

  House Drelan Approaches

  She had just taken her seat—near the center but not the head of the table—when a figure peeled away from a cluster of nobles dressed in deep midnight blue.

  Lady Rhiess Drelan. Her expression was pleasant. Her posture graceful. Her voice—a silk thread drawn across a blade.

  “Lady Korr,” she said warmly. “I was hoping we’d get a moment tonight.”

  Lysara gave a slight nod, her hands folded in her lap. “Lady Drelan.”

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  Rhiess tilted her head, the jewels in her collar catching the firelight like drops of blood. “I must admit, I’ve been quite impressed by your recent maneuvering. Not many can navigate Queen Malenne’s court without bleeding.”

  “I wear the mask to avoid stains,” Lysara said softly.

  Rhiess chuckled, then leaned just a little closer. “I wonder, though… when will you start using it to hide the blade you’re sharpening beneath?”

  Lysara didn’t respond right away. She met Rhiess’s eyes through the slits of her mask—gold rim catching the flicker of firelight. Calm. Composed.

  But inside, her pulse slowed. Not from fear. From focus.

  She could feel the shift, like a door unlocking deep within her chest. The world narrowed. The mask didn’t just cover her face—it restrained something. And right now, it strained against its hinges.

  "Let her keep playing the diplomat," the chip had said. "The longer she wears that mask, the easier it is to decide when to break it."

  Lysara’s fingers pressed softly against the edge of her seat. She didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. But in her mind, she saw the movement it would take to silence Rhiess. Three steps. One twist. No witnesses. The Scythe of Repentance would hum for blood. The other Lysara would smile.

  But she didn’t move. She smiled instead. Just a little.

  “A sharpened blade is only dangerous when it slips,” Lysara said. “I prefer mine to stay exactly where I intend it.”

  Rhiess’s smile faltered—just slightly. She straightened, glass in hand, and let out a quiet breath. “Of course. Precision is a Korr trait, after all.”

  She turned to leave—but paused. “And Lady Korr… do be careful where you point it.”

  Lysara watched her walk away. Only then did she allow herself to exhale. The pressure inside her chest eased. The door closed.

  But she could still hear the hinge creak.

  The Interruption

  The gathering continued around her—nobles sipping, whispering, pretending none of them had just tried to out-threat one another. The air was thick with perfume, arrogance, and half-finished lies.

  Lysara remained seated, calm, unmoving. Her fingers still rested lightly on the table, where they had moments before been curled tight with invisible fury.

  That was when she felt it. A subtle shift in the room’s energy.

  Bastian had arrived. He never entered unless it mattered.

  He stepped through the archway like he belonged there—which, in a way, he did. Dressed not in formal court attire, but his dark steward's coat, simple yet flawless. His eyes swept the room once, then locked on her.

  He approached quietly, then leaned just enough for only her to hear.

  “Forgive the intrusion, my lady. There's a matter requiring your immediate attention.”

  She looked at him—calm, unreadable behind her mask—but something in her shoulders shifted. Permission.

  She stood with grace and murmured to the table, “If you’ll excuse me. Korr matters call.”

  Lord Ciernan watched her go. So did Rhiess. She didn’t look back.

  Outside the Chamber

  The doors closed behind them with a heavy thud.

  "Talk," she said the moment they were alone.

  Bastian’s tone was clipped, low, urgent. "House Drelan has begun moving assets into the lower levels. Underground. Quietly, but not quietly enough."

  "Smuggling?"

  "No," he said. "Arming."

  She stopped.

  "They’re using magic users—unregistered. Likely trained in secret. Dangerous. It’s not just leverage. It’s force. They’re preparing to take control of key sectors below. Territory, supply lines, influence. And they’re planning to do it soon."

  Lysara’s pulse slowed again.

  Magic users. The same ones the Church calls cursed. The same ones the crown tries to control. The same ones she used to be afraid to even whisper about.

  "Does the Queen know?"

  Bastian’s silence was the answer. Of course not.

  "She’ll find out when it’s already too late," he said. "When House Drelan has everything they need."

  "And the other Houses?"

  "They’re watching. Some are waiting to join them if it works."

  Lysara looked past him, toward the fading echo of the hall where nobles drank and smiled.

  "They want a war," she whispered.

  Bastian said nothing.

  But when he looked at her again, he didn’t see the diplomat. Not entirely. He saw the shadow behind her eyes. The one she was still holding back. Barely.

  Bastian hesitated. She noticed it. The flicker in his eyes. The way his hand twitched near the edge of his coat.

  "There’s more," she said.

  His voice dropped. Not colder. Just heavier.

  "They torched the East Hollow."

  Lysara stilled.

  The world around her didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just fell into silence.

  The East Hollow. A small, quiet place in the Underground. An abandoned bathhouse turned shelter. A place for the forgotten. For children. A place she helped build years ago, in secret, with Kaelira. No politics. No allegiance. Just safety.

  She spoke very softly.

  "Casualties?"

  Bastian didn’t answer. That was the answer.

  He continued, carefully. "It wasn’t random. Drelan’s men were seen leaving the scene. Quiet clothes. No insignia. But they left a mark."

  "What mark?"

  He hesitated again. Then: "The crown sigil. As if it was sanctioned."

  A beat. Two.

  Then she laughed. Once. Sharp. Dry.

  She turned her head slightly to the side, like she was listening to something only she could hear.

  And in that breath—she clicked. Not outwardly. Not yet. But something shifted in her spine, in her eyes behind the mask, in the way her hands slowly, calmly lowered from her sides.

  She spoke again. But her voice was no longer soft.

  "Tell Kaelira to stay in the smoke. Tell Thorne to seal the apothecary. And tell the Drelan dogs..."

  She turned toward the shadows.

  "...that the Scarecrow remembers."