Vane makes a sharp lunge across the polished oak table, his fingers clawing toward the edge of the yellowed parchment. Chandler pulls the heavy scroll back just in time, his young voice ringing clear and steady over his father's sudden gasp. Several guards near the arched doorway shift their weight, their hands hovering over silver hilts as the elder tries to snatch the text. Nobody moves to help Vane, the surrounding lords watching him stumble with cold indifference.
“Read it, boy,” Malakor snarls from the opposite bench, his face darkening with a mix of fury and disbelief. “Read what you actually see, not what your father paid you to memorize.”
Chandler clears his throat, his eyes scanning down the faded columns of ink while the air in the chamber grows thin. “By ancient laws of the blood bonder,” he reads, the words bouncing off the stone walls, “the realm is commanded to protect and keep the maker happy, for the sake of endless sustenance. Furthermore, the blood bonder is to marry a single member of the royal family.”
A heavy silence settles over the assembly, wiping the smug grins off the faces of the senior elders. Levin crosses his arms, leaning back against the cold stone pillar with an expression of mild, infuriating amusement. I stare straight ahead, my fingers curling tightly into the folds of my velvet gown . Vane freezes mid-reach, his hands trembling slightly above the table as he realizes the trap he invited into the room.
“That provision is obsolete,” Vane splutters, his voice cracking on the syllable before he catches himself. “It was written centuries ago for entirely different circumstances.”
“The scroll does not list an expiration date, Lord Vane,” the neutral head count member points out dryly, adjusting his spectacles without looking up from his ledger. “Nor does it grant exceptions for grumpy elders who dislike floral scents.”
A few muffled snorts come from the lower benches, quickly swallowed by coughs. I keep my expression locked in absolute calm, though my thoughts race through the logistics of what this means for my court. If the old laws hold absolute power here, Levin is no longer just a clever customer or an illegal guest. He is legally tethered to the very core of our survival, whether I want him near my throne or not.
“There is more,” Chandler continues, his gaze flicking nervously toward Malakor before returning to the yellowed page. “By ancient law, the blood bonder is permitted to make a single new law upon taking their royal vows.”
Malakor slams his fist onto the wooden table, the heavy thud echoing like a distant tomb door closing. “This is madness,” he roars, standing up so fast his chair screeches against the stone flags. “We are surrendering our entire autonomy to an outsider who smells like spring meadows and magic tricks!”
“Sit down, Malakor,” I say softly, the quiet danger in my tone cutting through his rant instantly. He drops back into his seat, jaw clenched so tight I can hear the bone grind from across the room.
Chandler takes a shallow breath, his knuckles white where he grips the bottom of the parchment. “And finally,” he whispers, though the absolute quiet in the room makes every syllable carry like a bell. “If the court does not accept the blood bonder, the court is found in contempt and its members are to be questioned for potential treason. Anyone found guilty is to be executed.”
The silence that follows is absolute, heavy enough to crush bone. Vane drops entirely into his chair, his skin turning the pale, chalky gray of winter ash. Across the chamber, panic ripples through the rows of elders as they calculate the math of their own past corruption. Malakor's mouth opens and closes without sound, his arrogant posture folding inward as the realization hits him. Rejecting Levin no longer means winning a political argument; it means signing every single elder's death warrant.