[Cassandra’s POV]
The great hall reeks of politics and pretense. I watch Lord Corwin present another precedent from the dusty archives, his voice droning through case law everyone here already knows.
The Alliance observers nod along, scribes recording every word for reports that will be filed and forgotten.
Theater. All of it. Father's delegate sits three seats to my left, presenting our formal objections with the precision of a man reading from a script.
"The House of Blue Dragon maintains that the Luminary Protocol was invoked under circumstances that constitute deliberate fraud. The dragon egg was smuggled into Black Dragon territory through covert means, representing an act of warfare disguised as sanctuary-seeking."
Draven responds with the exact rebuttals we anticipated days ago. The Protocol makes no distinction regarding how a Luminary arrives, only that they require sanctuary and the bonding is genuine. Both conditions were verified by neutral observers. Case closed.
I let the words wash over me without listening. The legal framework is sound—I reviewed every precedent myself. The Alliance verification was thorough, witnessed by three bonded riders and a loremaster whose reputation is beyond question.
Father wants the dragon through political channels, through legal challenges and diplomatic pressure. He believes power can override precedent.
He's wrong. The Protocol will hold because it was designed to hold. Three hundred years of legal architecture built to protect what Evelyn has become. But I don't want what the law can give me.
I shift my gaze across the hall to where she stands beside Draven at the high table. My sister. Silver hair restored to its natural brilliance, no longer hiding behind dark dye and deception. She wears grey and black—the High House colors—standing tall with her shoulders squared and her hands resting calmly on the table.
She should be cowering. Should be broken, crushed under the weight of Father's fury and the realm's scrutiny and her own inadequacy made manifest. The weak daughter. The disappointment. The girl who couldn't hold a candle without burning herself. Instead she looks like the woman the prophecy warned about.
Through the open terrace doors, Aspis gleams on the highest roost—white scales like polished bone in afternoon sun, wings folded with perfect symmetry, golden eyes watching the proceedings.
The dragon has grown enormous, already approaching Lord Draven’s dragon’s size, power radiating in visible waves that make the mounted blacks shift restlessly.
The stronger sister. The chosen one. The girl who should never have been born first, who should never have existed to cast her shadow across my life.
I watch Evelyn's hand rest on Draven's forearm, watch the way he turns his head slightly toward her when she whispers something, watch the bond between them that goes deeper than politics or alliance.
She has claimed everything—the dragon, the man, the power, the destiny that should have been mine. And she stands there like she deserves it.
"Lady Cassandra." Father's delegate is speaking to me, his voice cutting through my focus. "The formal inquiry regarding territorial sovereignty—your testimony would support the broader argument."
I turn to him with a smile that feels like glass in my mouth. "Of course. Though I suspect Lord Draven will counter with the same jurisdictional precedents we've already discussed. The Protocol supersedes territorial claims when a bonded pair seeks sanctuary."
"Nevertheless, the record should reflect—"
"The record will reflect exactly what the Alliance observers wish it to reflect." I keep my voice pleasant, reasonable, the dutiful daughter supporting her father's case. "But I'm happy to provide testimony if the delegation believes it will strengthen our position."
It won't. We both know it won't. This entire proceeding is performance art—Father making his formal objections, Draven standing firm behind ancient law, the Alliance documenting everything so no one can claim they weren't heard. The outcome was decided the moment Aspis flew before witnesses. Everything since has been theater.
Two hours later, Corwin calls for an evening recess. The delegations will reconvene tomorrow for closing arguments and formal documentation. Tonight there will be a feast, because apparently near-war and legal battles require celebratory meals where everyone pretends to tolerate each other.
I excuse myself during the preliminary arrangements, citing fatigue from travel and a need for fresh air. Father's delegate barely notices—he's already negotiating tomorrow's schedule with Sera, trying to extract one more day of proceedings that won't change anything.
Kael catches my eye as I leave, and I see the question there. I shake my head once—not now—and he turns back to the discussion without pressing.
The compound is vast in the failing light. I walk through courtyards I recognize from Venna's intelligence, past training grounds where warriors drill with focused intensity. The architecture is heavier than Mintian design, built to withstand coastal storms.
But I know this place now. Know the guard rotations, the patrol patterns, the blind corners. Know which doors lead to the private wing and which servants use which passages.
Venna's intelligence was thorough. More thorough than Father realizes. She gave me everything—floor plans sketched from memory, routine patterns, security weaknesses that someone from inside would recognize. She gave me what I needed. Whether she understood why is another question.
I trace a path along the eastern wall, up stairs that climb toward the residential quarters. Memorizing and preparing. My hand brushes the knife concealed in my sleeve—not the ceremonial blade at my hip that everyone can see, but the working weapon hidden where only someone looking would find it.
The witch's words echo through my head like a prayer or a curse, depending on your perspective. "The prophecy ends when you end it. With your own hands. Blood calls to blood, sister to sister, the stronger extinguishing the weaker."
Mother said the witch looked at her with eyes that saw through decades and certainties, and she said there was only one way to break a prophecy written in blood.
Father thinks this is about politics. About reclaiming stolen property and asserting House authority. He sees dragons and legal frameworks and Alliance negotiations.
He doesn't understand that some destinies can't be negotiated. Can't be argued or bent through political pressure.
The prophecy said one of us would rise and one would fall. It didn't say the prophecy was permanent. Didn't say the chosen one couldn't be unmade by the one she cast into shadow.
I complete my circuit of the compound as twilight deepens. Return to the great hall where servants are setting up for the evening feast, laying out silver and crystal that catches torchlight like captured stars. Take my place at the high table with appropriate grace, accepting wine and responding to diplomatic small talk.
Across the table, Evelyn sits beside Draven. She catches my eye and smiles—small, uncertain, still trying to bridge the gap between us even after everything. Still hoping that blood and childhood and shared history might mean something beyond the prophecy that divided us before we understood what we were.
My sister. Still naive enough to believe forgiveness is possible. Tonight, while the delegations feast and argue and perform their political theater, while Father's delegate makes his formal objections and Draven stands behind ancient law, I will end this. Not through courts or councils.
With my own hands. The way the witch said it had to be done. The way it was always going to end from the moment we were born under the same cursed stars.