POV: Mara
The chamber is colder than it needs to be. Stone. Flags. A table that likes to make people feel small. I sit straight anyway. Pia sits behind me, hands on her knees. Silvie on my left, jaw set. On the high seat: the Regent, calm face, iron eyes. At the back wall: Cael, arms folded, mouth a line, eyes a storm he hides badly.
The cold isn’t the kind that comes from weather—it’s the kind that comes from rules. The walls are covered in old trial banners, each one representing a case where someone walked in whole and walked out changed. I stare at the nearest one—a frayed crest of Riverward justice—and try not to imagine my name stitched under it one day. The air tastes like ink and varnish, and the long table smells faintly of the oil they use when something important is about to happen.
Seris enters with papers and perfume. She bows to the Regent, then looks at me like she’s about to buy a chair.
“We’re here to review the status of one Mara Ilyas,” the clerk says, voice dry. “Observed Citizen Review. Questions of origin and claim have been raised.”
“By whom?” I ask.
“Moonfell,” he says. “And parties acting on Moonfell’s behalf.”
“Name the parties,” I say.
He coughs. “Lady Seris Vale’s envoy.”
“Of course,” I say.
The Regent gestures. “Begin.”
Seris smooths a page that doesn’t need smoothing. “We have reason to believe Mara Ilyas was born under Moonfell’s registry,” she says. “Records are incomplete due to… past unrest. But existing fragments suggest lineage. If so, Crownward must recognize Moonfell’s custodial right until proper… placement is arranged.”
My hands go cold. I set them flat on the table so no one sees. My palms feel too hot against the wood, like embarrassment and anger both want out.
“Placement,” Pia mutters behind me. “Like a plant.”
“Ms. Ilyas,” the clerk says, “state your name.”
“Mara Ilyas,” I answer.
“Age.”
“Twenty-three.”
“Occupation.”
“Hearthworks. I feed people. I clean. I keep a ledger.”
My voice is plain, steady. Ordinary. I want to keep it that way.
“Ward or House.”
“None,” I say. “I refuse Ward claim.”
The clerk blinks. “Noted.”
Seris smiles. “Refusal is charming. It is not law.”
She leans forward slightly, like she wants the whole room to know she’s enjoying this. Her rings glitter, each one shaped like a tiny blade—sharp edges disguised as beauty. I know she wears them for effect. I also know she picks her perfumes to weaponize space—sweet enough to feel like kindness, sharp enough to remind you who bought the bottle.
I turn my head. “May I ask a question, Lady Seris?”
“Of course,” she purrs.
“If I am a ledger, why did your maid pay a clerk to plant petals in my route?” My voice is steady. Pia’s hand squeezes my shoulder once. “If this is about lineage, why the games.”
Seris’s smile thins. “You misunderstand my staff.”
“I understand rings,” I say.
A laugh leaks from somewhere. The Regent doesn’t smile, but her eyes flick like she wanted to.
Cael’s voice cuts in from the back, even. “Crownward law recognizes consent before custody,” he says. “Bondlaw. Lowline emancipation applies in all work and residence claims. Ms. Ilyas has declared no wardship. She lives and works under her own name. Any external petition is advisory, not binding.”
His tone is calm, but it drags heat into the room. I can feel the tension uncoil in small threads behind me—Pia’s sigh, Silvie’s shoulders lowering a breath. Cael stands like a pillar hammered into place, arms folded tight, jaw hard enough to cut stone. He isn’t looking at me, but the room feels rearranged around the idea of him standing there.
Seris tilts her head. “We are not speaking of labor or marriage. We are speaking of blood.”
“Blood doesn’t sign contracts,” the Regent says. “People do.”
Seris breathes through her nose. “Then let us verify the blood.”
“No public tests,” the Regent says, firm. “No spectacle.”
Seris lifts her papers, fans them like she’s cooling off anger. “Then delay serves no one.”
“Delay sometimes saves lives,” I say quietly.
Silence. A kind that lands like a coin on stone.
The clerk clears his throat. “Decision: delayed pending verification.”
Seris looks at me like she wants to fold me up and put me in a drawer. “How neat,” she says. “How… local.”
The Regent stands. “Review adjourned.”
Chairs scrape. My legs feel like wood. The chamber temperature rises by a degree just because the tension loosens. Pia slides her hand into mine. “You didn’t shake,” she whispers.
“I did inside,” I say.
The flags overhead sway slightly from the opening door. The corridor outside buzzes faintly with people moving, with the city breathing around us like it always does when politics threatens to climb the stairs.
In the doorway, Cael falls into step beside us without touching. “You did well,” he says.
“I didn’t faint,” I say. “That’s my new skill.”
He huffs a small laugh. His eyes are soft and furious at the same time. I don’t know how he manages both. It looks like two storms braided. “Go back with Jax,” he says. “I have to—”
He stops.
All of us stop.
Outside the high windows, red moves where blue should be.
Flags. Not ours.
At first it looks like a stain in the sky—a smear of color where cloud meets cliff. Then the shapes sharpen. Unfurled banners. Crisp lines. A crest I’ve only ever seen in books or nightmare stories.
On the far cliffs, opposite our bridges, banners unfurl: white on red, Moonfell’s crest. Not just envoys. Soldiers in livery. Rows. Lines. A throat clearing.
It’s too many for a visit. Too organized for a message.
Too quiet for peace.
Pia swears—long, inventive, heartfelt.
Silvie exhales like prayer gone wrong, like she knew this could happen but hoped it never would.
Cael’s jaw sets so hard I hear teeth. His entire posture changes—nothing soft, nothing conflicted, just clean, sharp purpose. The air around him tightens like a drum pulled taut.
“Jax,” he says, already moving. “Positions.”
I can’t feel my hands. The chamber feels far away. My heartbeat sounds like boots on a march, too loud, too fast.
The red banners keep flying.