The Hall of Echoes lived up to its name.
Every breath, every footstep, every faltered word bounced off the stone pillars and came back louder, crueler. Elowen stood at the center, surrounded by the carved names of long-dead kings—each one watching, judging.
She swallowed hard and tried again.
“From House Halden was born King Elric the First, followed by… by his son—”
Her voice caught. The name teetered on her tongue, unspoken. Her eyes flicked down to the scroll, desperately searching the next line, but her breath hitched.
It rang louder than any voice. A sharp rustle, followed by the violent rip of parchment being torn from its resting place.
The scroll flew across the marble floor, skidding with a whispering hiss until it stopped near her slipper.
Lord Alderwyn’s voice snapped through the air like a whip.
“A queen who mumbles is no queen at all.”
The words cracked and spun through the chamber, echoing off stone like arrows ricocheting off armor. Elowen flinched, just barely.
“Do you think your enemies will wait for you to find the right date?” he barked, pacing a tight circle around her. “Speak as if the court’s future depends on every syllable—because it does.”
She didn’t answer. There was nothing to say that wouldn’t sound like an excuse. And Alderwyn had no interest in excuses.
He didn’t offer corrections. No direction. No encouragement. Only a glare and the sound of his boots turning away.
His cloak swept behind him, heavy and dramatic, trailing like a curtain drawn across a stage that had seen a poor performance.
Elowen stood frozen, staring at the scroll by her feet. She didn’t bend to pick it up.
The silence returned—this time thicker, heavier, suffocating.
Her jaw tightened. She clenched her fists so tightly her knuckles ached.
She waited until the last echo of his footsteps died into the stone. Then, and only then, did she let the breath escape from her lungs in one long, shaky exhale.
Her fingers twitched at her sides, itching to throw something. A candlestick. A book. Anything that would shatter and scream with her.
Instead, she stood still, trembling with the effort to remain composed.
“One wrong word,” she muttered under her breath, staring at the marble. “And they act like the kingdom will fall.”
She retrieved the scroll slowly, her fingers brushing over the names she hadn’t yet mastered. They looked back at her with disappointment, as if even ink could judge.
That evening, Elowen walked alone through the frost-rimmed gardens behind the tower.
She didn’t speak to the guards. She didn’t want to be seen. Her thoughts chased her faster than her steps—memories of the hall, Alderwyn’s disdain, and the echo of her own failure looping over and over in her mind.
She didn’t hear him approach at first. But then a familiar voice came from behind her, low and even, with just enough dryness to cut through her silence.
“You always breathe like you’re trying not to scream.” Cillian’s voice held no mockery, but no softness either.
When she turned, he was already leaning against one of the stone arches, arms crossed, watching her with that unreadable stare he seemed to wear more often now.
She didn’t speak immediately. She only met his gaze with narrowed eyes.
“That’s because I usually am,” she muttered at last, her voice quieter than she intended.
He pushed off the wall and walked beside her, hands still tucked in his cloak.
“You can’t keep walking around like the castle’s a blade waiting to fall on your neck,” he said. “You’re supposed to be the one holding the sword.”
She didn’t answer, but he glanced at her sideways, then added, “If you’re going to pace in the dark, you may as well be learning something.”
She raised an eyebrow, wary but curious. “Are you offering to be my tutor now?”
“No,” he said. “I’m offering to be your opponent.”
That stopped her. “You want to spar. With words.”
He nodded. “Pretend I’m a foreign envoy. Someone who doesn’t think you deserve the crown. Convince me I’m wrong.”
At first, she hesitated, caught between the chill in her bones and the sting still clinging to her pride. But then her chin lifted, and she stepped toward him.
“Very well,” she said. “Then speak, envoy.”
Cillian’s entire posture shifted as he fell into the role. His voice took on the edge of polished arrogance, and his words were smooth and deliberate.
“You rise too fast. Your blood is untested. Your court whispers behind closed doors, and your enemies outnumber your allies. What do you have to offer a kingdom still licking its wounds?”
Elowen’s answer came with a spark in her voice.
“I offer the fire that survives ash. I didn’t inherit this name—I earned it. And if fear keeps you silent until respect can speak, then so be it. But I will not wait for permission to lead.”
He stepped closer, arms still crossed. “And when your people look at you and see a scandal in silk, what then?”
“They’ll learn to look again,” she said. “Or they’ll learn to bow.”
There was a pause between them, stretched like a held breath. Then Cillian nodded, slowly.
“Impressive,” he said, the edge of a grin tugging at his mouth. “Scary, even.”
She allowed herself a smile for the first time that day. “Good. Fear will do, until respect follows.”
Their eyes held for a moment longer, and then a cough broke the air between them. A servant had appeared at the edge of the garden path, head bowed.
“Forgive me, my lady,” he said softly. “Sir Cillian is to report to the barracks. He has been reassigned—by royal command.”