Once we returned to Ostonia, the summons arrived. The Central High Council demanded our presence. A quick change of clothes, and we were off, leaving Irving Island behind for Wridel Island.

The rebuilt Council Chamber on Capital Hill still smelled of burnt roots.

The last time I stood here, Mouriana had been beside me, her presence welcomed as she forced Lady Lorelai Jojyre to name me Wridel’s Supreme Successor.

That was also the day the Dark Veil cult tried to slaughter the Council. The day Mouriana, in a brutal display of dominance, executed Lord D—Quan.

The Council never forgot that day, and neither did I. Because that was the day I learned that power isn’t enough. Just like mother had said, it has to be wielded with precision. Something Mouriana had mastered and was still teaching me, even in her absence.

The new chamber was a fractured replica of the original.

The old luminescent roots of the Great Wealdel Tree that once pulsed with Gaia’s life magic were gone. Burned to ash when that dark entity had tried to feed from their core. Now, in their place stood a metallic lattice of enchanted crystal; its glow was so artificial, flickering through the runes that had been hastily carved into the chamber’s stone foundation.

It felt wrong. Like stepping into a hollowed-out version of history, where Gaia’s grace had been stripped away and replaced with mechanical fear.

Dark obsidian stone, quarried from the Ravencairn Mountains, shaped the chamber’s curved walls. The six elemental sigils of Wridel’s founding races were carved into them. Overhead, a massive crystal dome that monitored every ripple of magic in the chamber soared.

It didn’t matter that I had walked into the void and survived. Or that I had destroyed a second fragment of the dark and saved at least one of the witches of the Circle of the Willow Coven.

None of that mattered to the Central High Council. They didn’t deal in deeds. They were more focused on narratives. And today, I had been summoned to be painted as Wridel’s newest problem.

The chamber was already filled when we arrived. The councillors and scholars sat in a descending semicircle.

At the centre, on the elevated dais, presided the Lord Chancellor—the man who had seized power after Loreleia’s deposition as regent until my official coronation. I wondered where she was now, if she had managed to escape the mob that had once bayed for her blood.

To his left sat the Fellowship of the Sovereignty, and my mother, the Kingmaker. Beside them, the Council of the Great Houses, their representatives dressed in colours denoting lineage and sector allegiance.

To the right, the Regional Council delegates filled the tiered seats, representing the eight governing sectors of Wridel. Among them, Lord Rael Rithari, the Nelwostian governor, watched me with tight-lipped distrust. No doubt he resented my interference in his territory, his jaw set in restrained fury. But beside him, my father, Governor Arris Le Torneau of Ostonia, sat still and unreadable, his eyes locking onto mine for a heartbeat.

The back rows belonged to the scholars, sages, and tutors, their robes stitched with symbols of their affiliations—the Great Houses, and the Oriental enclaves. They were already whispering, trading theories about the fragment and the Source, quills scratching furiously across parchment as they prepared to dissect me like a specimen.

I stood at the centre of the reconstructed chamber floor, my boots planted on the newly laid obsidian platform with Gaia’s sigil. The truth wards were already active, their invisible tendrils reaching for me, testing me, static humming against my skin.

Devon stood just behind me, dressed in his formal general’s attire. The crest of the Noblesse Oblige was embroidered over his heart on his black tunic. His expression was blank, detached—but I knew better. Behind that mask was a slow-burning irritation, restrained but simmering.

He hated these games of politics, and so did I.

“Lady Le Torneau,” the Lord Chancellor began, his voice echoing off the crystal dome above us. His pale blue eyes assessed me like a book he planned to burn. “You stand here today under the directive of the High Council to provide an account of your actions in the Nelwost sector, as well as the destruction of the entity known as the a fragment of the dark. As we understand, this entity emerged as a direct repercussion of a failed attempt by the Dark Veil cult to ensnare Wridel. This inquest shall also explore the origins of your capabilities and the potential risks thereof. This Council also seeks clarity regarding your well-known contract with Mouriana.”

The whispers intensified, filling the chamber like a rising tide.

Ah, there it was. The real reason I was here. Not because they needed me to explain the fragment’s destruction, because they needed to know about my connection to Mouriana. They were here to assess whether I was Wridel’s next sovereign or its next catastrophe.

“I understand,” I said, forcing my voice into cool, detached politeness.

The Chancellor’s lips twitched with dissatisfaction, as if he’d been hoping for protest.

“Very well,” he continued. “Let the inquest begin.”

The crystal dome overhead dimmed slightly, signalling the activation of the truth wards.

Magic brushed against my skin, probing. It wouldn’t force the truth, but it would cling to any deception, amplifying the weight of every lie.

I folded my hands in front of me.

“The fragment anchored itself to Nelwost’s ley lines after the Dark Veil Cult infected the Willow Coven with help from the first fragment,” I began. “I accessed the energies of the district to sever the link. The fragment’s core was disrupted and destroyed.”

A ripple of muttering spread through the scholars.

“What spell did you use to access the aquifers?” asked Lady Sorelle, head of the Academy of Magical Studies.

“An inversion conduit,” I said. “A spell Mouriana taught me during our bond.”

The truth wards vibrated, confirming my statement.

“A forbidden spell,” Sorelle pressed.

“Yes.”

More hushed whispers.

“And you didn’t die performing it?” asked Lord Erien Malgrave of the Earth Oriental Houses, his eyes gleaming with academic interest.

“Apparently not,” I said dryly.

“Do you know why?”

I hesitated. The truth was, I did know why. But saying it aloud—admitting that here—before this council of doubters, sycophants, and opportunists—would be handing Mouriana’s plan to them, gift-wrapped in hysteria.

So I shrugged. “I am not Gaia, Elder Erien,” I said flatly. “She should have the answer to that.”

The silence that followed was a baited trap. I held my ground, let the moment stretch. The council wanted an explanation they could sink their teeth into. I wasn’t about to give them one.

“That spell should have required lifeblood magic,” pressed Lady Sorelle. Her eyes narrowed with academic curiosity rather than political suspicion. “How did you survive?”

“That’s the mystery, isn’t it?” I arched a brow.

The scholars scribbled furiously, quills scratching against parchment as they exchanged hurried theories.

“Your mother,” came the condescending voice of Lord Erien Malgrave again, “is known to be one of the most powerful fire Oriental witches in Wridel. But even she would not have been capable of such a feat.”

My mother shifted slightly in her seat. Her green eyes turned toward Erien with the most irritated glare.

“Then perhaps you should revise your assumptions about what magic can do when wielded by someone sufficiently desperate,” I said.

The murmurs turned into audible muttering, scholars and delegates descending into quiet debates.

“Magic that responds to desperation alone is unstable,” Erien pressed, his voice rising. “Elemental aquifers do not bend without cost. What was the cost, Lady Le Torneau?”

I opened my mouth, ready to respond”

“Is this an inquest or a trial?” My mother’s voice cracked through the chamber, silencing the room.

Lady Saffron Le Torneau rose gracefully from her seat, her crimson robes—a shade reserved for the Kingmaker of Wridel—cascading behind her. Her black hair was pinned back today, exposing the serpentine glyph along her collarbone.

Her gaze locked onto Erien’s. “She said it is a mystery, Elder Erien,” my mother continued. “Unless you need a lesson in what that word means, move on.”

As Erien’s jaw tightened in response, I wondered why he was so determined to discredit me, given that he was an Oriental witch himself.

“I would like to point out,” came a gravelly voice from across the chamber, “that it is quite forward of you, Erien, to assume a Great Oriental cannot execute a forbidden spell flawlessly simply because you know nothing of it.”

Elder Mattias of the Western Earth Oriental House leaned forward slightly, his weathered skin and riverstone eyes betraying nothing but mild amusement.

“Limit your inadequacies to yourself next time,” Mattias added with a dismissive wave of his hand.

The witches” delegation roared with laughter, while the others exchanged glances. Maybe wondering what he meant. What sort of forbidden spells did his house practice?

The Chancellor leaned forward then. “Lady Le Torneau. Do you admit that your bond to Mouriana empowered you?”

I caught Lord Dillard shifting in his seat, eyes shining with restrained irritation. “That is High Lady Irving, Lord Chancellor,” Dillard snarled. “She is Luna of Wridel. Do not forget that when you try to accuse instead of inquire.”

The Chancellor’s gaze darkened at Dillard’s support. And honestly, it surprised me too. This inquest was shaping into a clear display of who stood with me—and who wanted me gone.

The Lycans had officially recognized me as their Luna after my mating ceremony to Devon. Their allegiance had become a political thorn the Council had yet to extract.

“Isn’t that what bonds are for? Of course it did,” I said finally, letting the truth wards hum with satisfaction. “Past tense. Mouriana shattered the bond after the Dark Veil was destroyed,” I added. “I can assure you that whatever happened in Nelwost had nothing to do with her.”

The muttering stopped and the silence was almost violent.

“The bond is broken?” Lady Sorelle whispered, leaning forward.

“Yes,” I said.

The truth wards hummed, their magic curling around me like icy tendrils, testing, pressing, searching for deceit.

The Chancellor’s expression hardened, the lines around his mouth deepening. “Why would she sever the only bond she has ever established?”

“Because it served no purpose any more.”

His jaw tightened. “Do you not understand,” he barked, voice rising now, “that you have unwittingly aided Mouriana—the Source of the dark—in reclaiming her scattered power to dismantle Wridel’s peace?”

Murmurs of agreement stirred through the Council of the Great Houses. Whispers slithered between the factions that opposed me, feeding the tension like dry wood to a flame.

A muscle jumped in my jaw. “I didn’t aid her,” I said through clenched teeth. “I destroyed the fragment because it needed to be done.”

“But she absorbed the fragment nonetheless,” the Chancellor snapped.

No, she didn’t. And if she had, how did he know? Where was his certainty and information coming from? His confidence scraped at my patience, needling for a reaction.

I opened my mouth to argue, but before I could, Elara Caethis, the witch delegate on the Fellowship, rose from her seat.

“And who is to say Mouriana is in fact the dark,” Elara said with a small shrug. “Or that she absorbed the fragment in Nelwost? Your accusation is baseless and irrelevant, Lord Chancellor.” She paused, letting the words settle like a blade pressed against an exposed throat. “Just in case you’ve forgotten—this is an inquest, not a trial.”

This was more than personal loyalty. They had turned my inquest to a battlefield, a fight drawn along the lines of power and legacy. I was the first witch to stand at the threshold of becoming Supreme Sovereign—the first in Wridel’s history. The old bloodlines and great houses would see this chamber burned to ruin before they let me take the throne. And the witches would burn every last one of them if it came down to it.

The Chancellor’s face hardened, his carefully curated mask of civility splintering. I expected nothing less from a Fae. In his mind, witches had no place here. We were meant to serve, not rule.

“Is this your pitiful attempt to prop up one of your own for the throne?” he sneered.

The murmuring ceased.

All eyes turned to Elara Caethis. A witch of the Fellowship of the Sovereignty, but not an Oriental. A fire-wielder, unmistakable in the way the heat now radiated from her.

She moved slowly, her black robe, embellished with silver glyphs of elemental mastery pooling at her feet like liquid shadow.

Her lips twitched into a predatory smile. One of those: You’ve made a mistake. And I’m about to make you regret it.

“You misunderstand, Lord Chancellor,” she said.

The room went eerily quiet. Even the scholars at the back stopped writing, quills hovering above parchment as though afraid the sound of scratching ink might shatter the moment.

“If it is attempts you seek,” Elara continued, “then allow me to give you one.”

She took a single step forward, shoulders squared, eyes locking with the Chancellor as though daring him to flinch.

“If you cannot manage your role as regent,” she said, “and conduct an unbiased inquest of the Supreme Successor—who, I remind you, outranks you’”

A collective intake of breath rippled through the Great Houses, and I stole a sideways glance their way.

“’and who saved an entire sector from obliteration while you sat on your fat, cushioned throne, then perhaps you should be deposed.”

The truth wards thrummed, reacting to her words like it was agreeing to it. Its magic pressed against my skin and I glanced up at the dome, watching as the runes flickered in acknowledgment.

The Chancellor’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the edge of the obsidian lectern. When his gaze met mine, I caught a glimpse of his thoughts, and my lips curved in a slow, knowing smile.

Depose me? The Kingmaker’s daughter hasn’t even claimed the throne, and the witches are already challenging our rule.

Of course. I almost shook my head. They never cease to amaze me, these Faes and Elves. Witches were always the outliers, not truly accepted by the Faes, who aligned themselves with the Elves. And if there was one thing the three great houses loathed, it was witches daring to rise above their station.

“Depose me?” the Chancellor growled. “You overstep, Elara.”

“Do I?” She tilted her head, the gleam of her sapphire earrings catching the pale light overhead. “Last I checked, it was the Supreme Sovereign’s role to determine how dark threats are handled. Not the Council’s.”

She wasn’t wrong. The Council’s authority was regulatory, not absolute. The Chancellor’s regency was borrowed power, held together only by the Council’s collective will. It could just as easily be taken away.

Unease flickered through the Great House delegates, eyes darting between the factions, weighing their next move. The witches and Fangs held their silence, statues carved in defiance. The Lycans, however, nodded approvingly.

Devon leaned in, his breath warm against my temple. “This is starting to get interesting.”

“Tell me about it,” I murmured.

The Chancellor straightened, his expression cool, but his fingers still dug into the lectern. “Is that a formal motion, Delegate Caethis?”

Elara smile again. “Would you like me to make it one?” she asked, syrup-sweet.

His jaw locked. If she did, and if it passed, he’d be stripped of power mere days after being sworn in. The optics alone would shatter what little control the Faes and Elves had left.

“Enough,” the Chancellor growled.

He turned back to me, eyes wide with the desperation of a man watching his grip slip through his fingers.

“Lady Le Torneau’”

“High Lady Irving,” Lord Dillard corrected again, harsher this time, as if to let him know he wouldn’t correct him again.

The click of the Chancellor’s teeth grinding together was loud enough to draw a few smirks from the Lycans seated in the gallery.

But he didn’t correct himself this time. His gaze moved toward the Fellowship as if hoping for support. None came.

Instead, the High Lord of House Perseus rose. A man built like a fortress—broad-shouldered, sharp-featured, with iron-gray hair and amber eyes. The Fangs of Wridel. The oldest surviving bloodline. Politically neutral. Until now.

“Lord Chancellor,” High Lord Perseus said. “If there are doubts regarding your impartiality in this inquest, then I’m afraid you can no longer preside over these proceedings.”

The chamber stilled. A slow, inevitable shift.

I glanced at Devon. He didn’t move, but the ghost of a smile tugged at his mouth.

“If you resist,” Perseus continued, “it will be up to General Irving to determine the next course of action, as the Noblesse Oblige.”

Now the chamber erupted with murmurs, voices clashing in a chaotic din of outrage, agreement, and barely concealed panic. It was outlandish how seriously they took the invocation.

But I knew what had just happened. The Fangs had placed Wridel’s balance in Devon’s hands. The final check against corruption. The one force that could not be swayed by politics or prejudice.

The Chancellor’s knuckles turned white where they gripped the lectern. “Well, well, well,” he sneered. “Lord Perseus’”

“That is High Lord to you, tiny fry,” Perseus hissed, his upper lip curling back to expose canines sharper than carved obsidian.

A collective, predatory hiss followed—the Fang contingent responding to the challenge like wolves scenting weakness.

“Know. Your. Place.” Perseus snarled.

The Chancellor’s nostrils flared, and the wards flickered, reacting to the hostility in the chamber.

Devon stepped forward just enough to make his presence unmissable. He didn’t need words. He was the one whose authority trumped all in matters of Council integrity.

The Chancellor knew it. His gaze snapped to Devon, seeking ground to stand on.

“High Lord Irving,” he said. “This is absurd. You know as well as I do that this inquest was convened to protect Wridel from dark forces.”

“Is that what this is?” Devon asked, and his voice was deceptively soft. “Because it looks a lot like a witch hunt to me.”

The pun wasn’t lost on anyone. The witches visibly straightened, their eyes blazing with silent vindication.

The Chancellor’s lips thinned, colour draining from them. “The integrity of Wridel is at stake,” he pressed. “This is no time for personal bias.”

Devon’s smile was slow. “Exactly,” he murmured. “So perhaps you should have reconsidered your tone when addressing my mate.”

The Chancellor exhaled sharply, pivoting back to High Lord Perseus. “You would risk destabilizing the Council over this?” he demanded.

Perseus’s gaze was impassive, his expression carved from stone. “I’m not the one who started this war, Chancellor. You should have realised you’d already lost the moment you started attacking the one person who can protect Wridel.”

His gaze shifted to me.

“High Lady Irving doesn’t just have the witches” support,” Perseus continued. “She has ours. And we all know what happens when Fangs commit to a cause.”

Everyone knew. When the Fangs fight, they fight to the death. I inhaled slowly, heart hammering against my ribs. I had expected a political interrogation. Instead, I stood at the epicentre of an undeclared civil war. But at least, in Gaia’s mercies, I had the Fang’s backing—a rare and dangerous feat.

The Chancellor’s jaw worked as he struggled to salvage some semblance of authority from the wreckage of his credibility. His knuckles remained white around his staff, his breaths controlled but forced.

He looked like a cornered animal. Because that’s exactly what he was.

“High Lady Irving will face the Sovereign’s Trial,” he said stiffly, forcing the words through clenched teeth. “At the Temple of the Wealdel. Solstice’s End. At midnight.”

I inclined my head, tilting it just enough to give the illusion of deference.

“Really?” I asked softly. “The Temple of the Wealdel. At midnight. Tell me, what exactly are the Fae and Elves planning for that night? To kill me?”

The Fae and Elven delegates visibly tensed. Lord Thalis Iarindel of the Elven Fellowship leaned forward, his ice-blue eyes narrowing in distaste.

“That accusation is baseless,” Thalis said. “The timing was chosen for the magical peak of Solstice’s End, not for” subterfuge.”

I arched a brow. “Oh, I never said subterfuge,” I said, feigning surprise. “But since you’ve volunteered the term, well—it does make one wonder, doesn’t it?”

Thalis’s lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line. Beside him, Lady Maeve Tal—Quin shifted uncomfortably in her seat. They hadn’t expected me to call it out so directly.

“What do you mean, the timing was chosen?” My father asked. I figured he wouldn’t say anything this time, but he was the only one who caught that. “When did the High Council agree to a Sovereign’s Trial—or a time for that matter? Have the Faes and Elves been conspiring against the Supreme Successor?”

With all the Faes and Elves stiffening, the real animosity began to build.

“This is nonsense,” the Chancellor snapped, slamming his staff into the floor. The obsidian wards crackled in protest, their enchantments fraying with his frustration. “The Sovereign’s Trial has been declared. It is binding by Council law.”

“Declared by whom?” My father growled, slamming his palm onto the table. The force of it sent a sharp crack echoing through the chamber. The entire room stiffened, eyes darting between him and the Chancellor. “You forget your place, Garnett . You are a regent, not a sovereign. Not a dictator. As Governor of Ostonia, I invoke the Noblesse Oblige’s mandate. Sit down and shut the hell up. Your deposition will follow at a later time.”

The Chancellor’s head snapped toward him, the fury in his posture betraying his crumbling control. And just like that, the balance of power shifted again.

“There will be no Sovereign’s Trial,” Devon declared. “This inquest is over.”

“No one is above Gaia’s law,” he continued, stepping forward. “No one has jurisdiction over how the successor proves herself. Your role is to govern the sectors, not to manipulate trials for your own gain.”

The Chancellor opened his mouth, but Devon lifted a hand, silencing him before he could speak.

“The Supreme Successor will be crowned,” Devon said. “In the Temple of the Wealdel. On Solstice’s End. At daybreak.” His gaze swept across the chamber, pinning every delegate in place. “The former Lord Chancellor is effectively expelled from the Council and will face sanctions for abusing his interim powers.”

Devon’s voice dropped into a low, predatory growl. “That is all. We’re done with this pathetic display of posturing and deceit.”