Chapter 111 Solid Plan
Bella
They don’t arrest me. Which, honestly, feels like a solid start. I’m calling it a win. For now. The room remains exactly as it was after I finish speaking—no sudden alarms screaming through the stone, no guards crashing in from hidden corridors, no dramatic surge of frost tearing across the ceiling because I dared to say something inconveniently true. The fire in the centre of the space crackles low and steady, its warmth contained and careful, like everything else in this place, and six people sit around it wearing expressions that suggest their entire understanding of the world has just been nudged sideways and hasn’t quite figured out how to settle again. No one moves. No one reaches for a weapon. No one tells me to shut up.
“I should report this,” the man from earlier mutters eventually, the words falling out of him more from habit than conviction, like he’s repeating something he’s been trained to say when a situation gets uncomfortable. Before I can open my mouth, the silver-haired woman beside the fire reaches out and grips his forearm with a strength that doesn’t match her age, her fingers digging in through his sleeve.
“Don’t be ridiculous, George,” she snaps, sharp and certain. “You know exactly what they do to people who don’t comply with their ideals.”
George scowls, shifting under her grip. “That doesn’t mean we—”
“And what if the girl is right?” she cuts in, turning toward me, her eyes bright and fierce in the flickering firelight. “What if we can live outside of here?”
Her voice wavers for half a breath before she straightens, resolve snapping back into place like ice reforming after a crack.
“I want to see the beach, George,” she says, quieter now but no less intense. “I want to see it without being afraid of freezing the entire ocean.”
That, finally, shuts him up. Not completely, though, he still mutters under his breath. Someone else adds another sharp comment, and another voice pushes back, then the room fills with overlapping sounds, fear tangling with disbelief, anger brushing up against something dangerously close to excitement. They bicker like people who’ve spent too long swallowing their thoughts and have suddenly realised they don’t have to anymore, words tumbling over each other as centuries of carefully managed obedience start to fracture.
“She’s ruled us for centuries—”
“She isolated us—”
“She told us love was weakness—”
“She told us we were the problem—”
Mara stays silent through all of it, watching the cracks spread with a careful, measuring gaze, like she’s cataloguing which pieces are going to break cleanly and which will fight it. Finally, the silver-haired woman slaps her palm against the stone bench with a sound that cuts clean through the noise.
“Fuck the Queen.”
The words land heavy and glorious in the room, hanging there like a challenge no one has ever dared to voice aloud. There’s a heartbeat of stunned silence. Then someone snorts. Someone else lets out a sharp, disbelieving laugh, like they can’t quite believe they were brave enough to let that sound escape.
“…Fuck the Queen,” George mutters, rubbing a hand over his face.
A few voices echo it, hesitant at first, then firmer, until the words start to feel real. Then they all turn to me.
“Well?” the silver-haired woman asks, eyes intent. “If we’re doing this… what’s the plan?”
I smile. Not a big smile. Just enough to let them know I’ve been waiting for that question.
“Okay,” I say. “So. Once I give the signal—” I pause, frown slightly, and tap my temple. “The dragon in my head will tell my… boyfriend?” I wince. “Hmm. I’ve never actually called him that before.”
They stare at me. “He’s my mate,” I continue thoughtfully, because apparently this is happening. “His dragon imprinted on me, we love each other, there was a whole dramatic fire-and-ice thing, so technically that tracks. But ‘boyfriend’ feels… small? Like something you say about a guy who borrows your hoodie and forgets your birthday.”
Someone clears their throat.
I blink. “Right. Sorry. Focus.”
A few of them are smiling now, despite themselves, tension easing just enough to let something human slip through.
“When I give the signal,” I continue, voice settling, “Damien and his soldiers will come in through the western entrance. It’s older, less guarded, and warded badly enough that they can bypass it without collapsing half the mountain.”
Mara nods once. Good. It's not a fucked up plan.
“They’re going to very gently,” I add, then grimace, “hopefully disable any forces that are going to try and stop us.”
George raises an eyebrow. “Define ‘gently.’”
“I’m choosing to define it as ‘no unnecessary deaths,’” I reply. “Dragons have… strong opinions, but Damien’s very big on restraint.”
That seems to reassure them... Slightly.
“What we need to do,” I continue, “is spread the word. Quietly. Tell people what they don’t know. What they were never allowed to know.”
“And then what?” someone asks. “We just walk out the front doors? You think the Queen will allow that?”
I shiver.
“Can we stop calling her that?” I say flatly. “She literally gave herself that title. It’s weird.” I shake my head. “Anyway. She’s going to find out eventually. There’s no version of this where she doesn’t.” The room stills. “When she does,” I say, voice steady despite the weight of it, “I’m going to talk to her.”
Silence crashes down hard enough to feel.
“You—you're going to talk to her?” George starts.
“Yes,” I cut in calmly. “Me, her, talk.”
“And when that fails?” the silver-haired woman asks, careful now, but not dismissive.
I don’t look away. “Then Damien handles it. Either way, if you all want out, we're getting you out.”
That lands differently. Gosh, I sounded like I really know what I am doing here. Good job, Bella. I mentally pat myself on the back. Gilfred would be proud. Because for the first time, none of this feels like a fantasy whispered around a fire to get through another long winter. It feels like a plan, a dangerous and fragile and very real, solid plan. And beneath my skin, deep and warm and certain, the dragon stirs, patient and ready, listening for my signal.