Chapter 25 The Council Interrogation
25\. The Council Interrogation
The journey to the council chamber felt less like a walk and more like a sentence being carried out. Darius escorted me himself, because of course he did — ever the courteous executioner. His hand rested lightly on my back, guiding, not restraining, but every inch of air between us felt owned.
The corridors of Dravenmoor were colder today. Torches burned low; the moonlight leaking through the arrow slits looked surgical. Every guard we passed bowed to him, not me. I caught one of them glancing at my bandaged wrists, then away, the way people look at fires they can’t put out.
By the time the heavy doors opened, I’d already built three escape routes in my head — all impossible.
The council chamber was carved from ancient stone, shaped like a crescent moon — symbolic, pretentious, and acoustically designed to make accusations echo beautifully. Long table of dark wood. Heavy banners of black and silver. A dozen noble faces watching, their expressions arranged between curiosity and contempt.
And at the far end, the high seat — empty. Lucian’s throne.
His absence was a wound carved into the room.
“Lady Aria,” someone intoned. His voice was syrup-slow, a little too pleased. Lord Merov, High Treasurer, and full-time leech. “You look… recovered.”
“Recovered,” I echoed lightly. “That’s generous. I still have more stitches than a tapestry.”
A few nobles smirked. Most didn’t.
Darius took his place at the right side of the table — close enough to every whisper, far enough from blame.
“Proceed,” he said smoothly, and the session began.
They started simple. Always do, when they’re sharpening knives.
“Why were you near the toxin vial when the attack occurred?” Lord Sarrin asked, his tone like someone dissecting a rumor.
“I was trying not to die,” I said. “Apparently, that’s suspicious now.”
Quills scratched across parchment.
“And the Verris ledger?” another noble pressed. “How did you come by that information? Only inner council members had access.”
“Maybe I read fast,” I said. “Maybe your inner council leaks like an old roof.”
A ripple went through the room — not laughter, just discomfort trying on courage for a moment.
They circled me with words — where were you standing, who gave you orders, did Lucian confide his suspicions. Each question was a polite noose.
I kept smiling. My voice stayed steady. But each time they said Lucian’s name, something in my chest twisted tight enough to hurt.
He was alive, Darius had said. Alive, but “isolated.”
Which meant no witnesses. No defense.
“Lady Aria,” said Lady Mirelle finally, her perfume sharp enough to stun a wyvern. “You must understand our concern. Since your arrival, Dravenmoor has endured infiltration, betrayal, poison, and now a near-regicide.”
“Technically, that last one wasn’t my hobby,” I said, but my humor came out brittle, like glass chipping.
No one laughed.
Darius’s gaze found mine, unreadable — an immaculate calm that could drown oceans.
“You’ve always been… unconventional,” he said softly, breaking his long silence. “But intent matters. And the Council wonders whose intent you’ve been serving.”
There it was. Smooth as silk, sharp as venom.
“Meaning?” I asked.
He tilted his head, every motion elegant enough to belong in a painting. “Meaning your loyalty. You’re not of Dravenmoor. You arrived from nowhere, entwined yourself with the King’s fate, and somehow every disaster has followed in your shadow.”
The nobles murmured. A perfect choir of suspicion.
“So I’m the cause of all your misfortunes now?” I said. “Wow. I should start charging.”
Still no laughter. Just that heavy, suffocating hush that means someone’s life is being rearranged in absentia.
Darius continued, gentle as ever. “The Silvermoon Alpha declared war after you appeared. Their emissaries infiltrated our ranks. You had access to restricted archives. You were last seen before Lucian’s collapse. Surely, you can understand the optics.”
Optics.
A polite word for condemnation.
I met his gaze head-on. “If I were a spy, I’d at least demand better accommodations. Maybe a room without a lock.”
A few quills froze mid-stroke.
Darius smiled faintly, the kind of smile that doesn’t reach eyes because it’s too busy reaching hearts. “Dravenmoor will forgive you, Lady Aria, if your only crime was naivety.”
“Good to know. I’ll add that to my list of near-executions.”
“Enough,” Merov snapped. “The kingdom bleeds while we indulge this woman’s wit.”
A dozen seals thudded onto parchment. A verdict wasn’t spoken, but I could smell it — blood, ink, and pre-decided fate.
When the questioning finally ended, my throat felt raw from restraint.
Darius rose, offering a hand to “escort” me out. I didn’t take it. The corridor after the chamber felt colder than when we entered. No guards this time — just echo and the ghost of what they didn’t say. He walked beside me in silence until we reached the end of the hall, where moonlight fell across the stone like a blade.
Then, softly: “You did well, Luna.”
That word again.
Luna. A crown and a cage in four letters.
“You flushed the wrong snake,” he continued, almost fond, “so the real one could breathe.”
I froze. The tone was too careful, the phrasing too exact.
“You-”
His eyes gleamed, amused. “I’m saying perception is everything. Poison doesn’t always kill; sometimes it clarifies.”
I stepped closer, ignoring the ache in my ribs. “Where’s Lucian, really?”
He didn’t answer. Just looked at me — long enough for me to see the faint shimmer of enchantment under his skin. Not light. Not shadow. Something in between.
“Is he still alive?” I pressed.
“Alive,” he said finally, “is a flexible term.”
The silence that followed was so sharp it could’ve drawn blood.
“You poisoned the court,” I whispered, “not the King.”
Darius paused at the doorway, half-turned, still smiling — that same immaculate smile that could mean mercy or murder.
“Maybe,” he said softly, “the difference is smaller than you think.”
He left before I could breathe again.
The moonlight followed him for a moment, then died on the stone.
When the echo of his steps faded, I realized my hands were shaking. Not from fear — from fury that had nowhere safe to go.
The Council’s whispers still clung to my ears. Silvermoon influence. Outsider. Naive. All words meant to cage. But underneath them, another voice pulsed — Lucian’s, low and rough in memory. Trust your instincts, little flame. They’ll keep you alive longer than loyalty ever will.
So I stood there, alone in the moonlit corridor, and let the silence settle. I didn’t know if Lucian was dying, imprisoned, or worse. I didn’t know how deep Darius’s roots went.
But I knew one thing.
Whatever poison ran through Dravenmoor, I was done being its patient.
Later that night, the corridors were nearly empty. I followed the route Darius had taken — not because I thought I’d catch him, but because I wanted to see where his lies bled.
Every torch flickered lower, shadows growing like they were listening. At the far wing, the infirmary doors stood sealed by sigils. Guards at attention.
“Order of the Beta,” one said when I approached, stiff and apologetic. “No entry, my lady.”
Of course. Beta. Not King.
Lucian’s isolation was guarded by Darius’s men. I almost laughed. Almost.
Instead, I smiled, the kind of smile that hurts to hold. “Tell your Beta his loyalty’s impressive. I only hope the King survives it.”
The guard frowned, uneasy, but I was already turning away.
Back through the corridors, back to the echoing silence that had become my only witness. In the distance, I heard the faint hum of chanting again — low, rhythmic, familiar. Healing spells. Or containment spells. The difference, as Darius said, was smaller than I’d like to think.
That night, I sat by the barred window of my assigned chamber, moonlight slicing through the cracks like accusation. Below, Dravenmoor’s towers glittered — perfect and poisonous. Somewhere inside them, the man I was supposed to trust was rotting from someone else’s ambition. And the man everyone trusted was smiling too perfectly to be clean.
I pressed my palm against the cold stone, whispering to no one:
“Hold on, Lucian. Whatever he’s done, whatever he’s planning — I’ll find you.”
Outside, the moon tilted slightly, as if listening.
Or warning. Either way, the night didn’t answer.
Just held its breath.