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The Council Elder Syra pov

I’ve learned not to trust what grows too easily in this place. The roses always bloom out of season, the vines never stop climbing even when no one waters them, and there’s something in the dirt that remembers blood more than it remembers sun.

That’s why I meet him here - beneath the archives, where the old greenhouse chokes on its own history and even the glass has turned grey from secrets.

No one dares come down this far anymore. Not the guards. Not the scribes. Not even Orna.

She thinks the only power left in this Court lives in her hands but she forgets I know where the roots lie.

He’s late as I sit with my back to the far wall, a scarf wound tight around my throat to keep out the cold - not that the cold matters anymore. I’ve felt worse things, said worse things and done them too.

The air down here tastes like rust and rotting ivy, but I don’t flinch, I breathe it in and let it settle in my ribs like old confessions.

When the door creaks, I don’t look up, only mutter an annoyed, “you’re late.”

He doesn’t apologize, of course he doesn’t, that’s why I chose him. “I had to lose a shadow,” he mutters and slips inside, quietly closing the door behind him. “Orna’s paranoia is catching.”

“She’s not paranoid,” I reply. “She’s just not as good at hiding as she used to be.”

He says nothing, just pulls the hood back from his face and takes the chair across from me. He looks older than the last time I saw him, more tired and time worn. That suits our cause, pretty men don’t survive rebellion - they get written into sad songs and buried in cheap statues.

But I need something sharper than that, I need someone who knows how to rot from the inside and keep walking.

“You said it was urgent.” He says, looking around as if anyone could overhear us here.

I tap my finger on the rotted wooden table, it groans beneath the weight, just like the Court and all of us.

“She’s planning to name him heir.” I mutter finally, meeting his eyes, letting him know I’m not joking around or blindly assuming, only stating facts.

“The fake one?” He arches an eyebrow, giving me his full attention.

I nod. “The bastard decoy. She’ll put a crown on his head and call it legacy. And the Court, the half that’s still pretending to breathe, they’ll bow to the mask, just like they always do.”

“And the Council?” He asks, voice more careful not that he’s poking the one thing he knows I’d rather die than bring up in a conversation.

Somehow, I manage to swallow the bile rising up my throat and still answer the question. “Half are loyal, half are afraid, but all are silent.”

His eyes narrow. “And you?”

I look away, not quite ready to admit the dire mistake I made when I chose to trust and follow the vision that snake Orna spoonfed me. “I’m tired of silence.” Is all I manage to say, voice too weak to be believed yet.

He leans back, one hand brushing a dead vine from the floor. “Didn’t think you’d move so soon.”

My head snaps in his direction as I snal, “she forced my hand.”

“She’s trying to consolidate.” He mutters, waving his hand dismissively.

“She’s trying to erase us.” I correct, sharper than necessary.

He arches an eyebrow again and leans closer. “And what do you want?”

I stare at him unblinking. “I want her to bleed.”

There’s no point pretending otherwise, the time for diplomacy passed the moment she replaced the truth with a breathing lie and called it peace.

He lets out a low breath. “So what’s the plan?”

I reach into my cloak and slide a folded paper onto the table. “This is a list of every noble house she’s spoken to in private over the last two months. Three of them already have heirs stationed at the capital. She’s buying loyalty with titles and promises of safety, but none of them have seen the real crown.”

“You still have it?” He asks, surprised.

“No, but I know who does. And they don’t want it worn by a ghost.” I say carefully, not willing to share too much just yet.

He laughs. “You always were the historian.”

I shrug. “I remember what things cost, even when no one else wants to.”

He goes quiet for a moment, fingers tightening on the edge of the table. “And how far are you willing to take this?”

I lean forward. “Farther than her,farther than anyone else ever dared. If I have to rip this place apart stone by stone and rebuild it with ash and teeth, I will.”

“And what about the boy? Arvin. If he ends up between you and her?” He asks, once again bringing up the unfortunate soul that started this whole mess, even if on accident, unknowingly.

I grit my teeth. “Then I go through him, too.”

He watches me for a long time, not with judgment but something like acceptance. Maybe that’s why I picked him, he doesn’t ask me to be good - only to finish what I start.

We speak in half-whispers for the next hour, mapping out old lines of loyalty and names that might still bend. We mention secrets Orna buried that we can dig up like corpses, patterns we can exploit and nobles with debts along with families with buried scandals and forgotten laws still etched in the archives.

And then he says something that makes me still. “But seriously, what about Arvin?”

“What about him?” I ask.

He shifts in his seat. “You know he was never part of her plan. You know he was just… in the way.”

I roll my eyes and wave him off. “He’s not mine to protect.”

“No, but he might be the only one they still listen to, if he lives.” He insists.

I grit my teeth. “He’s Lester’s shadow, nothing more. And shadows aren’t meant to stand on their own.”

“But they always follow.” He whispers.

“Then let him follow - into flame, into ruin. He made his choice. I’ll make mine.” I double down.

He slides something across the table, a sealed scroll, wax dark as dried blood. I don’t need to ask what it is but I still do. “What’s in it?”

“Letters, the ones she thought she burned. Enough to unravel her from the inside out.” He mutters and flashes me a lazy smirk.

I take it, don’t open it yet, just hold it and feel the weight in my hand. “She wanted a throne,” I whisper. “She forgot it was built on bones.”

He stands first and doesn’t wait for me. That’s fine, I don’t mind being the last one in the room anymore, I’ve learned how to weaponize that too.

As he leaves, I let my hand fall flat against the table, the vines shift under my palm and the glass ceiling cracks a little more above my head.

I don’t flinch, if the Court is going to fall, I want to hear it break. And when it does, I’ll be the one standing in the ashes, holding the crown she forged from lies, and I’ll bury it under the roots myself.