They arrived at midnight.
The Blackwell Council didn't knock. They simply appeared—six figures cloaked in midnight blue, each marked with a floating silver ring above their heads, like halos turned hostile.
Victor stood beside Amara and Lucien, his expression unreadable.
"You broke the Vault's chain," said the tallest Councilor, a woman with no visible eyes—just swirling smoke where her gaze should be. "That was forbidden."
"I was dying," Amara said flatly. "Forgive me for surviving."
Another Councilor stepped forward. "You've bonded with the Demon Prince. Do you understand the implications?"
Lucien growled, but Amara squeezed his hand.
"I understand this," she said, lifting her palm. A symbol—half phoenix, half crown—shone on her skin. "I am heir to both houses now. And I won't kneel."
The Council didn't like that.
"You will report to the Capitol. A trial must be held. Prophecy or not, the binding is illegal under the Third Law."
Victor's jaw tightened. "Don't push her. She carries power older than this Council."
"But not older than consequence," said the smokey-eyed woman.
They vanished, leaving behind a silver chain wrapped in flame.
It was the summons.
Amara had five days to present herself… or be erased.