Clara didn't expect silence to echo so loudly.
The grand chamber of the court was still—no whispers, no judgments. Just the soft scrape of chairs as nobles slowly took their seats again. After her bold move in the previous session, not one dared meet her eyes directly.
Except for one.
Lord Percival leaned forward from his velvet-backed seat, fingers steepled. "Lady Whitmore. The Queen's chair sits higher today. Do you intend to reach it?"
Clara's lips twitched. "Not unless someone vacates it."
Soft gasps rippled across the room. But she didn't back down. She couldn't.
That morning, Alaric had handed her a sealed document. It was not affection. It was war strategy.
"This will give you temporary veto in the Council—use it before they bury you in custom."
And so, she had. Clara blocked a proposed tax law that would've crippled the lower merchants and handed power to the Houses. She didn't ask for permission. She signed and stood.
And now?
Now, she watched the ripples spread.
Later, in the gardens, whispers trailed behind her like shadows.
"She humiliated Lord Maynard…"
"...Did you see how Alaric didn't stop her?"
"She'll burn or rise. No in-between."
Clara felt none of it. Not pride. Not fear. Just weight. The kind that settles when power shifts in your favor—but not everyone agrees with it.
That night, in Alaric's study, the prince poured himself a drink and said without looking at her:
"They'll come for you. In softer ways now. Invitations. Smiles. Favors. Poison wrapped in silk."
Clara stood near the door, arms crossed.
"Let them come. I'm not just surviving anymore, Alaric. I'm starting to live."
His glass paused halfway to his lips. Then he looked at her—not the girl who once trembled in a gold-locked room, but the woman who walked beside him now, step for step.
"Good," he said. "Then we're finally on the same side."
[ To be continued.....]