chapter 38

CHAPTER 38

The great hall of Aethelgar lay steeped in solemn hush, its towering pillars casting long shadows over the gathered lords and knights. The air bore the weight of expectancy, all eyes fixed upon the king seated upon his gilded throne. Before him stood Lord Malrik, head held high, the trace of a knowing smile upon his lips.

He had won. Years of counsel, of whispered words in the dark, had led to this moment. Soon, the king would grant him dominion over noble houses, strengthening his hold upon the realm. His enemies would bow before him, and those who doubted his influence would see how far his reach extended.

Upon the dais, Queen Esmeralda sat draped in deep crimson, her face composed, yet her fingers tightened upon the armrest of her chair. Further to the side, Prince Hosea remained still, his hands folded upon his lap, his countenance betraying nothing. He had ever been an enigma, watching all, revealing little.

Then the king stirred, shifting in his seat. Tommen's breath left him in a slow exhale before his voice rang out, steady as a blade drawn from its sheath.

"Lords and noble kin of Aethelgar," he began, "it is no small thing to grant power into the hands of one man. Trust is the foundation of a kingdom, and for many years, I have placed such trust in Lord Malrik."

Malrik straightened, prepared for the honor that was to follow.

But the king did not yield it.

"And yet," Tommen's tone sharpened, "trust is a fragile thing."

A murmur rippled through the hall, shifting like the wind before a storm.

Malrik's smile faltered.

"It has come to my attention," the king continued, "that Lord Malrik has misused his station. That he has sought to weave his own web of influence beyond the will of his king."

The murmurs grew into whispers, and Malrik felt the first cold prickle of unease.

"I have proof," Tommen declared, "letters sent to lords without my knowledge, bearing promises of favor in exchange for loyalty. And I have a witness who will stand before this court and speak to his treachery."

Silence gripped the chamber like a vice.

Malrik's blood turned to ice.

This was not a reprimand. This was a reckoning.

His voice, when he spoke, remained firm, yet the edges frayed. "This is madness. If such letters exist, let them be shown. And as for your so-called witness, let them step forth now, so all may judge the truth of these claims."

Tommen's gaze did not waver. "Patience, Malrik. Justice will be done in the proper manner. You shall have your trial."

The chamber swayed for but a moment, though Malrik's feet did not move. His mind grasped at threads-who had betrayed him? Who had turned?

"Guards," Tommen commanded, "take him to the dungeons."

A gasp swept through the court like a gust of wind.

Malrik barely had time to react before strong hands seized his arms. He wrenched against them, fury rising. "You know me, Tommen! You know all I have done for you!"

"And you shall answer for it," the king replied, his tone bearing the weight of stone.

Esmeralda rose abruptly, her face pale as winter frost. "Husband-"

"Silence," Tommen cut her off, his voice cold steel.

Her lips pressed together, but her eyes burned with fury.

Then Malrik's gaze landed upon Hosea.

He had not moved, had not spoken, but as the guards dragged Malrik past him, he finally shifted. Their eyes met-one man caught in the snare, the other merely watching.

Malrik struggled, his voice rising, desperation seeping in. "You will regret this, Tommen! I have given you everything!"

But the king did not look at him again.

And so, Lord Malrik-the man who once whispered into the ears of kings-was dragged from the great hall like a common criminal.

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The study hall was filled with the steady murmur of quills scratching against parchment, the flickering candlelight casting long shadows across the rows of scholars deep in their work. The scent of ink and aged vellum clung to the air, mingling with the faint mustiness of centuries-old tomes.

Alissa sat at one of the long wooden tables, her parchment unrolled before her as she carefully transcribed notes on medicinal properties of rare herbs. Around her, the other acolytes were equally engrossed in their work-though some spared occasional glances in her direction, the whispers of her presence never quite dying down.

A sudden movement caught her eye.

Ronan and Ewan stood near one of the far shelves, speaking in hushed tones. Their eyes flicked toward her more than once, their amusement clear. But she had learned to ignore them. Let them talk. She had no interest in their opinions.

What she could not ignore, however, was the boy who now approached her.

Tall and broad-shouldered, with sharp green eyes and an easy smirk, he pulled out the chair beside her and settled in as though he belonged there. His presence alone carried an air of confidence, the kind that suggested he was used to being received favorably.

"You must tire of all the staring," he mused, propping his elbow on the table. "I would offer sympathy, but you have brought it upon yourself, have you not?"

Alissa did not look up from her parchment. "If you have something of worth to say, say it quickly. I have no time for idle chatter."

The boy laughed, unfazed. "And yet, you speak to me still."

Her quill paused. Slowly, she lifted her gaze, meeting his with the same cool indifference she had learned to wield in court. "Only so that you may hear how little I care for your company."

There were a few murmurs from nearby acolytes, some amused, others intrigued by the exchange.

The boy placed a hand to his chest in mock offense. "A harsh tongue for a princess. I expected something sweeter."

"Then you are twice the fool for expecting anything at all," she replied smoothly, returning to her work.

Before the boy could muster a reply, a thin figure slipped into the seat across from her.

Finn.

His presence alone shifted the mood.

Finn was no warrior, nor was he imposing in stature. But his sharp eyes, his calculating mind-those were his weapons. And as he leaned forward, his expression unreadable, the green-eyed boy hesitated for the first time.

"I would reconsider your choice of seat," Finn said mildly, adjusting his own parchment.

The boy smirked, but it lacked the ease it had before. "Is that so?"

Finn tilted his head slightly, his voice pleasant but carrying an unmistakable edge. "You see, our lady scholar here does not take well to distractions. And I find that those who do not heed her words tend to regret it."

The boy let out a quiet chuckle. "Are you her protector, then?"

"No," Finn said simply. "But I do know when someone is unwelcome."

For a moment, the boy seemed to consider his options. But Alissa, already weary of the exchange, decided to end it herself.

She turned to the boy, her patience worn thin. "If you have time to speak so freely, then I suggest you find something useful to do with it. Else you will find yourself woefully unprepared when your lessons demand actual knowledge rather than charm."

Silence followed.

Then, with a slight smirk-though less certain than before-the boy rose. "A shame. I was enjoying myself."

"I was not," Alissa replied flatly.

A few quiet laughs echoed around them as he turned away, disappearing into the hall.

Finn exhaled, shaking his head as he dipped his quill in ink. "You truly have a talent for making friends."

Alissa did not look up. "If that is what you call him, I want no part of it."

Finn only smirked, returning to his work. "Neither do I."

The study hall gradually returned to its usual rhythm, the murmurs dying down as quills resumed their work. Alissa, though composed on the surface, could feel the weight of lingering gazes. Even after weeks within the Citadel, she remained an object of curiosity. The first woman to be accepted-whispers followed her like shadows.

She focused on her parchment, but Finn's quiet presence across from her did not go unnoticed. He had returned to his writing, his thin fingers moving deftly over the page, yet there was an amused quirk to his lips.

"What?" she asked without looking up.

"Nothing," Finn replied, though the mirth in his voice suggested otherwise. "I simply admire how effortlessly you turn away admirers. It is quite the talent."

Alissa sighed, rubbing her temple. "If you have come to bother me as well, you may leave."

Finn chuckled softly, but his voice grew more thoughtful. "He was right about one thing, though. You do attract attention."

"Not by choice," she muttered.

Finn leaned back in his chair, observing her. "Perhaps. But whether you like it or not, you have stirred the waters here. Even if you prove yourself, some will claim your place was given rather than earned. And others-" he gestured faintly to where Ronan and Ewan still stood, watching "-will simply dislike you because they can."

Alissa's gaze flicked toward them. Ewan, shorter and stockier than Ronan, was whispering something to him, his lip curled in distaste. Ronan, for his part, did not smirk or sneer. His expression was unreadable, though his jaw was set tight.

"Let them," she said at last, returning to her notes. "I did not come here to please them."

Finn studied her for a moment before nodding. "Then I suppose we shall see how long it takes before they realize their efforts are wasted."

A loud knock interrupted the moment, drawing the attention of the entire hall. One of the senior maesters stood at the doorway, his robes pristine, his stern gaze sweeping over the students.

"Those assigned to the archives, follow me."

Alissa glanced at Finn.

"That includes us," he said, rolling up his parchment. "I do hope you like dust, princess. There will be plenty of it."

Alissa exhaled, gathering her things. "As long as it is silent dust, I will endure."

Finn smirked but said nothing as they rose together, stepping into the next challenge the Citadel had to offer.

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The air in the archives was thick with the scent of aged parchment and candle wax. Rows upon rows of towering shelves loomed over them, crammed with scrolls, bound manuscripts, and brittle tomes that seemed as ancient as the Citadel itself. The dim light of flickering lanterns cast wavering shadows upon the stone walls, making the space feel both vast and suffocating.

The senior maester led them down a narrow aisle before turning abruptly. "You are to assist in cataloging the latest records sent from the western libraries. Do not damage anything, do not misplace anything, and above all-do not waste time."

His sharp gaze lingered on Alissa for a moment longer than the others before he strode away, his robes whispering against the stone floor.

Finn, standing beside her, gave a mock sigh. "Ah, such faith in us."

Alissa ignored him and stepped forward. The work would be tedious, but at least it meant time away from prying eyes. She reached for the nearest stack of manuscripts, only to hear a scoff behind her.

"Careful, princess. Wouldn't want to soil your royal hands on common ink."

She turned to find Ronan standing a few paces away, a manuscript in hand, his tone laced with dry amusement. Ewan, ever the shadow at his side, chuckled under his breath.

"If ink and parchment could soil hands, I would say yours have long been stained," Alissa remarked coolly.

Ewan narrowed his eyes, but Ronan only tilted his head. "Bold words. Do you truly believe you belong here?"

Alissa set down the manuscript she had picked up. "If I did not, I would not have passed the trials. Unless you mean to suggest that the Citadel allows incompetence through its doors?"

Finn let out a quiet chuckle beside her, while Ewan's smirk faltered.

Ronan studied her, his striking features unreadable. "No," he said finally. "Only that doors open easier for some than others."

Alissa met his gaze without flinching. "You mistake me for someone who cares what you think."

Silence stretched between them, heavy with tension. Then, without another word, Ronan turned back to his task, rolling open the manuscript as though the conversation had never happened.

Ewan scowled but followed his lead, muttering something under his breath.

Alissa exhaled and reached for a stack of records. Finn, beside her, smirked. "I must say, I do enjoy watching you make enemies."

"They make themselves," she muttered.

"A gift, then," he mused, before turning back to his own work.

And so, in the dim glow of the archive lanterns, they worked-amid silent battles, unspoken tensions, and the ever-present weight of proving oneself in a place that had never expected to welcome her.