Elira Vane had never stood in the throne hall before.
Not like this – at the center , not the edges .
Not summoned .
The marble beneath her boots was cold , veined like frost across water glass .
High above , stained glass filtered sunlight in shards of crimson and gold .
The throne of Darethia loomed ahead : carved from obsidian and inlaid with veins of starlight crystal , rumored to have come from the heart of the first mountain split by the gods .
Crown Prince Caelum Dareth .
He was taller than she expected.
Harder , too — not inform , though his presence was formidable — but in silence .
He did not speak at once .
He studied her with sharp , cool eyes , like the blade of a sword left in snow .
“You are the scribe from the lower quarter ?” He finally asked , voice a low , unyielding thing that echoed across the empty hall .
Elira bowed .
Not low — never lower than the nobility expected .
She had learnt that lesson .
But deep enough to show respect .
“I am ,” she replied .
“You read and write in six tongues ,” he continued , his tone unreadable .”You are trained in ciphering , Record keeping , court law , and memory transcription .
Your work is without error , and your name was vouched for by the Archscribe Thalin .
Correct ?
”
“Yes , Highness .”
He tilted his head slightly .
” Then why , Elira Vane , did you never apply for royal scribe service ?”
Elira blinked .
” Because I was never invited .”
A pause .
Then —
A single , unexpected thing : the barest curve of his lips .
Not a smile .
Amusement , perhaps .
Or something like it .
“You are invited now ,” he said .
🖤🖤🖤Preanol