The King's private chambers were not what Brant expected.
No gold. No marble. No velvet cushions or tapestries worth a kingdom. Just stone—old stone, worn smooth by centuries of hands—and wood that had been polished by use rather than craft. A fire burned low in a hearth no larger than a smith's forge. Two chairs faced each other across a table that bore only a bottle of wine and two cups.
Hallah swung her legs off the couch, her bare feet touching cold marble. She thought of the dream, of the scales, of the power waiting inside her like a second heartbeat. She thought of Lucan, waiting for her, needing her, looking at her like she was the sun.
"Let them whisper," she said. She stood, dressed quickly, and felt the words of the spell settle into place like a sword returning to its scabbard. "I've got work to do. And I've got a prince to protect."
The magic lesson awaited. And she was ready.
"Sit," Aldric LXIX said. His voice was quiet, stripped of the thunder it had held in the throne room. "Please. This is not king to subject. This is father to father."
"With Prince Lucan," Eira confirmed. She held out clothes—simple trousers and a tunic in Paladin colors, six colors woven into the trim. "And Hallah? Be careful. The King may favor you, but the court... the court is already whispering. They say you chose the wrong prince. They say you're dangerous."
Brant sat. The chair creaked under his weight. He took the wine when it was offered—red, dark as blood—and drank without tasting it. His hands were steady. His heart was not.
"Your daughter," the King said, staring into his own cup. "She surprised me."
Brant set his jaw. "She does that."
"Tell me about her childhood. The real history, not the Guild records. Not the Academy files." The old man's eyes—storm-gray, faded with age but still sharp—lifted to meet Brant's. "Tell me about the girl who punched my Crown Prince."
Brant drank again. The wine was good. Better than anything he'd tasted in Sovringard. He hated it for that.
"She was born screaming," Brant said. "Not crying. Screaming. Loud enough to wake the neighbors. Like she was angry to be here. Like she remembered somewhere better and wanted to go back." He turned the cup in his hands, watching the firelight catch in the red liquid. "Her mother—Eira—she's Sylvareth. Healer. She said the birth was easy. Too easy. Like Hallah was helping. Like she wanted out."
The King nodded, his ancient face unreadable. "And after?"
"Smart. Too smart. Talking at nine months. Walking at ten. Reading at two." Brant smiled despite himself, the memory of his little girl—fiery hair, stubborn chin—pulling at the corners of his mouth. "By five she was swinging a hammer. By seven she could forge a blade that would hold an edge. By eight..." He paused. The smile faded. "By eight she was having nightmares. Screaming about snow. About blood. About a girl with a knife."
Brant looked up, meeting the King's eyes. "She said she remembered another life. A man named Bear. A place called Anchorage. A war in the snow." He shrugged, the gesture heavy with helplessness. "We thought she was mad. Or blessed. Or cursed. Then the Paladin manifestation happened, and we knew. She was all three."
The King was silent for a long moment. The fire crackled. Somewhere in the walls, a draft moved like a whisper.
"I have a son," Aldric said finally. "Lucan. You know this. You saw him today." He paused, his ancient hands tightening on his cup. "I have never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at your daughter."
Brant felt his hackles rise. "He's ten."
"And she is ten. And I am one hundred twenty-two, and I have seen a thousand years of history, and I know what I see." The King's voice was soft, almost gentle. "It is not the look of a child for a protector. It is the look of a soul finding its match. The gods have woven their threads together, Forge-master. Whether they marry in ten years or twenty or never, they are bound. I know the signs. I have read the weaves."