Chapter 8
Ihear the word Conclave long before I’m meant to.
It’s morning, and I’m wandering the lesser kitchens in search of something to eat that isn’t drenched in spice or gold flakes.
The room is all exposed brick and hanging copper, steam rising from massive pots on cast-iron stoves.
Strings of dried herbs dangle from the rafters, releasing their scent into the humid air.
The staff turn a blind eye to me, too busy with the day’s preparations.
As I bite into a ripe Venus apple, I pause at the sound of two cooks scrubbing copper pots near the hearth, their voices low but sharp.
One is older, with flour dusting her tan arms up to the elbows and her grey hair tied back in a practical knot.
The other is middle-aged with long red hair, all nervous energy as she scrubs harder than necessary.
“Seventeen years,” the red-haired cook mutters, scouring the pot with angry strokes. “Seventeen years of Cardinal rule, and now suddenly they want a sovereign again?”
“It’s system-wide chaos,” the older cook replies, glancing over her shoulder.
“Pirates attacking, colonies refusing Central Authority. My cousin’s in Mercury communications – says whole sectors have gone dark.
” She drops her scrubbing pad with a thud.
“The Cardinals are losing control, and they know it.”
“So they think a crown will fix what their committees couldn’t?”
A bitter laugh. “They just want someone else to carry the blame. Almost twenty years of ‘collaborative governance,’ and the system’s rotting from the edges.”
“Hmm. And I heard from Elsie…” The red-haired woman pauses to rinse her hands before speaking again. “Commander Nael’s been named Regent. They only do that for a Conclave…”
The word still rings in my ears as I slip away.
Conclave…
Among commoners, it’s half myth – an ancient gathering of planetary House leaders to choose the Solar Sovereign, the one ruler meant to unite and defend the system.
I used to hear it whispered in the markets, almost like a fairy tale: three trials to prove worth, diplomacy laced with danger, where winning meant the throne and losing could mean death.
Conclaves are meant to be called after a Sovereign dies. But almost twenty years ago, all of the House leaders were too young, and everyone was afraid to risk another tyrant. So the Cardinals ruled instead.
The Sun King’s Conclave is still whispered about: votes bought with threats, rivals vanishing before trials, Houses submitting rather than watching their heirs die in “accidents.” He’s been gone more than a decade, and yet the shadow of his reign lingers.
Now the system demands a ruler again.
Which means Lord Zevran will be drawn into it.
By midday, a guard appears at my chamber door.
“His Grace requests your presence in the great hall.”
The hall is crowded with nobles, silk and jewels glittering like watchful eyes. I keep to the edge, trying to disappear into the margins.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a tall figure approaching the red throne at the opposite end of the chamber.
His Grace is clad in royal uniform, the reds and blacks stark against his tan complexion.
The fabric fits close to his frame, his grey eyes surveying the room.
His jaw looks clenched behind a touch of stubble.
Lord Vance spots me from the front row, frowns, and whispers to his companion. My stomach knots.
A hush ripples over the chamber as a stoic, middle-aged envoy enters in white and silver robes – the colours of the Cardinals. He carries a scroll sealed with wax, which he ceremoniously unfurls.
“By decree of the System Cardinals, and under alignment of the twin suns, the Solar Conclave shall convene on the moon of Talis. Each planetary Kingdom is to send their Head of House to compete in the sacred trials and cast a final vote for the new Solar Sovereign.”
Whispers break loose at once, eager and dangerous.
I look toward Lord Zevran. His face gives nothing away, though his hand curls briefly against the throne’s armrest.
Then he stands and steps forward.
“House Mars will attend,” he declares. “And I name Cyra of the Mars Court as my attending advisor.”
The nobles stop whispering. Even the servants pause mid step.
Dozens of eyes turn on me like crosshairs.
It’s at this moment that my withdrawal rears its ugly head, baited by stress and scrutiny.
I clasp my hands firmly behind my back so no one will notice the trembling.
But things I can’t hide emerge too – my face loses all colour, and my breathing becomes shallow from skipped heartbeats.
Fragments of whispers reach me:
“A junior healer as advisor? What precedent is that?”
“She has no bloodline, no training…”
“This will make Mars look weak...”
Lord Zevran ignores them, already turning away. But the weight of their stares pins me.
Lord Vance storms through the crowd to my side, his face dark. “This is highly irregular – an advisor is required to have political experience, rank … knowledge of system laws … you have none of these!”
“I—I don’t—” Words fail. The hall spins.
Lady Maren leans in smoothly, rubied fingers clasping sharply around my shoulder. “Oh, you poor thing, this seems terribly out of your league, dear. You’ll be at tables with players who’ve trained for this since childhood.”
They’re circling like hawks.
“The Houses will demand answers,” Lord Vance presses. “Your background, your connections – what will you tell them?”
I force the words out. “Th-that I serve House Mars…”
Before I can falter further, Commander Nael cuts in, his voice carrying. “His Grace has the prerogative to choose his own advisor. Better we focus on supporting that decision.”
The noble’s recoil, but even Commander Nael’s eyes rest on me too long.
I can’t breathe. I slip away, mind racing. If I’m to survive, I need to know what I’m walking into.
The library’s restricted archives are opened for me after I mention His Grace’s appointment.
Archivist Ewan, the head librarian, only nods.
He’s a thin man with ink-stained fingers and spectacles that magnify his pale eyes to an unsettling degree.
“Wise. Most who enter the Conclave go in blind.” He tells me after I request access.
He leads me through the main reading room; past shelves that climb three stories high, connected by narrow iron staircases that spiral into shadow.
The restricted archives are behind a locked door at the back, where the dust motes swirl in the thin light from high windows.
Archivist Ewan pulls several leather-bound volumes from a locked case, their spines cracked and faded, then leaves me alone at a scarred wooden table.
The records spill horror.
The last Conclave, thirty-three years ago, ended with two House leaders dead, other nobles and advisors stripped of their titles, and the Sun King consolidating more power than any single ruler had held in centuries.
I find detailed accounts of the trials, and my hands shake as I read:
“The Trial of Strength saw the representative of Jupiter fall to his death. Investigation later revealed sabotage of his equipment, though no culprit was identified.”
“The Leader of Mercury was eliminated during the Trial of Mind when her sealed chamber was flooded with neurotoxin gas. Again, sabotage was suspected but never proven.”
The most chilling entry comes near the end:
“King Solric’s victory was assured not through skill or merit, but through a suspected systematic campaign of intimidation and sabotage. Those Houses that submitted early were spared; those that resisted found their leaders dead and their planets under military occupation.”
He turned the Conclave into a bloodbath just to win.
Yet in older records I find something different: accounts of the very first Conclaves from centuries ago, when they were actually meant to test leadership.
“The sacred trials are designed to test not just physical prowess, but wisdom, compassion, and the ability to unite rather than divide. A true leader must be able to endure suffering, solve complex problems, and bring peace between conflicting factions.”
My hands shake as I read. The craving stirs in me, a desperate ache with no outlet.
That’s when I hear bootsteps cut across the quiet.
Lord Zevran finds me huddled over a book. He pulls me away from the table and into a shadowed alcove, his jaw set. “You stood in that hall like a stunned bird.”
I rip my arm free. “Maybe because I was stunned. What was that?”
“Every Conclave participant must bring one advisor. The court expected me to choose Vance, or Nael – men with their own agendas.” His arms fold tight across his chest. “I chose you because I need someone I can trust. I also need to be healed – I can’t let anyone sense even a hint of weakness, now more than ever. ”
I blink. “You trust me?”
He wouldn’t if he knew the truth about me.
He leans closer, voice low. “Cyra … I need you.”
His words cause my heart to quicken its pace – but I can feel frustration building in the back of my mind.
“You’ve made me a target,” I snap. “They’re already asking questions – about my family, my past.”
“So? Let them.” Suspicion crosses Lord Zevran’s face. “What exactly are you afraid they’ll find, Cyra?”
For a moment, I encourage the silence between us as I think.
“I don’t know,” I say finally. “I feel like I’m being dragged into all these games I don’t understand.”
I watch as his expression softens, hopeful he’s able to empathize with my anxieties.
“Do you want me to withdraw the appointment?” He asks quietly.
For a moment, the safer answer tempts me.
Then I think of the staff who’ve shared whispers about my mother’s disappearance, of contacts my mother might have known among the other Houses or the Cardinals …
and of Lord Zevran, who would face each trial weakened, struggling to survive with a body that’s slowly breaking down…
“No,” I whisper. “But I’ll be looking for answers. About Mother. Whether that helps you or not.”
“Then we’ll find out together,” he says. But his gaze tells me he knows I’m holding something back. “Our transporter ship will be ready by morning.”
That night, I pack in silence as my thoughts spiral. The Mars-red robes feel heavy in my hands as I gently fold them into my leather satchel.
I’ll just have to keep my head down, stay as invisible as possible.
I’ll only ask questions about Mother if an opportunity presents itself.
Otherwise, I won’t talk, I won’t make eye contact, I won’t draw any attention.
If I’m lucky, most of the House leaders will be too pompous to acknowledge my existence.
But I can’t subdue the painful knot growing in my stomach.
Because sooner or later, someone might look at me too closely and notice the hint of gold in my eyes … the same infamous, insatiable hunger for magic…
And see not just a healer.
But the daughter of the Sun King.