CHAPTER 11 #3
“I did.” His voice lowered, becoming almost reflective. “I was not born into this council. I was not raised in these halls. My family came from the outer districts. Farmers. Traders. People the council barely acknowledged.”
Faelith’s steps slowed slightly.
He continued, “When I first arrived here, I was treated as an outsider. A curiosity. A nuisance. Some believed I did not belong. Others believed I would not last.” He glanced at her, his expression gentle. “I imagine you understand what it is to walk into a room where every eye weighs your worth.”
Faelith frowned.
She did understand. Far too well.
Humans had always weighed her worth—usually to find it lacking.
In Talcana, elves were tolerated only when useful.
She had heard the stories since childhood: elves were dangerous, elves were deceitful, elves were better kept at a distance.
Even their traditions were dismissed as superstition.
Here, in the heart of the council, she felt the same old scrutiny pressing against her skin.
D’Ardclaire’s voice softened. “Lady Vaelcourt was one of the few who believed I deserved a place here, just as she did the elves. She saw potential where others saw inconvenience. Her death is a loss I feel deeply.”
Faelith looked ahead, her caution of humans rising like a quiet warning. “And yet you believe her death was no accident?”
“I do,” he said simply. “And I believe you may be in danger as well.”
She came to a complete stop. D’Ardclaire, Ashendir, and her remaining guards followed suit.
He did not look at her when he spoke next. “There are factions within this council who fear change. Who fear the elves or anyone who threatens their power. Vaelcourt stood in their way. You could very well be part of their scheme as well.”
D’Ardclaire finally met her gaze, his expression calm but earnest. “I know what it is to be watched. To be scrutinized and underestimated. If you ever need an ally in these halls, Emissary, you need only ask.”
His tone was gentle.
His smile and eyes were warm.
But Faelith’s instincts whispered caution.
Humans had once torn her world apart.
They had burned her home.
And had hunted her kind.
Trusting one now—even one who spoke with kindness—was a risk she could not afford.
Still, she inclined her head. “Your offer is appreciated, Councilor.”
D’Ardclaire’s smile deepened. “You may call me Simon,” but he did not press further. “Then I will leave you to your duties. May the rest of your day be kinder than its beginning.”
He bowed slightly, then turned down a side corridor, his footsteps fading into the quiet.
Ashendir exhaled slowly. “He is… persuasive.”
Faelith looked toward the exit of the council hall, the note burning like a brand in her sleeve.
“Persuasive,” she murmured, “is not the same as trustworthy.”
And she walked on, knowing the true danger had only begun to reveal itself.
???
The parchment lay open on her desk inside her quarters, its thin edges curled from hurried handling. Ink stretched across the page in uneven strokes, the message stark and urgent. It waited there like a living thing, breathing unease into the quiet room.
Faelith leaned against the narrow window, her shoulder pressed to the cool stone frame.
The glass was thin enough to let in the morning chill.
She absently bit the nail of her thumb, her gaze drifting over the palace gardens below.
Servants moved like muted shadows along the paths. Guards stood rigid at their posts.
None of it eased the tension coiled beneath her ribs.
Her eyes slid back to the desk.
To the message.
To the warning.
Go to the Archives tonight. There, the truth of Lady Vaelcourt’s death can be uncovered. Come alone.
The words felt heavier now that she had read them more than once. Heavy enough to anchor her breath. Heavy enough to stir memories she wished she could forget.
Ashendir stood near the door, arms crossed, posture alert. “You have been quiet,” he said.
Faelith didn’t look away from the window. “There is much to consider.”
Her thumb grazed her lower lip, the nail catching slightly. A nervous habit she rarely allowed herself. But today, the palace felt too close. The council too loud. The humans too familiar in their suspicion.
Ashendir approached the desk, glancing down at the parchment. “The Archives,” he murmured. “That is no small place to request a meeting.”
“No,” Faelith said softly. “It is not.”
She finally turned from the window, the morning light catching the faint tension in her jaw. “Someone wants me there. Someone who believes I can uncover what Vaelcourt found.”
“Or someone who wants you isolated,” Ashendir countered.
Faelith’s gaze hardened. “Humans have used isolation against our people before.”
Ashendir’s expression softened, understanding the hidden meaning. “You are not that child anymore.”
“You’re right,” she said. “But I refuse to be put in that position ever again.”
She moved to the desk, fingers brushing the parchment’s edge.
Ashendir stepped closer. “What will you do?”
Faelith lifted the note, feeling its weight settle into her fingertips.
“We head to the Archives. Leaving nothing to chance.”
Ashendir nodded once, already preparing himself.