Chapter 64

Lena’s POV

*Knock. Knock.*

“Your Majesty, may I come in?”

Father’s voice carried through the door, firm but edged with something I couldn’t quite place.

“Yes. The door is open,” I replied, my attention still fixed on my reflection.

The gown fit perfectly. Of course it did. Every seam, every fold had been prepared with precision for tonight’s dinner party—the opening of the Sovereign Assembly. I adjusted the fabric along my waist, smoothing out an invisible crease, if only to keep my hands occupied.

The door opened, then shut with a quiet click.

I caught Father’s reflection in the mirror as he entered, his steps brisk. He bowed out of habit, but there was urgency in the way he straightened.

“Pardon me for intruding,” he began, “but I came to report that we were unable to locate Marcus, nor Duke Edric’s right hand—Commander Cole—among the competitors for the Sovereign Accord. They are not listed among the guests either.”

My fingers stilled against the fabric.

Father continued, his voice tightening slightly. “We’ve searched the castle from top to bottom. Their absence extends beyond the main halls. They are nowhere to be found near Duke Edric’s accommodations… nor in any of the reserved quarters for his knights.”

I held his gaze through the mirror for a moment longer before looking away.

“I see…” I murmured, though the words felt heavier than they should have.

My jaw tightened as I turned from the mirror and made my way toward the tall window. The sky outside had begun to dim, the last light of day fading into something colder. From here, I could see the distant movement of preparations—the gathering of nobles, the quiet hum of anticipation building for tonight.

I exhaled slowly, folding my arms as I stared out into the distance.

“Let’s wait until the opening of the Accord,” I said, my tone even, controlled. “There’s still a chance Marcus is off wasting time somewhere… and Cole is simply following him around.”

It was a reasonable explanation.

It should have been enough.

But the words felt hollow even as I spoke them.

Father did not respond right away, and I didn’t need to look back to know that my answer had not eased his concern.

Truthfully… it hadn’t eased mine either.

Blast it…

I pressed my fingers lightly against the cool glass, grounding myself.

It’s nothing.

It has to be nothing.

And yet…

There it was again—that quiet, persistent unease, creeping beneath my skin, settling deep within my chest. My heart refused to settle, each beat sharper than the last, as if warning me of something I could not yet see.

Something… wrong.

I closed my eyes for a brief moment, steadying my breath.

Whatever it was… I would find it.

Before it finds us first.

—

Third Person’s POV

The next day…

Morning broke over the High Conclave with a brilliance that felt almost ceremonial, as if even the sun understood the weight of the day. The opening of the Sovereign Accord had begun.

The parade surged through the grand avenue in a spectacle of color and sound. Banners rippled in the breeze—each one bearing the crest of a ruling house—while the crowd roared in waves, voices rising and falling with every passing delegation. Nobles, knights, and champions marched with pride, their armor gleaming beneath the light, their presence a declaration of strength and legacy.

Cheers erupted from every side, each household claiming its own corner of loyalty among the spectators. Names were shouted, flags waved high, and the air itself seemed alive with anticipation.

For the next two weeks, the Accord would unfold in a series of trials—tests not just of strength, but of wit, endurance, and unity. Team events would challenge coordination and strategy through obstacle courses and simulated battlefields, while individual competitors would step forward in displays of precision and mastery. Archery, fencing, jousting—each discipline carried its own prestige.

But above all, it was the opening sparring matches that drew the loudest voices, the sharpest eyes.

Steel clashed in the arena.

The sound rang clear, echoing across the stands as two figures circled one another, movements swift and deliberate. Each strike was met with another, each feint answered with instinct honed through years of training. The crowd leaned forward as one, breaths held in unison as the tension reached its peak.

Then—

A sudden shift.

A clean, decisive movement.

One blade was knocked free, spinning through the air before clattering against the arena floor.

“And that concludes the fight!” the announcer’s voice boomed, cutting through the roar of the crowd. “The winner of this match—Sir Raymond! Representing the house of Viscount Damien!”

The arena erupted.

Applause thundered from the stands, cheers rising into a deafening chorus as Sir Raymond lowered his stance, catching his breath. Across from him, his opponent steadied himself before pushing up from the ground.

Without hesitation, Raymond extended a hand.

“It was a pleasure to compete with you, Sir,” he said, his voice carrying just enough to be heard over the lingering noise.

The other man let out a breathless chuckle as he accepted the gesture, gripping his hand firmly. “The honor was mine.”

Above them, the announcer continued, voice animated with excitement. “What an incredible display! That disarm—swift, precise, and perfectly timed!”

The two competitors exchanged a final nod before turning, exiting the arena side by side as the crowd’s energy refused to settle.

“And now! For the next—… huh?“

The announcer’s voice faltered mid-sentence. His eyes darted down to the list in his hands, brows knitting together as confusion overtook his rehearsed enthusiasm. The parchment he held was not the one he had memorized the night before.

“The next competitor is supposed to be Sir Piolo from the House of Silvervein…” he muttered under his breath—unfortunately loud enough for the microphone to carry his uncertainty across the arena.

A ripple of murmurs spread through the crowd.

Then—

“I shall go next.”

The voice came from below the stage.

Clear. Firm. Unquestionable.

The arena fell into sudden silence.

The announcer stiffened, his head snapping toward the source. “Y-Your Majesty! I’m afraid—”

“Pay no mind to trivialities,” Lena cut in smoothly.

She stepped forward, every movement composed, deliberate.

“I shall compete.”

The sunlight caught against the white-gold of her armor as she emerged fully into view. Gone was the regal stillness of the throne—what stood before them now was something sharper. More dangerous.

Her hair was tied neatly into a bun, a few loose strands framing her face, softening nothing of the authority in her gaze. The fitted armor revealed what her silks had long concealed—toned arms, defined posture, the unmistakable bearing of someone who had trained not just to rule… but to fight.

A collective gasp swept through the audience.

The announcer swallowed hard, the weight of her presence pressing against him. There was no room to refuse. No room to question.

“V-Very well!” he called out, forcing his voice to recover. “Our next competitor… is Her Majesty herself! Queen Lena from the House of Silvervein!”

The arena exploded.

Cheers surged like a tidal wave, crashing through the stands as Lena stepped into the ring. The ground beneath her boots seemed to echo with each step, her presence commanding, unshaken.

But amidst the excitement, whispers began to rise.

“She’s competing herself?”

“Look at her… I didn’t expect the Queen to be built like that…”

“She’s… incredible.”

“I never thought a woman could look that attractive in an armor.”

Admiration, surprise, awe—they all tangled together, feeding the growing energy of the crowd.

“And now! The champion who will face Her Majesty in this sparring match will be none other than Sir Louise from the land of—”

The announcer’s voice rang bright with practiced enthusiasm—until a tall man suddenly appeared at his side and leaned in to whisper.

The announcer blinked.

“…What?”

He leaned slightly closer, as if proximity might somehow change what he’d just heard.

“You… withdraw?”

Sir Louise offered a tight, almost apologetic smile—one that said this is absolutely not worth my life—before giving a small nod. Without another word, he turned and walked away from the arena.

The announcer stared after him.

The crowd murmured.

“…Right,” the announcer cleared his throat, forcing his smile back into place. “Then! Sir John from—”

Another figure approached. Another whisper.

Another pause.

“You withdraw as well?” His voice cracked just slightly this time.

Sir John didn’t even bother with a smile. He dipped his head once and backed away like a man excusing himself from a very unfortunate dinner invitation.

A ripple of whispers spread through the audience.

The announcer laughed awkwardly. “Ah…! Very well! Then Sir Harry from the Household of—”

A hand was raised from the edge of the arena.

“No.”

The announcer froze.

Sir Harry stood there, shaking his head with a firm finality, arms already crossed as if to say don’t even think about it.

The announcer slowly lowered his parchment.

“…Surely,” he began, voice now laced with disbelief, “not all of you have chosen to give up?”

A few competitors avoided eye contact. One suddenly found his boots incredibly interesting. Another pretended to adjust his gauntlet with intense dedication.

The announcer exhaled, running a hand over his face as his composure teetered dangerously on the edge. 

“I’ll compete against her.”

The voice cut through the growing amusement like a blade through silk.

The whispers died.

Heads turned.

From the edge of the arena, a man stepped forward—not hurried, not hesitant, but with a quiet confidence that demanded attention. His presence alone was enough to still the lingering humor in the air.

“I am Lord Lance,” he said, his gaze steady as it settled on Lena. “From the House of Valeen.”