High Lady Calthira Dawnweaver’s private residence was nestled within the highest spire of the Gilded Quarter, overlooking all of Silvermoon. From the arched balcony, she could see the entire city below—spires glowing softly in the moonlight, leyline nodes pulsing faintly along the streets like veins beneath marble skin.

  But tonight, the city felt brittle.

  She stood silently, arms crossed as the night wind toyed with the loose strands of her silver hair. The tension in the council chamber had been expected, but the mutiny brewing beneath it... that was different.

  “You’re brooding again.”

  Calthira didn’t turn, but the voice brought a warmth to her that politics never could. Soft, steady, with just the right edge of teasing.

  Emerging from the shadowed archway behind her, wrapped in a simple indigo robe, was Serellia—her wife. A healer by trade and a scholar by nature, Serellia moved like water, gliding up beside Calthira with a wry smile.

  “Do I need to pry the council’s latest arguments out of you,” Serellia asked, “or will you surrender willingly?”

  Calthira’s lips twitched, though her eyes remained on the horizon. “They’re circling each other like wolves,” she replied. “Splintering into factions faster than I can contain.”

  Serellia’s hand found hers, fingers intertwining. “And you, as always, are the one holding the leash.”

  Calthira let out a quiet breath. “Barely.”

  They stood there for a long moment, watching the faint shimmer of magical wards ripple across the city’s skyline.

  “The outsider,” Serellia said gently. “The one everyone’s whispering about.”

  Calthira nodded. “Matrim Kaelen.”

  Serellia arched an eyebrow. “You sound like you believe he’s more than just an intruder.”

  Calthira finally turned to face her wife, eyes softening. “He’s attuned. To the ley lines themselves.”

  “That’s rare,” Serellia murmured. “But not unheard of.”

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  Calthira’s jaw tightened. “It’s deeper than that. He triggered a surge that reached the entire ley grid. No outsider has done that since...”

  “Since the Severance War,” Serellia finished, voice hushed.

  Calthira nodded. “Exactly.”

  The memory of the Severance War hung heavy between them—a dark time when Guardians, corrupted by shadow magic, tried to manipulate Silvermoon’s roots for power. The scars of that war still lived beneath the streets, sealed away but never forgotten.

  “And now,” Serellia said quietly, “they’re pulling at those scars again.”

  Calthira’s silence was answer enough.

  They retreated inside the chamber, leaving the cool night air behind. The High Lady’s private quarters were far simpler than what most imagined of the city’s ruler—no towering thrones or gilded murals here. Just stone walls lined with personal relics, shelves stacked with scrolls, and maps of Silvermoon dating back centuries.

  A small table near the hearth was cluttered with old tomes and a silver inkwell, but the focal point of the room was a circular scrying mirror resting atop a carved stand. Its glass shimmered faintly as threads of leyline energy rippled across its surface.

  Calthira moved to it and traced a sigil in the air, activating a localized ley-scry. The mirror pulsed softly, projecting faint images of leyline fractures beneath the city. Several nexus points flickered ominously—especially beneath the Veiled Gardens.

  “They’re already too deep,” Calthira murmured. “The Court has anchored something beneath the city.”

  Serellia stepped beside her. “And the council still debates whether to call it a threat.”

  Calthira’s voice grew sharp. “They argue about who benefits from escalation—whether alerting the public will weaken the ruling families, or strengthen Vaelor’s faction.”

  Serellia’s expression soured. “Vaelor’s ambitions have always been predictable.”

  Calthira nodded. “He has allies on the council now. Enough to stall every decisive move I make. He would seize the Bastion itself if given the chance.”

  Serellia brushed her fingertips against Calthira’s sleeve. “And Narianna?”

  Calthira’s voice softened. “Loyal. But reckless. She’s risking much by siding with the outsider.”

  Serellia’s hand remained gentle. “And you?”

  Calthira let out a weary sigh. “I’m risking everything.”

  For a moment, Serellia studied her wife’s face, then offered a faint, knowing smile. “You always do.”

  Calthira’s heart ached briefly—not from fear of Vaelor’s politicking or even the Court’s corruption, but from knowing how precarious the balance had become. The council fractured beneath her, the Guardians divided between tradition and survival, and the city itself quietly bleeding magic from its roots.

  “I fear,” Calthira whispered, “that no matter what we choose next, something beneath Silvermoon has already awakened.”

  Serellia leaned in, resting her head lightly against Calthira’s shoulder. “Then whatever happens, we face it together.”

  For once, Calthira let herself relax in Serellia’s touch. In this quiet chamber, away from the council’s whispers and Silvermoon’s political fault lines, there was no scheming. No Guardians. No outsider.

  Just them.

  But when she returned her gaze to the scrying mirror, watching as the fractures beneath the city spread wider, she knew tonight’s descent into the Veiled Gardens might not just be Narianna and Matrim’s burden to bear.

  It could be Silvermoon’s last chance to stop the inevitable.