I Died and Became a Noble's Heir

Chapter 828: Brothers and Sisters

The heavy tread of King Maelor’s armored boots echoed through the vaulted expanse of the throne room, striking the marble with the steady, measured cadence of an iron pendulum.

As he cleared the lowest tier of the royal dais, his right foot made contact with the pearlescent diadem resting crookedly against the stone.

The impact sent the ancient band of gold and teardrop gems skidding across the polished floor, slicing through the expanding pool of Rowan Starling’s cooling blood.

It spun violently, splattering dark crimson droplets against the white masonry, until it collided with the base of a fluted pillar and settled into the blood.

It was left dull, chipped, and discarded.

Maelor remained steadfast, his gaze fixed forward, his pace unwavering.

His golden eyes remained fixed entirely on the heavy oak doors leading toward the northern private corridors, his jaw set in a hard line that pulled the scarred skin of his cheek taut.

Behind him, Jack Kaiser and Prince Rhys matched his pace.

The air in the passage was cool, stripped of the copper-scented heat that had choked the Council Chamber.

Yet the silence between the three men carried the dense, accumulated weight of an empire whose foundations had just been completely rewritten.

At the end of the long gallery, the double doors of the West Annex stood beneath a carved lintel bearing Caeloria’s crest.

The two white-armored sentries flanking the entrance snapped their gauntlets against their breastplates, their faceless visors lowering in soundless, synchronized deference as they hauled the massive iron-oak panels outward.

The West Annex was smaller than the high hall, constructed not for public spectacle, but for covert, high-level deliberations among the heads of the Great Houses.

The walls were paneled in dense duskwood that absorbed the sound of footsteps, reinforced by thick bands of silver runic steel that hummed faintly with suppression wards.

A long, oval table carved from a single slab of petrified wood occupied the center of the chamber, illuminated by the stark, cold glare of three overhead chandeliers burning a golden fire.

Seated around the table were ten high elven nobles, their postures rigid and their eyes tracking the entrance the moment the doors parted.

They were the immediate blood relatives of the slaughtered councilors, summoned by sovereign decree to an emergency council whose purpose had been kept hidden from them.

At the upper curve of the left flank sat Elowen Ashwood, cousin to the late Lord Ashwood.

Her frame was tall and slender, wrapped in a high-collared gown of forest-green velvet that accentuated the pale, flawless porcelain of her throat.

Her mahogany hair was gathered into a thick, intricate braid that rested over her right shoulder, secured with small emerald pins.

Her long, delicate fingers rested flat against the duskwood surface, her posture immaculate, while her sharp, calculating green eyes narrowed instantly upon the bloodstains visible along Maelor’s hem.

Directly beside her sat Sylvea Starling, the younger sister of Rowan Starling.

She was petite, her soft, rounded features framed by cascading silver-white curls that brushed the shoulders of a high-necked lavender silk tunic embroidered with tiny silver swallows.

Her lavender eyes darted with frantic, bird-like rapidity across the three men who entered, her breath hitching audibly in her chest.

Her small, ringed hands were clamped tightly around the arms of her chair, her knuckles turning bone-white under the strain.

Next to Sylvea was Nerida Solyus, sister to the fallen representative of the southern maritime territory.

Her skin was a rich, sun-kissed bronze that set her apart from the pale nobility of the capital, and her cropped, wavy golden hair complemented it.

Her shoulders were broad, her athletic frame clad in a tailored coat of deep sea-blue leather trimmed with braided gold wire.

Her piercing aquamarine eyes held the fierce, unblinking intensity of a coastal captain measuring an approaching gale, her chin raised in quiet, defiant scrutiny.

Across the table sat Calix Meridan, Fauna Meridan’s younger brother.

He was a tall, lean elf with sharp, angular cheekbones and a thick shock of chestnut hair that fell carelessly across a pale forehead.

His amber gaze held a subtle, cultivated confidence, yet the tension in his lips suggested apprehension.

He wore a dark brown silk doublet pinned at the breast with a silver hawk brooch, his long legs stretched casually beneath the table in an attempt to project indifference.

Beside Calix was Astraea Ouroboros, cousin to the northern estates’ patriarch.

Her posture was entirely unyielding, her statuesque frame encased in midnight-black robes stitched with coiled golden serpents along the sleeves.

Her pitch-black hair was pulled back into a strict, sweeping updo that emphasized her icy, slate-gray eyes and high, aristocratic nose. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap, motionless as stone.

Further along the table sat Sable Malakor, Leandros Malakor’s younger sister.

She carried the striking, formidable presence of her house, her voluptuous yet toned frame draped in a tailored dress of crimson silk reinforced with panels of dark shadow-leather across the bodice.

Her raven-black hair fell in straight, glossy sheets past her waist, framing a sharp, pale face with high cheekbones and cold, amethyst-violet eyes that mirrored the calculating cruelty of her deceased brother.

Her lips were pressed into a flat, dangerous line, her gaze locking directly onto Jack Kaiser with unhidden hostility.

To Sable’s right sat Sirius Anake, brother to the former councilor of the western reach.

His broad chest and heavy shoulders strained against the fabric of a charcoal military tunic adorned with silver campaign medals.

His jaw was weathered and scarred from past border engagements, his short-cropped ash-gray hair bristling as his hard, steel-blue eyes tracked Prince Rhys’s daggers with the sharp instincts of a veteran commander.

Next to Sirius was Daemon Archon, cousin to House Archon’s primary lineage.

He was slender and elegant, with chin-length platinum hair parted neatly down the middle, framing a youthful face and pale hazel eyes that observed the room with cold, detached intelligence.

His pristine white doublet was stitched with intricate silver runic scripts that faintly shimmered under the chandeliers, his fingers resting lightly against his chin in quiet calculation.

Beside Daemon sat Selene Alyon, Caspian Alyon’s elder sister.

She possessed an ethereal, delicate beauty, with waist-length silver hair that gleamed like spun moonlight under the lamps and wide, crystalline blue eyes.

Her frame was slender and soft, clothed in a gown of shimmering white silk. Her hands rested in her lap, trembling so violently that the delicate silk of her dress rustled with every breath she drew.

At the far end of the oval sat Yandor Sideris, brother to the tenth councilor.

He was an older elf with silver-streaked dark hair, a neatly trimmed beard, and deep cobalt eyes set beneath heavy, furrowed brows.

His broad, aristocratic frame was draped in heavy navy robes lined with ermine fur, his heavy signet ring clicking softly against the dark wood as his fingers tapped in steady, nervous intervals.

Between Selene Alyon and Yandor Sideris, the eleventh chair sat empty.

The high-backed seat carved with the crest of House Nyctelios was vacant, cold, and stripped of its ceremonial cushions.

None of them were yet aware of what had gone on moments ago, but one individual