The council chamber smelled like old parchment and older fear.
Aelindra stood at the head of the table with her gauntleted hands clasped behind her back and her chin lifted at the angle she'd been practicing in mirrors since she was a girl. Twelve elven councillors sat along the curved bench.
Lady Fenris Ashroot spoke up.
"My lady. The throne has been empty for too long."
Her jaw tightened. "I am aware."
"An elven race without a seated queen is a body without a heartbeat. In these trying times, we need our queen more than ever."
"I know."
"Then..."
Aelindra exhaled through her nose.
"You know what's going on. Stop pretending otherwise."
"We are aware that she refuses." Lady Vaelreth's voice cut in from the second bench, dry as old bone. "The question is why she still has the capacity to refuse. Myrasyn is a mage, one that has never known real pain in her life. She should have broken in the first minute."
