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Ten minutes later, the duke stands before us in full armor, looking like a man about to proclaim war. My unease grows, and when I look across the room, I see my emotions are mirrored on every face in attendance.

“You look magnificent, Your Grace,” Camellia gushes, clasping her hands together as she inspects Augmirian. Dropping her voice, she adds, “And so handsome.”

He smirks like a proud, petite peacock, letting her praise go straight to his head.

Apparently, he and Ayan have something in common—women make them fools, and they have too much pride for their own good.

“Your Grace,” a nobleman near the front asks, his face solemn. “Why do you require armor?”

“I suppose now is as good a time as any to officially announce it.” Augmirian’s face sharpens, and his eyes light with his mania. Armor clanking as he walks, he takes the front of the room. “You’ve likely heard rumors anyway. Today, let me confirm your suspicions. In secret, I’ve been building a golem army. Almost a hundred years ago, the humans stole our land from us, and I will be the man who wins it—”

Suddenly, Augmirian goes still. People begin to murmur, startled by his strange demeanor.

“Your Grace?” one of the elven guards says hesitantly, stepping forward. “Are you all right?”

But instead of answering, Augmirian’s eyes roll back in his head, and he falls to the floor, creating a horrible racket when the metal armor clatters against the stone.

People jump to their feet, talking all at once, but Augmirian’s guards wave them back.

“Give him room to breathe!” one commands as another kneels at the duke’s side and tries to rouse him.

“The armor must have been too heavy,” a woman mutters.

“Perhaps he overheated—it is quite warm in here.”

“How could he suddenly lose consciousness like that? One second he’s talking, and the next, he falls.”

“He’s dead,” the guard on the ground breathes.

“What?” another guard demands, shoving the first out of the way. He presses two fingers to the inside of Augmirian’s wrist, and then he goes pale.

“Well?” another asks.

The guard slowly lowers Augmirian’s hand to the ground. “There’s no pulse.”

The room bursts into complete pandemonium until a soft, feminine voice rises above the chaos.

“Everyone,sit down,” Camellia commands.

Slowly, the High Vales turn to her. An elderly nobleman pushes forward and accuses, “Human witch! You killed the duke!”

Camellia looks only slightly vexed. “I did, yes. And if you don’t want to suffer any further casualties, then I suggest you heed my command.”

Magic is kindled around the room, making the air spark and crackle.

“Arrest the princess!” the foolish man demands.

Before anyone can touch her, Camellia merely lifts her hand, and the man’s wife gasps out a startled, struggling mew and then falls to the floor.

That catches the room's attention. The man cries out and kneels at his wife’s side.

“She’s not dead, but do consider it a warning,” Camellia says, sounding as if she’s fighting to remain calm. “Sit down.”

Slowly, the elves release their magic and return to their seats—all except the aged elf, who kneels on the floor with his unconscious wife in his arms. It’s a painful sight to witness, and a lump forms in my throat.

The rest stare at Camellia, just now realizing she’s far more of a threat than they first assumed.

“Augmirian’s armor was made of a blend of talvernum, steel, and gold,” Camellia says conversationally once the room quiets. “That’s how I was able to enchant the metal even though it doesn’t look like talvernum.”