The return to the Bastion felt different. The stone didn't seem quite so cold, and the shadows of the corridors didn't feel like they were reaching for her anymore.
Martha was waiting by the hearth, her hands tucked into her apron. "You've the scent of the deep frost on you, my lady," she said, her voice a comforting rasp. "And a look in your eye that wasn't there this morning. The forest has done what the healers could not."
"It was just the air, Martha," Elissa said, though she couldn't stop the small, private smile from tugging at her lips.
As she sank into the copper tub, the mountain herbs released a sharp, clean fragrance that cleared her head. The bruises—once angry purple marks from her ordeal—were fading into yellow ghosts under the influence of Alistair's silver balm. She leaned her head back, the water lapping at her chin, and closed her eyes. She could still feel the phantom weight of the pup against her shin, a humming warmth that felt like a secret heartbeat.
After the bath, Martha presented a gown of deep midnight silk. "No stays tonight, my lady. The Prince requested you be... comfortable."
"Which Prince?" Elissa asked, smoothing the soft fabric.
"The one who usually has an opinion on everything," Martha replied dryly.
When the heavy doors of the suite finally groaned open, Prince Dante was waiting. He was leaning against the stone wall, his massive arms crossed. He had traded his training leathers for a formal doublet of charcoal grey, looking more like a mountain carved into the shape of a man than a soldier.
"You look... rested," Dante noted, his voice a low rumble. He stepped forward, offering a stiff but sincere arm. "Vane is currently in the Great Hall telling anyone who will listen that you've become a wolf-whisperer. Lord Varick is reaching for his scrolls, and the Council is reaching for their wine."
Elissa took his arm, the strength of him radiating through the silk of his sleeve. "It was just a pup, Prince Dante. Perhaps it was just hungry and saw the South as a source of easy snacks."
Dante stopped, turning his head to look at her. The Bright blue lanterns of the hallway reflected in his golden irises.
"In the North, Princess, nothing is 'just' anything. Especially not the Frost-Walkers," he said, his face uncharacteristically solemn. "Alistair has been... quiet since the report. Be careful tonight. The King is in a foul mood regarding the news from the South, and your 'friendship' with the wild spirits has made the elders uneasy. They don't like things they can't categorize."
"I seem to be a very difficult category," Elissa murmured.
As they reached the obsidian-bound doors of the Great Dining Hall, the sound of a raised voice bled through the stone—heavy, rhythmic, and terrifying.
"...and you expect me to believe this was a simple skirmish, Alistair?" King Valen's voice was like the grinding of tectonic plates. "A Siphon Blade! If the Iron Ridge has rediscovered void-binding, then your 'patrols' have been a catastrophic failure of intelligence!"
"The Ridge didn't find it, Father," Alistair's voice was lower, a sharp, icy contrast. "They were gifted it. We have a leak in our archives, or a traitor who remembers the old ways. I will find the throat it came from."
Dante signaled the guards, and the doors swung open.
The atmosphere inside was suffocating. King Valen sat at the head of the table, his deep cerulean eyes glowing with suppressed rage. Alistair stood opposite him, his hands braced on the table, his luminous blue eyes locked in a battle of wills with his father.
The argument snapped shut the moment Elissa stepped into the light.
The King's gaze shifted to her, his eyes narrowing. Beside him, Alistair straightened his posture. His expression shifted from anger to an unreadable, intense focus. He scanned her face, her neck, and the way she leaned on Dante's arm, his eyes searching for the "change" Vane had reported.
"The Southern Princess," King Valen said, his voice dripping with cold disdain. "Come to join the survivors? Or have you come to explain how your people managed to lose a Prince and a relic-grade weapon in a single night?"
Elissa felt the sting of the insult, her throat tightening. But before she could speak, Alistair's voice cut through the air.
"She has come to eat, Father. And to prepare for the training she has endured for four days without complaint." Alistair's gaze moved to Elissa, and for a fleeting second, the coldness in his eyes flickered with a spark of something possessive. "I hear the Whispering Woods offered you a... unique welcome today."
Lady Seraphina, seated to the King's left, let out a sharp, mocking titter. "A wolf pup. How charming. The girl plays with forest strays while the world burns. Tell me, Princess, did you think it was a pet? Or are you truly so desperate for a friend in the North that you'd settle for a beast?"
Elissa's face flushed a deep, burning red. She felt the eyes of every ancient, calculating vampire in the room fixing on her like pins.
"It... it wasn't a beast," Elissa stammered, her voice small and wavering. She looked down at her hands, twisting the midnight silk beneath the table. "It was just a pup. It seemed lonely. It didn't do anything wrong. Please, don't blame the creature for approaching me. It was just a moment."
She looked up briefly, her mist-grey eyes clouded with fear. "It was just a small thing, seeking warmth."
The King's eyebrows shot up in bored surprise at her fragility. Seraphina's smirk deepened, her eyes raking over Elissa's trembling form. But Alistair... Alistair's expression darkened into something far more dangerous. He didn't like the way she shrunk back. He didn't like the way her spirit seemed to dim under his father's shadow.
"Enough," Alistair said, his voice cutting through the hall like a winter wind. "The wildlife is of no concern to the Council. The Princess was under the protection of my house, and the creature recognized a Starwind. Perhaps the 'beasts' of the North have better instincts than the elders of this table."
He pulled out the heavy chair next to him, his eyes never leaving Elissa's. "Sit, Princess. And stop apologizing for the forest's grace. It makes you look like a victim, and I have no use for victims at my table."