A soft, low murmur rippled through the obsidian table—a mixture of weary agreement and sharp wariness. Everyone in this room had survived a dozen such balls, and they knew the truth.
The young minister, the one who had spoken of the children's nightmares, nodded slowly. "The Ball brings more than people, Your Majesty. The North may be the cold heart of this world, but the Ball is where that heart beats loudest. If we forget how to welcome the world, the world will forget why it fears us."
Alistair felt his father's gaze slide toward him. It was a measuring look, weighing the man against the title. Alistair met it with a face of frozen glass, but beneath the surface, his mind was a storm. He knew the North couldn't afford a single crack in its facade—especially not now, with the Hollow scratching at the edges of reality.
"The Solstice is not a feast," an older woman at the table said gently. She was the mistress of protocol, her voice grounded and calm. "It is a reminder. When the other kingdoms see the D'Valtheron banners and hear the mountain hum with magic, they remember that we do not stand alone. If we let the fear of the Hollow make us smaller—if we lock the doors and douse the lights—they will take it as an invitation to strike."
Vane, leaning against the window, let out a sharp, dry chuckle. "And so, we buy more silk, polish the silver, and pretend to celebrate," he said, his eyes glinting with a cynical light. "All while we calculate exactly how many treaties we can bind without spilling a single drop of ink."
A few councillors shared rueful, knowing smiles.
"A necessary theatre," an older man added. "If they want politics, they will find it there. If they want security, they will see it in the guards on the battlements. We show them that the North stands unbroken."
The King's gaze remained fixed on Alistair. The unspoken question hung in the air: What will you allow them to see, my son?
Alistair took a slow, measured breath, feeling the weight of the D'Valtheron lineage settling over his shoulders like a mantle of lead. He straightened, his cold eyes cutting through the gloom of the room.
"The Winter Ball should be as it has always been," Alistair said, his voice low but carrying the authority of a winter gale. "The banners, the feasts, the pageantry. We do not hide. If we begin to look like we fear the future, the other kingdoms will smell it like blood in the water. They will see hesitation and secrecy, and they will remember it long after the music stops."
He looked at each minister in turn, his expression unyielding. "If we greet them openly—if we show them that the Bastion stands firm and the North is not cowering—then they leave with something more than gossip. They leave with the understanding that we are not weak enough to hide."
The younger minister leaned forward, his voice a cautious whisper. "And the Hollow will see it, too. It listens in the quiet corners of the dreams it sends. It will know we are still strong. It will not be pleased."
"No," Alistair said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, soft vibration. "But the Hollow thrives in the dark, in the places where people are too terrified to look. It does not fear us when we lock our doors. It only fears us when we step into the light and refuse to blink. If we are going to fight the void, we will do it in front of the world, not whispering in the shadows like a secret we are ashamed of."
The King watched Alistair for a long heartbeat. For the first time, his expression wasn't entirely cold. There was a flicker of something ancient—a mix of pride and a terrifying, fatherly fear.
"The Ball will proceed," the King declared, the words carrying the finality of a gavel. "The kings and queens will come. The North will open its halls. If the Hollow is watching, let it see that we do not cower. If the world is watching, let it see that we do not hide."
He looked back at the table, the light of the braziers reflecting in his tired eyes. "Make the preparations. Send the ravens. Let the realms know the Bastion is waiting."
The councillors nodded, the weight of the coming weeks settling onto their shoulders. The Hollow was not yet at the gates, and the seals were still holding—but every man and woman in that room understood that this ball would be more than a celebration.
On the other side the walk back from the High Library was a blur of cold stone and flickering torchlight. Kestrel walked with her usual predatory bounce, chatting about the quality of the practice swords they'd used that morning, but Elissa barely heard a word. Her fingers still felt the phantom hum of the ancient vellum, and her mind was trapped in that hand-painted leaf—the silver-haired witch and the prince with eyes like a dying star.
When they reached the heavy oak door of Elissa's chambers, Kestrel paused, her sharp gaze softening. "You've got that look again, Elissa. Like you're trying to solve a puzzle that doesn't want to be solved. Now take some rest. "