Chapter 99: Council

It was calm as much as it was chaotic. Levan had not heard the council at first.

Their voices were little more than a dull hum against the stone walls, a distant chorus that barely reached him as he sat at the head of the long obsidian table. His hands were folded before him, jaw set in its usual calm line, but his mind was far from the council chamber.

It lingered where it always drifted now… on her.

He thought about the way Ilaria had looked at him the night before, tired but trying to smile; frightened but refusing to say why. He thought of the soft quiver in her voice when she asked, “Can I sleep in your room?” He thought of the weight of her head against his shoulder back in the tent, of how she seemed so content to be with him despite the circumstances.

He closed his eyes briefly, fighting the unfamiliar heaviness in his chest as he laid his head back against the chair, his hand came up to rub the back of his neck if only to ease the discomfort. She hides things from me when she’s scared, he thought, tension tightening between his shoulders.

A sharp voice cut faintly through the haze of his mind, though he refused to be alert still.

“—completely unprecedented—”

Another overlapped it:

“—the creatures have never behaved this way before—”

He exhaled a slow breath and opened his eyes. The noise rushed back instantly. As expected, the council was already in a full, chaotic argument.

Half the advisors were standing, some gesturing wildly, others pointing at maps strewn across the table. Two generals spoke over each other, both insistent on their own analysis. A scholar waved a stack of reports like a weapon. Someone else demanded more scouts. Someone else claimed they should seal the Expanse entirely.

Levan did not immediately move as he simply watched them arguing over each other. Calm and silent, like the single steady flame in a room full of cracking, sputtering torches. His gaze drifted over them, expression unreadable, his earlier thoughts still lingering like a shadow behind his eyes.

And all of those thoughts circled back to her.

Saints… maybe he should have stayed with her. He should have held her until the nightmares loosened their grip and daylight returned.

The thought pressed against his ribs, unwelcome but persistent. He could still feel the ghost of her weight leaning into him from last night, the soft way her fingers had curled around his sleeve, the faint brush of her breath against his collarbone when exhaustion finally claimed her.

Levan flexed his fingers, running a hand down his face as if caught in a headache. “Damn it…”

He missed her.

It was ridiculous, really. He had seen her barely an hour ago, and yet the memory of her warmth tugged at him like a hand at his chest. She was sleeping in his bed safe and sound, he should not have felt the urge to see her so much like this.

Even so, he wondered if she had slept well. If she had reached for someone in the dark. If she had curled into the blankets searching for comfort he had not stayed to give. She clung to him when they slept together, and the instant her breathing slowed, she drifted toward him like it was instinct, like her body trusted him more than her own dreams.

A quiet ache formed in his chest.

If he was not there… who held her? Who steadied her when the nightmares crept too close? What if she had a nightmare again? Who whispered reassurance into her hair when she trembled?

No one. No one but empty sheets and cold pillows. He did not even thought about her handmaiden.

The thought unsettled him more than the council’s arguing ever could. She should never have to face the dark alone. Not when he was meant to be the one she reached for. Not when every part of him ached to be the arms she fell asleep in and the first thing she felt when morning came.

He could picture her tucked beneath the heavy furs of his sheets, hair spilling over his pillows in soft tangles and lips parted slightly in her sleep. She always looked impossibly delicate when she slept, like something meant to be guarded and not merely loved. How peaceful. How small. How utterly defenseless…

And Gods, he wanted to be there just to sit beside the bed and brush the hair from her cheek. He wanted to be there just to feel her relax when she sensed him near.

He closed his eyes briefly, willing the ache in his chest to settle. Perhaps it was only the exhaustion talking. That had to be it. He was tired, worn from travel, stretched thin by responsibility, so of course his mind would wander toward the warmth waiting in his chambers.

He had never been the type to leave a council meeting with half his mind elsewhere. He had certainly never been the type to want to abandon one entirely just to return to someone. And yet here he sat, jaw tight, pretending his urge to go back to her was nothing more than weariness tugging at frayed edges.

One advisor slammed his hand on the table, catching Levan’s attention. “—and if the beasts are advancing, then we are already behind—”

Another snapped, “Then the prince must issue a formal decree before—”

A third cut in, “Your Highness, the expedition should never have involved—”

That was the first word that cracked through his composure.

His eyes lifted sharply. The room fell quiet in degrees, voices tapering off as one councilor after another realized the crown prince was no longer lost in thought. And the temperature of the room shifted.

Slowly, Levan straightened in his seat. He rested both hands on the table, gaze sweeping across the chamber with the same unblinking intensity he used in battle. There was no irritation showed on his face, but the quiet command in his posture made the last of the arguments die out completely.

When he finally spoke, his voice was controlled and impossibly calm.

“Ask your question,” he said. “One at a time.”

And just like that, the council obeyed.

Levan allowed the council to speak, though his gaze rarely left the map strewn across the table. Generals argued over troop placements, scouts debated routes, and advisors clutched reports like shields. Every so often, a voice would rise, insistently contradicting another, but Levan remained still, the eye of a storm in a room of flailing currents.

He listened, considered, and occasionally asked a pointed question. The council scrambled to provide answers, each eager to demonstrate loyalty and insight, yet unaware that their prince’s mind was partly elsewhere, already picturing the warm quiet of his chambers and the faint weight of her hand still pressed against him in his thoughts.

Hours passed in this rhythm. Levan took in every recommendation, weighed every report, corrected assumptions where needed, and occasionally made a suggestion that silenced even the most vociferous critic. By midnight, the voices had softened into measured discussion, though the tension in the room never fully dissipated.

A scholar finally rose, adjusting the thick leather straps of his satchel. “Your Highness, if I may present our findings from the recent studies conducted on the Expanse,” he said, voice calm but deliberate. “Over the past decade, our research teams have documented three recurring phenomena regarding individuals who enter certain regions of the Expanse.”

He unfurled a scroll and pointed to a series of diagrams. “First, there are visible marks that appear on the skin of those exposed to the energies of the Expanse, patterns consistent across multiple cases. They are not injuries per se but faint, sigil-like impressions that manifest within hours of exposure.”

“Second,” he continued, turning the scroll, “chemical analysis of water sources and soil in affected areas shows brief, localized changes in composition, minerals and compounds that interact unpredictably with human physiology. It is subtle, but detectable. Those exposed tend to carry residual traces for days afterward.”

“Finally, longitudinal observation confirms a correlation between these marks and heightened physiological sensitivity including nervous reactions, irregular heartbeat, and in some cases, altered sleep patterns or vivid dreams.”

The scholar’s gaze flicked across the chamber, measuring the reactions of the generals and scribes. “While none of these findings indicate immediate danger, the consistency across separate studies suggests a pattern we cannot ignore.”

Levan’s eyes lifted from the scroll, narrowing slightly as he considered the implications. He had entered all these areas before. Sometimes alone, sometimes with the Captains. “And yet,” he said quietly, more to himself than anyone else, “not everyone who enters these zones experiences these effects.”

The scholar nodded. “Correct, Your Highness. Our records show that exposure alone is not sufficient. Factors such as duration, proximity to the central energy nodes of the Expanse, and, most importantly, individual physiological sensitivity determine whether the marks appear and how severe the effects are.”

Levan’s gaze drifted back toward the map spread on the table, tracing the northern tributaries where the scouts had noted anomalies. A subtle tension knotted at his jaw. He did not speak, but the chamber sensed the shift, the calm, unreadable composure of a prince suddenly weighed with something far more personal than strategy.

The door to the council chamber opened quietly, causing a stir of murmurs among the council members at the interruptions. From the outside, Marion stepped in, bowing sharply but with an urgency that did not escape the prince. Levan merely raised his hand, silencing the quiet chatter.

Marion came close enough for Levan to see the sharp concern etched across his face. Without a word, he leaned in and whispered into his ear.

It was not more than a few words, but the moment the words sink in, Levan’s eyes widened. His hand tightened on the edge of the table until his knuckles whitened.

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