Chapter 13: The Chancellor's Summons
The silence in Finn’s apartments was a palpable thing. It wasn’t peaceful; it was the quiet of a garrison between assaults, where every creak of the floorboard was a sentry’s call. Nadia had managed, over two days, to progress from bed to a deep armchair by the cold fireplace. The move had left her dizzy and drenched in a cold sweat, but it felt like a victory.
A book lay open but unread on her lap. She was listening. To the distant, muted rhythms of the palace, and to Finn’s steady, quiet movements in his study across the hall. He was always within earshot.
The knock on the outer door was firm, polite, entirely wrong.
Finn emerged from the study before the sound had fully faded, a letter opener held loosely in his hand, its purpose not for opening mail. He met her eyes, held up a finger. Wait.
He opened the door a crack. A low murmur exchanged. She heard the crisp slide of parchment on paper, then the solid click of the door shutting again. He walked back in, holding a single sheet of heavy cream paper. The wax seal was a splash of crimson, stamped with a lion’s head encircled by a chain.
Lord Revin’s personal sigil.
Finn broke the seal without ceremony, his eyes scanning the flowing script. A muscle in his jaw tightened. He read it twice, then handed it to her wordlessly.
To His Highness, Prince Finnian, and his esteemed bride, the Lady Nadia,
The echoes of recent court festivities have been so dreadfully dull without your unique presence. To remedy this, and to properly welcome the new Lady Grey to our esteemed circle, I request the pleasure of your company for a private dinner this evening at the eighth bell.
My kitchens are preparing a modest repast I believe you will find… enlightening.
I do so hope you are feeling recovered, my lady. The court buzzes with concern for your health. It would put all rumors to rest to see you radiant at my table.
Please do not disappoint.
Yours, in anticipation,
Revin.
The paper smelled of sandalwood and a faint, cloying sweetness. Nadia’s hand trembled. The polite words were a cage. ‘Enlightening.’ ‘Put all rumors to rest.’ ‘Do not disappoint.’ Each phrase a carefully placed stitch in a net.
“He knows I’m not well,” she said, her voice thin. “The ‘court’s concern’ is his own. He’s checking his work.”
“And issuing a challenge,” Finn said, taking the letter back. He stared at the invitation as if it were a battle map. “A private dinner. No witnesses. Just his people, in his domain.”
“We can’t go. I can barely stand for a full minute.”
“We can’t refuse.” Finn’s tone was flat. “Refusal is an act of war he would spin as petty insult. ‘The Wolf and his vile bride snub the Chancellor’s generosity.’ It gives him the high ground. It also tells him we’re scared, and that we have something to hide.”
He walked to the window, his broad shoulders blocking the grey light. “If we go, he probes. He watches you flinch. He measures my temper. He confirms the damage and assesses the threat.” He turned, his gray eyes sharp. “But it also lets us look back. We see his house. His guards. His habits. We accept his ‘welcome’ and play the grateful, cowed newlyweds.”
“A dinner performance.” The thought was exhausting. “What’s our role?”
“You are frail, but stoic. Grateful for his concern. A little simple, perhaps. Overwhelmed by the grandeur.” A flicker of something like apology passed over his face. “It’s a part you know.”
She did. The silent woman in the corner, the one nobody noticed. But this time, she would be listening. Watching. “And you?”
“I am the soldier prince, uncomfortable with silk and conversation. Politely bored. Distracted by a wife who needs tending.” He came to kneel by her chair, bringing himself to her eye level. The letter opener was still in his hand, resting on his knee. “We give him nothing. No defiance. No cleverness. We are exactly what he believes us to be: a battered woman and the brute who owns her. It’s the last thing he’ll see coming.”
“He mentioned ‘enlightening’ food.”
“A threat. Or a promise. Either way, we don’t eat it.” He said it so casually. A basic survival tactic in his world.
Nadia looked down at her hands, pale against the dark wool of her blanket. The wound in her belly gave a dull throb. “I don’t have a gown. Nothing suitable for a chancellor’s private table.”
Finn stood. “You do now.” He went to the door connecting to her rooms and called out, “Elara?”
A woman, perhaps in her forties with a stern, kind face and hands that looked capable of both wringing a neck and stitching a perfect seam, entered. She was Finn’s personal attendant, the only servant he seemed to tolerate inside the inner apartments.
“Elara, Lady Nadia requires a gown for dinner at the Chancellor’s tonight. Something dark. Modest. Nothing that pulls or presses here.” He gestured vaguely at Nadia’s midsection.
Elara’s eyes assessed Nadia with a single, clinical sweep. “The deep charcoal silk. It’s high-necked, long-sleeved. We’ll take it out at the seams along the waist. You’ll look respectful, not fashionable. It will suffice.” She nodded, more to herself than to them, and vanished.
“She’s terrifying,” Nadia murmured.
“She served my mother. She is the reason no one has ever successfully poisoned me.” Finn said it lightly, but the truth beneath was as cold as marble. “She’ll help you dress. And she’ll be waiting right outside Revin’s doors until we leave.”
The planning was a comfort. A series of steps to follow. But a deep, cold fear was settling in Nadia’s bones, colder than the fever chill. “Finn,” she said, hesitating. “What if I… what if the pain…”
“What if you faint?” he finished. He didn’t dismiss it. “Then you faint. I’ll carry you out, cursing your weakness, playing the embarrassed husband. It might even help the performance.” He paused. “But you won’t faint. You’ll hold on because you want to hear what he says. You’ll cling to consciousness out of pure, spiteful curiosity.”
A faint, real smile touched her lips. He saw her too well.
“He wants to see his victory,” she said, the anger cutting through the fear like a clean knife. “He wants to see me broken across the table from him.”
Finn’s expression hardened into something bleak and terrible. “Then we’ll give him a very convincing picture.”
He extended a hand to help her up. “Come. You need to walk a little now, or you’ll never make it to his chair. We’ll practice the route from the door to the table. How you’ll sit. Where you’ll look.”
She took his hand. His grip was firm, warm, grounding. He pulled her up carefully, his other hand hovering near her elbow as the world tilted.
“One step at a time,” he said, his voice low near her ear. “Just like a siege.”
Together, they took the first shuffling step across the polished floor, beginning their meticulous, silent preparation for the evening’s theater. The invitation lay on the table, the crimson seal smeared like a wound, a silent eighth guest waiting for them both.
The charcoal silk gown felt like a merciful void against her skin, its seams silently forgiving where they passed over the bandages. Elara had twisted her dark chestnut hair into a severe knot, every pin a declaration of subdued dignity. "No jewelry," the woman had muttered, stepping back to survey her work. "Let them see only you."
Only her. That was the terror.
At the seventh bell, Finn entered her sitting room. He was clad in a formal officer's coat of unrelenting black, silver epaulets the only concession to rank. The scar on his face seemed darker in the lamplight, a testament written in flesh. In his hand was a cane of polished ebony, its handle carved into the shape of a wolf's head.
"For the stairs," he said, offering it. "And the long halls. It’s from my father’s collection. It says 'crippled heir,' which is useful. But it’s also solid."
She took it. The wood was cool and smooth. Her fingers fit against the wolf's muzzle. "Thank you."
"You lean on it. You lean on me. The goal is the chair. Nothing else."
She nodded, her throat too tight for speech.
The journey to the Chancellor’s private wing was a gauntlet of polished stone and watching eyes. Each step sent a jolt up her side, a hot reminder of the wound draining beneath the silk. The cane tapped a frail, uneven rhythm against the marble, a sound that screamed infirmity. After the first grand staircase, a gray haze began to shimmer at the edges of her vision.
"Here," Finn said, his voice low. He offered his arm, not his elbow, but the solid bulk of his forearm.
She gripped it, her fingers digging into the thick wool of his coat. The transfer of weight was immediate and profound. The cane took some, he took the rest. She was not walking, she was being ferried, step by agonizing step, his body a bulwark against the collapse threatening to swallow her whole. She could feel the coiled strength in his arm, the absolute control of his pace.
"Breathe," he murmured, looking straight ahead. “Out. The air here is just air."
They passed a tapestry, a riot of hunting dogs and spilled blood. They passed a suit of armor, empty and accusatory. The world narrowed to the pressure of his arm, the next square of floor, the burning stitch in her side. Her breaths came in shallow pulls.
A set of double doors loomed ahead, wrought iron fashioned into vines that seemed to choke the wood. Two guards in Revin’s livery stood sentry, their faces impassive.
Finn didn't break stride. "Prince Finnian and Lady Nadia," he announced, his tone devoid of anything resembling request.
The guards swept the doors open without a word.
Light and scent and sound rushed out to envelop them. The room was long, intimate, opulent in a way that felt suffocating. A fire roared in a hearth too large for the space, casting dancing shadows over walls lined with books that looked never touched. The long table was set for three, a monstrous spread of glazed fowl, shimmering jellies, and roasted fruits between them.
And at the head, rising smoothly from his chair, was Chancellor Revin.
He was older than she remembered, his handsome face softened at the edges by fine living, his smile a practiced instrument of warmth. His eyes, however, were the pale, assessing blue of a winter lake.
"My dear Prince! And the lovely Lady Nadia!" he said, his voice a rich baritone that filled the room. "You honor my humble table. Please, come in. Let us dispense with all that tiresome formality."
Nadia took the last few steps clinging to Finn, the cane a feeble third leg. Revin’s gaze tracked her every faltering movement, lingering on the hand clenched around Finn's arm, on the white-knuckle grip on the cane. His smile didn't waver. It deepened, pleased.
"Ah, I see the rumors of your indisposition were not exaggerated," he said, not unkindly. "How brave you are to venture out. The chair here, my lady, is the most forgiving. I insisted."
Finn guided her to the indicated seat, his hand a steadying pressure on her back as she lowered herself. The world swayed, then settled. She positioned the cane against the table, within reach. A lifeline.
Finn took the seat between her and Revin, a physical barrier. He nodded once, a soldier’s acknowledgment. "Chancellor."
"We are so glad you could come," Revin said, resuming his own seat with a sigh of contentment. He gestured to the feast. "After such… turmoil. One must keep up one’s strength. The body is a temple, however often it is vandalized." He speared a piece of glazed pear with a slender fork, his eyes fixed on Nadia. "Tell me, my dear, are you finding the palace air conducive to your recovery?"
The question hung in the air, oily and warm like the glaze on the untouched fowl. Nadia kept her eyes on her plate, her fingers tracing the cool stem of her water goblet. "It is... sufficient, my lord," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. She let it tremble, just slightly. "The quiet of my husband's apartments is a blessing."
Revin's smile was a patient, practiced thing. "Quiet can be so healing. Though I often find silence leaves too much room for the imagination to wander." He took a slow sip of wine, his gaze drifting to Finn. "You've secured a most serene fortress for her, Prince. How are you finding the transition from campaigning to caretaking?"
Finn shrugged, a loose, weary motion. He pushed a piece of bread around his plate. "Less blood. More paperwork. The quiet is the same." He didn't look at Revin, his attention seemingly occupied by the food he had no intention of eating.
"A soldier's philosophy." Revin chuckled, a soft, rich sound that didn't reach his eyes. "But surely your new bride has brought some... color to those grey walls? The Ashfords were always such a vibrant family. Your sister, Maria, is a particular ray of sunlight."
The name was a needle slipped between her ribs. Nadia felt Finn go still beside her. She lifted her water goblet with both hands to hide their shaking and took a small sip. The water was bitterly cold. "Maria is very kind," she murmured, setting the glass down with precise care. "The light favors her."
"And it has favored you with resilience, my dear." Revin leaned forward, his elbows on the table, a gesture of faux intimacy. "To survive such a vicious attack, right within the palace grounds. It shakes one's faith in security. I understand the blade missed anything vital. A lucky turn."
The fire crackled, loud in the sudden quiet. Nadia could feel the heat of it on her skin, a stark contrast to the ice in her veins. "The physician was skilled," she said, repeating the story they'd woven. "And my husband was quick."
"Indeed." Revin’s pale eyes flicked to Finn's scar, then back to her. "Speed is a valuable trait. As is discretion. The city watch has, of course, found no leads. A ghost in the machinery. It will likely remain one of those unsolved little mysteries that make court life so...intriguing."
Finn put his fork down. The clink of silver on porcelain was sharp, final. "Intrigue is for people with time to waste. I have a list of training drills to review."
"Of course, of course." Revin waved a dismissive hand, still smiling. "Forgive an old man's fascination. I merely worry for the stability of your new household. Stability benefits everyone." He signaled a servant, who silently approached with a covered platter. "Ah. The piece de resistance. I had this prepared specially. It’s a recipe from the Southern Isles—spiced venison in a reduction of blackberries and rare Valthorn wine. They say it reveals hidden truths to those who partake."
The servant lifted the lid. A cloud of steam escaped, carrying a scent both sweet and deeply alcoholic, undercut by something earthy and sharp. The meat glistened, nearly purple in the low light.
Nadia’s stomach turned. The Valthorn wine was notorious; a hallucinogen in large doses, a truth serum in small, careful ones. It was banned in imperial circles. Revin was not even bothering with subtlety now.
"It’s considered a restorative," Revin continued, spooning a generous portion onto her plate. The sauce bled into the white china. "For the blood. I insist you try it, Lady Nadia. We must rebuild your strength."
The portion sat before her, a dark, fragrant threat. Finn’s hand rested on the table, inches from her own. His fingers were perfectly still. Across from them, Revin watched, his expression one of benign expectation.
Naira took up her knife and fork. Her hands were steady. She cut a tiny piece of the venison, making sure to capture some of the dark sauce. She could feel Finn’s coiled tension like a live wire next to her. Bringing the fork to her mouth, she met Revin’s gaze.
The flavor was overwhelming—cloying fruit, gamey meat, and beneath it, the unmistakable bitter tang of Valthorn. She chewed slowly, swallowed. It sat heavy in her gut.
"It's very rich," she said, her voice clear. She took another sip of water, washing the taste away. "Thank you, my lord."
Revin’s eyebrows lifted a fraction. He watched her for a long moment, looking for any sign of dilation in her pupils, any slackening of her jaw. She kept her breaths even, focusing on the persistent, anchoring throb from her wound.
"Richness is the point," he said softly, finally turning to serve himself. "Some palates are too refined for it, I suppose. Or perhaps too weakened." He ate a bite of his own with evident relish. "How are your family's fortunes, my dear? Your father's confession at court was... poignant. I trust the settlement has been manageable?"
He was circling back, probing the financial damage, looking for leverage. "My husband manages our affairs," Nadia said, glancing at Finn. "I understand very little of it."
Finn grunted in affirmation, his eyes on Revin. "The debts are paid. The matter is closed."
"Closed." Revin savored the word. "A satisfying word. I do love closure. It’s so tidy." He leaned back, dabbing his lips with a napkin. "But life, especially at court, is so rarely tidy. New threads always appear. For instance, I’ve recently come into possession of some fascinating correspondence. Letters between certain disgraced minor nobles and... well, let's just say individuals with interests in the border provinces where you so recently campaigned, Prince. The content suggests some rather unauthorized trade agreements. In weapons."
The air left the room. Nadia felt the chill of it on her skin. Finn didn’t move, but his stillness became something different—the stillness of a wolf sighting prey.
"Unauthorized trade is a matter for the imperial quartermaster," Finn said, his voice flat. "Not a dinner conversation."
"Unless the letters imply the knowledge, and perhaps even the patronage, of a highly placed military figure." Revin's tone was conversational, as if discussing the weather. "The seals are broken, the handwriting disguised. But the implications are... enlightening. They could cast shadows on even the most sterling reputation. The Wolf of the Battlefield, profiting from the very conflicts he fights? The court would feast on it for years."
He was offering the bait, wrapped in a threat. Expose the plot against Nadia, and he would bury Finn in scandal. Keep quiet, play the subdued couple, and the letters might remain forgotten.
Finn finally turned his head, looking directly at Revin for the first time. His gray eyes were empty, a frozen lake under a sunless sky. "You have interesting hobbies, Chancellor. Collecting letters."
"It passes the time." Revin smiled. "And it reminds us that we all have vulnerabilities. Even the strongest walls have cracks. The key is to find them before the siege begins. Don't you agree?"
Nadia’s vision swam for a second, a combination of pain and rising fury. She gripped the edge of the table. The cane rattled against the leg.
"Sieges are predictable," Finn said, his voice so low it was almost a whisper. "You study the walls. You count the guards. You wait for a mistake." He pushed his chair back, the legs scraping loudly on the floor. "My wife is tired. The evening's... enlightenment... is appreciated. We'll take our leave."
Revin didn't stand. He merely swirled his wine, watching the legs. "So soon? But we haven't even discussed the dessert. It's a honey cake from Myr. Sweeter than it seems, I'm told."
"Another time." Finn was already moving, his hand under Nadia’s elbow, lifting her with him. She rose, the world tilting, and clung to his arm and the cane. The venison sat like a stone inside her.
"You should rest, Lady Nadia," Revin called after them, his voice dripping with false concern. "Gather your strength. The court will be so eager to see you whole again. I know I will be watching for your... recovery."
They didn't look back. Finn guided her out, his pace deliberate, past the silent guards and into the cooler, darker hall. The door shut behind them, muting the firelight and the scent of spiced meat.
They made it ten paces before Nadia’s knees buckled. Finn caught her, his arm sliding around her waist, taking her full weight. He didn't speak, half-carrying her down the corridor. Her breath came in ragged gasps, each one a knife-twist in her side.
"Elara," Finn barked into the shadows.
His attendant materialized from a doorway, her stern face grim. She took Nadia’s other side without a word. Together, they moved faster, a silent, desperate retreat.
Back in his apartments, Finn lowered Nadia onto the settee by the cold fireplace. Elara was already mixing a powder into a cup of water. "Drink this. It will counteract any mild agents. You ate very little. It should be enough."
Nadia drank, the liquid chalky and bitter. She shivered, the chill from within now meeting the room's ambient cold. "The letters," she choked out.
"Plantations." Finn was pacing, a controlled, furious stride. "He's building a narrative. I've heard whispers about weapon shortages in the 3rd Legion. Now I know where the blame is meant to land." He stopped, running a hand over his jaw. "He wasn't just checking his work. He was laying the next stone."
Nadia leaned back, closing her eyes. The Valthorn wine pulsed a dull, strange warmth in her veins, but her mind felt terrifyingly clear. "He wants us to know he has a second move. That no matter what we do, he's already there."
Finn knelt before her, his eyes searching her face. "How do you feel?"
"Angry." She opened her eyes, meeting his gaze. The guarded melancholy in her amber eyes had hardened into something sharper, brighter. "He served me poison at his table and called it a welcome. He threatened my sister in one breath and you in the next. He thinks his walls are unbreachable."
A slow, grim smile touched Finn's lips. It wasn't pleasant. It was the expression of a man who had just seen the enemy's gate. "Good. Remember that anger. But bank it. For now." He stood, looking at the invitation still on the side table, the crimson seal now a mockery. "He watched you tonight. He saw exactly what he wanted to see."
Nadia pushed herself upright, ignoring the protest from her body. "A frail woman who ate his poisoned meat and a brute who couldn't wait to leave." She shook her head, a new resolution settling in her bones. "He didn't see the crack in his own wall."
Finn tilted his head. "What crack?"
"Hubris." She said the word softly, tasting it. "He showed us his next move. He revealed the letters. He couldn't help it. He had to let us know how clever he is, how far ahead he's thinking."