Eryndor was the first to turn. He offered a faint smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Roderic stood at the far side of the room, hands clasped behind his back, posture flawless, expression unreadable.

  “Elowen,” Eryndor said gently. “Come in.”

  She stepped over the threshold, closing the door behind her. The air felt heavier than usual, like words had been said that still lingered in the corners.

  Roderic cleared his throat. “I’ll let you speak with her,” he said quietly to Eryndor.

  “No,” Elowen said.

  Both men looked at her.

  “I heard enough,” she said, voice tight but level. “You don’t need to leave.”

  Roderic’s brows lowered slightly, not offended—calculating. Trying to read her. Eryndor motioned her toward the small chair by the window.

  She didn’t sit.

  Sitting felt too much like yielding.

  Eryndor tapped the folded parchment lying open on the edge of his desk. Northern wax, already cracked.

  “They sent terms,” he said quietly.

  Elowen stared at the seal. “They want me.”

  “They want to test you,” Roderic said, his posture straightening a fraction. “Formally.”

  Elowen’s jaw tightened. “What does that mean? What sort of test?”

  Roderic didn’t answer quickly enough.

  Eryndor did. “The North prides itself on endurance. Their trials are… unpleasant.”

  “Trials?” Her voice thinned to a thread. “Of what?”

  “Control,” Roderic said. “Restraint. Endurance. Stability under pressure.”

  She blinked at him. “Pressure? You mean storms. You mean the wind.”

  Eryndor’s expression tightened—the closest he came to disapproval. “They call it tradition. I call it barbaric.”

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  Roderic didn’t flinch. “They want to see how the wind behaves around you. How you behave when pushed.”

  “When pushed,” she repeated slowly.

  “Under controlled conditions.” Roderic added.

  Her eyes narrowed. “Conditions they control.”

  He didn’t deny it.

  Eryndor let out a soft sigh. “The North does not ask politely. They measure a person the way they measure the winter—by what survives it.”

  Elowen’s stomach knotted. For a moment she tasted the alleys again, the storm curling around her like a noose she didn’t call.

  “And if I refuse?” she whispered.

  Roderic looked directly at her now—steady, unflinching

  “Then they will call you dangerous,” he said. “And they will act accordingly.”

  He didn’t deny it.

  Eryndor folded the letter again, sliding it onto the table.

  “You can refuse,” he said.

  Roderic’s jaw tightened just enough to betray his disagreement, but he said nothing.

  Elowen looked at Eryndor. “And what happens if I do?”

  He didn’t soften it. He never did.

  “That refusal will be taken as a threat. And threats are not ignored, especially by the North.”

  Her fingers tightened around the flute case.

  “And if I stay here,” she said, “I remain… what? A guest? A responsibility? A risk?”

  Eryndor tilted his head. “You remain protected. For now.”

  “For now,” she repeated. The words tasted like a cage.

  She turned to Roderic then. He stood like a carved pillar.

  “The king has already agreed,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “So it doesn’t matter what I want.”

  Roderic didn’t flinch. “It matters. But the realms aren’t waiting for you.”

  She exhaled, slow and shaky. “And you? Are you waiting for me?”

  “No,” he said. Completely honest. “I’m waiting for your decision.”

  Those words struck deeper than he intended.

  Decision.

  Choice.

  The one thing she’d never been allowed.

  Elowen set the flute case on the table. Her hands were trembling, but she kept her chin level.

  “If I stay,” she said, “I’m hunted. If I refuse, I’m cornered. If I go…” She swallowed the lump in her throat. “If I go, at least I’m not waiting to be taken.”

  Eryndor’s mouth softened—not in pity, but in recognition.

  Roderic’s gaze shifted. Sharpened. There was the faintest nod of respect, like he was acknowledging a tactical move he hadn’t expected.

  Elowen breathed once, deeply.

  “I’ll go,” she said.

  The words came out steadier than they felt. Inside, the truth was smaller, sourer:

  It’s just choosing which poison to drink.

  A flicker of resentment curled through her chest—not at Eryndor, not even at Roderic, but at the shape of her life. At the way every road seemed to divide into only terrible choices, and the victory was always choosing the one that hurt less.

  She could not remember the last time a choice had felt good. Or right. Or hers.

  The thought almost made her laugh. Since when had her wants mattered? Since when had they been worth more than a passing thought? Her wants had never shaped anything. Other people’s wants always did.

  She kept her face still.

  Eryndor didn’t celebrate. He only nodded once, solemn.

  “We leave at first light,” Roderic said.

  Elowen met his eyes, not with strength, but with something cleaner—acceptance of the path she’d taken, even if she hated it.

  She didn’t feel powerful.

  She didn’t feel brave.

  She felt… awake.

  And that, she decided, would have to be enough.