The first time Master Gale Dekarios attended the ducal council, he did not speak.

  He entered with the easy indifference of a man already unimpressed — dark coat freshly brushed, boots clean from the morning frost, and a narrow leather folio tucked beneath one arm. He made no grand entrance, no theatrical greetings. Just a nod to the steward, a faint tilt of his head toward the Duchess — and he took his place in the far corner of the chamber.

  Not at the table.

  Not yet.

  It was the seat offered to those who had no vote, no claim. Just a voice — and even that, borrowed.

  Fran had not seen him arrive. She only noticed him moments later, already seated, hands resting on his folio, gaze unreadable.

  And for one breath — half a breath — her heart lifted.

  He was here.

  And then, as the meeting began, he said nothing.

  The council moved like a rusted machine: predictably sluggish, needlessly loud, and creaking with inertia.

  The matter today was land tariffs along the Thirel, or at least that was the official topic. What it truly became was another hour of dodging her authority in circles.

  Fran asked about tax shortfalls.

  She was given grain shipments.

  She asked about missing barony ledgers.

  She received a lecture on regional traditions.

  She questioned rising military expenses in the southern ridings.

  And Lord Tharn had the audacity to wave his hand and say,

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  “No need to trouble yourself, Your Grace. These are routine numbers.”

  Gale’s fingers tensed just slightly on his folio.

  She had studied for this. Gods, she had.

  Endless nights in the library, poring over old records, military budgets, precedents, edicts. She knew the numbers. She knew the names. But none of it mattered — because they didn’t want her to know. They wanted her to stumble. And every polite, placid answer pushed her further into a labyrinth designed to waste her breath.

  And he said nothing.

  Gale Dekarios.

  Waterdeep’s wizard.

  Society darling.

  Sharper than any of them.

  He sat in that corner and watched.

  And said nothing.

  And for all the venom around her — Avessa’s icy smiles, Tharn’s smugness, Rhyve’s faux courtesy — nothing stung more than his silence.

  She caught herself shaking once, barely a tremor. Flattened her palms against her lap to hide it.

  She would not fall apart.

  Not here.

  Not in front of them.

  But part of her — the one curled and cramped behind the spine-straight posture — wished he would speak. Just once. Just enough to remind them she wasn’t alone.

  Instead, he watched her drown.

  The meeting adjourned without resolution.

  The council members rose, muttering vague conclusions and empty praise. She let them leave before she stood. Gale did not approach. She walked out of the room alone.

  As always.

  That night, in the tower study granted to him in the west wing, Gale opened a blank sheet of parchment. No candle. Just the light from the coals and a single spell floating overhead.

  He stared at the page.

  Then wrote:

  They talk to you like you’re a glass vase. Something to be placed and dusted.

  You don’t need me to say it, but I will: you’re already doing better than any of them ever expected. Maybe even better than you think.

  But you can’t let them silence you.

  You used to speak clearly — not in court, maybe, but I remember how you did it in Candlekeep. Not loudly. Not proudly. Just with certainty. You knew what mattered. You knew when someone was bleeding, and how to make them stop.

  He hesitated. Then scratched out the last sentence.

  Then, instead, he wrote:

  You’ll decide when — and if — you want my voice at your side. I won’t offer it like a blade to be picked up when needed. I’m not a sword. And you’re not a girl in need of rescue.

  He read it over once.

  Then folded it.

  Unsealed.

  Unsent.

  She would have to speak first.