"No."
The word left Elenara’s lips without hesitation, sharp enough to cut through the charged air.
The garden answered her refusal. Roots tore free from the soil, coiling upward around Valttair’s seat, stopping just short of touching him. Branches creaked as they bent inward, leaves stiffening, their edges hardening to sothing closer to blades than foliage.
"I will not accept this," Elenara said, her voice cold now, stripped of all courtesy. "Kaedor will die by my hand. His blood will answer for what his house has done."
She took a step forward, and the ground followed, surging beneath her feet. "They have violated sanctuaries we have protected for centuries," she continued. "Places bound by oaths older than your house. Older than mine. They desecrated them. Used them."
Her eyes burned. "They betrayed the very purpose of the Eight."
Valttair stood.
The motion was abrupt enough to draw a sharp creak from the roots around him.
"Because you allowed them to," he said.
The interruption was brutal.
"You grew complacent," Valttair continued hookup, his gray eyes locking onto hers. "You relied on legacy and tradition instead of reinforcent. You assud that reverence would deter ambition."
The garden shuddered.
"And while you were guarding mories," he went on, unyielding, "they were building leverage."
His voice hardened, a razor edge sliding beneath the words. "The Void Creature exists under their custody because your defenses failed. Because your oversight failed."
A single step closed the distance between them.
"This," Valttair said, without raising his voice, "is your fault, Elenara."
The garden tightened.
Roots surged fully from the ground this ti, no longer stopping short. They rose around Valttair in a wide circle, thick and veined, their tips angled toward him like spears frozen an instant before release. Vines climbed the air itself, suspending leaves sharpened by mana, every line of growth pointing inward.
A warning.
Not an attack.
Elenara stood at the center of it all, her presence anchoring the living threat. "Since when," she asked quietly, "do you concern yourself with preserving rival houses?"
Her eyes did not leave his. "Since when does Valttair du Morgain hesitate to erase his opposition?"
The roots creaked, tightening by a fraction.
"What is it you actually want?" she pressed. "Not your balance. Not your structures. Your true objective."
Silence followed.
Valttair did not answer imdiately. He did not react to the roots, nor to the mana humming inches from his body. His expression remained unchanged, as controlled as it had been from the mont he entered the tower.
Then, at last—
"I intend to deal with the Void Creature," he said.
Nothing more.
The garden stilled, though it did not retreat.
Elenara studied him, searching for the layers beneath the statent. She found them easily—and dismissed them just as quickly. "That is not the whole truth," she said. It was not an accusation. rely a statent of fact.
She exhaled slowly.
"But I am not blind to the consequences," Elenara continued. "Eliminating one of the Eight would fracture more than bloodlines. It would invite instability we cannot afford."
The roots eased back, not fully withdrawing, but no longer pressing forward.
"Kaedor will die," she said, final and unyielding. "That much is not negotiable."
Valttair inclined his head a fraction. Just enough.
"Then," he replied evenly, "we can finally begin negotiating."
Elenara lowered her hand, and with the gesture the garden finally relaxed. Roots slid back into the soil, vines loosening their hold on the air, though the tension did not vanish entirely. It simply settled—watchful, restrained, waiting.
"Very well," she said. "Let us proceed in order."
She turned away from Valttair and resud walking, fingers brushing the petals of a pale blue flower that leaned toward her touch. "Explain this to ," she continued calmly. "How is it that your house was able to enter the war when the others could not?" Her tone sharpened slightly. "You claim coincidence—that you happened to be present when the traitor surfaced. That explanation does not satisfy , Valttair."
She glanced at him over her shoulder. "Chance alone would not have been enough. You would have needed to act. Convincingly. I will grant you this—you are a capable actor. But even so, the timing remains... questionable."
Valttair did not take offense.
"We share the sa allies, Elenara," he replied evenly. "The Rosenthal family has stood beside Sylvanel for generations."
He paused deliberately.
"They now stand beside Morgain as well."
That drew her full attention.
"My son," Valttair continued, his voice unchanged, "Trafalgar du Morgain, is formally promised to Aubrelle au Rosenthal."
The words settled into the garden like a dropped stone.
Elenara stopped walking.
She turned slowly, her expression hardening into sothing openly judgntal. "A bastard paired with a blind girl," she said without hesitation. "An interesting arrangent."
Her gaze narrowed, then shifted, reassessing. "Though," she added after a mont, "the girl deserves more than she was given. Her talent is... exceptional. Unique, even among her bloodline."
She waved a hand dismissively. "If that is the path you and Rosenthal have chosen, I will not interfere."
Elenara straightened, the air around her growing purposeful. "Very well. Then we move forward."
She faced him fully now.
"The attack will begin soon," she said. "One week from this mont. That is when Kaedor will fall."
The garden seed to acknowledge the declaration, leaves stirring softly as mana flowed in quiet agreent.
"There is no reason to delay further," Elenara went on. "We have spoken enough of principles. Now we plan."
Valttair inclined his head once.
"Understood," he said. "Then tell what you have gathered so far."
His gray eyes sharpened, focus locking into place. "All of it. What you know. What you suspect. What you have yet to confirm."
He folded his hands behind his back once more, posture composed, unreadable.
"If Kaedor falls in a week," Valttair concluded, "then every remaining move must be accounted for."
The garden grew quiet again.
And this ti, it was not listening—it was preparing.
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