Fenwick arrived first, as he always intended to. He was a common elf, very lean, with smooth pale white skin and a fine-boned pretty face under silky black hair that brushed his collar. Light amber eyes, long lashes, and slim dark court clothes without a wrinkle on them. He laid out four neat stacks of paper and one neater one, then bowed low enough to make the gesture a small performance.

“Majesty, welcome to your first private council. I have prepared agendas, seating notes, and a summary of which nobles wept at your coronation and which ones only pretended to. The Countess of Merrow pretended, and badly. I have thoughts on what that means, and I will be sharing them whether or not anyone asks, because that is the kind of steward you have hired.”

The door banged open and Wren came through shoulder-first, mud still drying on her boots. She was a wood elf, athletic and strong-shouldered, with sun-browned skin and dark auburn hair cut rough at the jaw. Sharp green eyes, freckles across her nose, and a bone ring hooked through one pointed ear. She wore her worn leathers even here, bow slung across her back, and she crossed the chamber like it was another stretch of trail before dropping into a chair and slapping a rolled map onto the table.

“Six days in a saddle to bring you this. The Ashkari forges are burning day and night, and my scouts counted new watchtowers going up along their western passes. They are building, arming, and drilling.” She looked up at the head of the table. “Not marching. Not yet, anyway.”

Lysariel entered last and without hurry, as though the meeting would begin when she sat and not a moment before. She was a high elf, tall and long-limbed, slender and aristocratic in her bearing. Pale white skin, thick golden-blonde hair falling loose past her waist, heavy-lidded gray-blue eyes, full lips, and delicate pointed ears. Her fitted silver-white robes whispered against the stone as she took the seat farthest from Wren.

“Nations arm for many reasons,” she said, laying each word down as if it were worth more than the last. “Fear of a neighbor. A new ruler wishing to appear strong before his own people. A poor harvest and too many idle hands. I could go on, but the scout is already flushed, and it would be unkind of me to be the cause.”

“You glittering...” Wren waved a hand and abandoned the sentence halfway, as if it had stopped being worth the effort. “Forget it. The towers are real. Ride out and count them yourself, if those slippers of yours can survive the mud.”

“Councilors, please.” Seraphine had been standing beside her chair through all of it, spine drilled straight by years of court instruction. She was human and eighteen, with pinkish-white fair skin, striking features, and long blonde hair braided over one shoulder. Large hazel eyes in a bright, earnest face. She wore a fine court dress, and over it a sword belt she had plainly refused to surrender, one hand resting on the hilt out of habit rather than threat. “His Majesty has not yet opened the session. Protocol grants the crown the first word.” She sat, smoothed her skirts, and added more quietly, mostly to herself, “My uncle always opened with the borders.”

Fenwick propped his chin on one hand and turned his smile toward the head of the table. “Well then. Borders, watchtowers, weeping countesses, or something else entirely. The kingdom is listening, Majesty.”