Page 92 of The Golden Rose Of Valenul

His finger twisted over the spiral of a dhemon’s horn, then he pressed his palm to the wood and pushed open the door.

Inside, the massive Chamber was made up of a series of desks for all the Councilmen. To the left, two massive desks faced off against two more on the right with a wide aisle between them. A single, wing-backed chair sat behind each. These were for the four Lord Governors of Valenul. Further back were long tables with five chairs each for the Lower Council. Straight down the room, facing the door, sprawled a massive hearth with a large, crackling fire. Overhead hung a chandelier which provided the light otherwise inaccessible by the fireplace.

Markus Harlow sat in his chair and studied Azriel’s entrance with an unreadable expression. Behind him, several more Councilmen entered and found their seats. Only one stood and stepped forward, arm outstretched in greeting.

After spending the last two weeks practicing the formal embrace, Azriel stood tall and grasped the Caersan’s forearm. Too firm and it’d be perceived as a threat. Too light and he’d be viewed as incompetent. Too close to the wrist? Frightened. Too close to the elbow? Overly familiar. To his relief, he hit the mark with the lord—a perfect, neutral grasp.

The man had long black hair and eyes the shade of coal. His sharp, handsome face twisted into a smirk as he said, “Welcome, Lord Governor Caldwell. I am Alek Nightingale, Lord Governor of the Waer Province.”

He’d heard of Nightingale. His name was almost as shadowed by rumors of terrible deeds as Azriel’s was of poor breeding. “Thank you, Lord Nightingale. I am honored to be here.”

Chairs scraped back from their places at the tables, and before long, a slew of Councilmen stood before him. One after another, Azriel met them all. Even those who glared upon his entry and cursed him under their breaths at the Harlow manor moved forward to exchange greetings.

Then everyone stood back to let through the Princeps. The Caersan around him stilled, watching carefully at what was to come next.

“My Lord Princeps.” It took all Azriel’s self-control not to bend at the waist while addressing the man who’d employed him for months. Respect amongst the Councilmen didn’t come in physical submission but through words and actions.

Markus’s fiery gaze, however, sent a wash of cold through Azriel’s gut. The Princeps studied him for a long moment. When he finally stretched out his hand, he said, “Lord Caldwell. Welcome.”

The tension eased from the room and Azriel’s shoulders as he took the offered gesture. “Thank you, my Lord.”

As one, the Councilmen returned to their seats. Azriel watched as they moved, paying close attention to where the Lower Councilmen sat. He followed the five from his province and took his place at the large table to the right of the door nearest the hearth. Markus lowered into his chair, facing him.

At a small desk in the corner across the room sat a Caersan man Azriel did not recognize with a pile of papers. He shuffled through them a moment, dipped his pen into an inkwell, and said, “I am ready, my Lord Princeps.”

“So begins the first Council meeting with Lord Governor Azriel Caldwell.” Markus eyed him before turning to the others in the High Council. “It has been brought to the Council by the Lords of Notten Province that the dhemon raids have not only continued but have increased over the last two months.”

Azriel watched the other Lord Governors out of the corner of his eye. Alek Nightingale beside him scrawled notes on a paper and, upon spotting his curiosity, gave an almost indiscernible nod toward his own stack of blank papers. He pulled one close and jotted down dhemon raids - Notten - two months.

Lord Governor Damen Gard, silver hair gleaming, stood and leaned heavily on his hands. He took the moment to glare openly at Azriel before addressing the room. “The villages farthest north have suffered the most in all aspects. Our people receive the least trade, withstand the harshest climate, and are now watching their neighbors burn.”

A murmur of agreement rose and fell. Azriel studied the expressions of Notten’s Lower Council. None appeared surprised or alarmed. This was a normal occurrence, and none of them expected much from this conversation.

“The soldiers we receive are still green,” Damen continued. “They fall under the blades of the dhemons again and again. We require more experience to stave off the attacks.”

“You forget,” Alek said without looking up from his notes for a long moment, “we are all struggling in this war.”

War. It was the first time Azriel had heard the struggle against the horned fae called such. Raids and small battles were commonplace with the dhemons—but to consider it a war made the assumption there was something more for the vampires to gain.

They’d already taken land and valuable resources from the dhemons. What more was there? Anything else, and they’d move swiftly into genocide.

As the newest member of the Council, however, it wasn’t his place to say such things. Given time and experience, his voice would gain the weight needed to introduce the wild concept of diplomacy with the Caersans. The dhemons had their land ripped away from them, and the vampires lamented when there was retaliation.

Leashing his tongue, however, was not among his strengths.

“None so much as those holding the front lines,” Damen said, glaring at Alek. “Your steep mountain passes provide the protection needed from continuous assault, whereas the ice fields allow free passage.”

Heart thundering, Azriel leaned forward. “Forgive me, but the eastern mountain passes provide clear access to Eastwood and Notten alike. From what I have studied, a similar situation is occurring on those major trade routes and highways.”

All eyes swung to him. He was going to puke. This was the part of leading he hated—it’s what Madan excelled at. If there were ever a reason for his brother to take his place…this was it.

“Perhaps if we were to provide a heavier presence in the east,” he continued with as much power to his voice as he could muster, “we could provide relief to Notten as well by impeding the free passage from east to north.”

Despite the urge to look away, Azriel held Damen’s hard, icy gaze. The Lord Governor’s jaw twitched, and he flattened his lips into a thin line. When, finally, he moved, it was to turn toward Azriel and give him a stiff nod.

“Perhaps.” Damen then tilted his head a bit. “What are the statistics of your province?”

Azriel made a show of flipping through the notes provided by the province’s Steward, Lord Knoll, the only missing member of his Lower Council. “It would appear no one has taken the time to collect the information.”

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