Chapter 4 - The Vow of House Windsor
A quiet, measured voice cut through the terrified silence from the side of the hall.
"She speaks the truth, Lord Sterling."
Every head turned. Lord Tristan of House Windsor stepped forward from the shadows of the colonnade. Unlike the other lords who lay groveling on the floor, Tristan had managed to resist enough of Rowena’s overwhelming aura to remain steady on one knee. Dark hair framed a face hardened by endless border wars and unyielding discipline, and his striking ice-blue eyes studied Rowena with an intense mixture of awe and profound respect—devoid of greed, disgust, or fear.
"I witnessed everything from the gallery," Tristan continued, his voice steady and clear. "There was no test. No attempt by House Sterling to guide her. Only cowardice, cruelty, and betrayal."
Lord Reginald’s face collapsed into total despair. He opened his mouth to sputter an excuse, but Tristan ignored him entirely, turning his gaze fully toward Rowena and bowing his head low.
"House Windsor recognizes the return of the Solus bloodline," Tristan declared, his voice ringing through the hall like a solemn oath. "And we recognize Rowena as the rightful, sovereign ruler of the Western Reaches."
King Godfrey surged to his feet, his face purple with rage and panic. "TREASON! Tristan, you dare—?"
He never finished the sentence.
From the floor near the shattered pillar, Beatrice scrambled toward the unconscious form of Silas. Her fingers grazed against the hilt of the beta’s silver-laced dagger, which had fallen free during the chaos. Hatred—raw, venomous, and blinding—twisted her features into an ugly mask.
"You’ll always be a worthless runt!" Beatrice shrieked, leaping to her feet with the blade raised high, lunging directly toward Rowena’s exposed back.
She didn't make it two steps.
Tristan moved with the terrifying speed of a seasoned northern warrior. He intercepted Beatrice mid-stride, catching her wrist with an iron grip and twisting it sharply inward.
CRACK.
A sharp, dry snap echoed across the hall. The silver dagger fell from her limp fingers and clattered uselessly against the stone. Beatrice screamed, clutching her broken wrist as she dropped to her knees in agony.
Tristan kicked the dagger away across the floor, his ice-blue eyes cold as winter ice. He didn't even look down at her as he spoke to Rowena.
"Forgive me," Tristan said quietly, his tone softening just a fraction as he addressed her. "But a queen should not have to soil her hands with every pest in the room."
For the first time since the doors had been shattered, a faint, dangerous smile touched the corners of Rowena’s lips. She nodded once to Tristan in silent acknowledgment.
Then, she turned slowly toward the golden throne.
The smile vanished.
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King Godfrey stared at her, and for all his royal titles and accumulated wealth, his face betrayed a singular, undeniable truth: terror.
"Now," Rowena said, golden fire reigniting fiercely within her eyes as she took a slow, deliberate step toward the dais. "Let us discuss your throne, Your Majesty."
