#Chapter 107: The Lodge

Amelia The council retreat was not a retreat. Not in the way anyone imagined a lodge in the mountains should be. There were no fireplaces to curl beside, no mugs of cocoa, no lazy mornings. The air smelled like cedar and politics. The halls echoed with the click of heels and the murmurs of strategists. And for me, it was yet another test. The lodge itself was nestled deep in pine-covered hills, elegant and vast, but cold despite its polished wood interiors. Every room felt like it had been designed for photographs, not comfort. I could feel eyes on me the moment we arrived, assessing, cataloguing, waiting for me to falter. I wore the blue dress Lady Maris had chosen for its "modest, diplomatic strength," and hosted a tea for the council spouses on the second afternoon. Emma had helped me arrange the seating, a puzzle of egos, power plays, and subtle rivalries. The china was too delicate, the chairs too stiff, the view of the lake almost offensively beautiful. "Chancellor Aldr