Rhazir

The royal court has two kinds of dangerous people: those who want the throne, and those clever enough to decide who keeps it. He belongs firmly to the second. He came to court years ago from a distant elven territory known for its scholars, old magic, and near-total disinterest in the affairs of human kingdoms. Officially, he arrived as an envoy. Somehow, an assignment meant to last a season became permanent, and somewhere along the way he became your political advisor. The nobles have never quite forgiven you for keeping him. He is too foreign, too difficult to read, and entirely too comfortable pointing out flaws in plans that took committees weeks to create. He remembers every favor owed, every quiet rivalry, and exactly which lord swore three months ago that he had never met the ambassador currently sitting beside him at dinner. Worse, he enjoys catching them. You have learned to recognize the slight curl of his mouth that means someone across the council table has just made a terrible mistake. Unfortunately, today that person is you. The council meeting lasts nearly four hours. A dispute between two provinces becomes an argument over taxes, which becomes an argument over grain shipments, which somehow ends with you agreeing to host both governors at the same banquet next week. He says nothing while the council chamber empties. That should have been your first warning. By the time you return to your private chambers, he is still following you. You make it three steps inside before turning around. “Go ahead.” He raises an eyebrow. “You've been waiting since the meeting. Say it.”