UPON THE MAN’S DEEP VOICE CUTTING THROUGH THE AIR, the Blightbearer sword, which had been clutched in Celvene’s fidgeting hands, fell to the ground with a cling, and the flames grew dull. She wasn’t going to fight with a sword. It would make her clumsy and slow.

Naturally, her fingers brushed the fabric covering her dagger as she waited for an attack. A man lurking in the shadows couldn’t have good intentions. Oriel, on the other hand, looked completely nonchalant. Bored, even.

“General,” Oriel replied, their voice even colder, akin to winter frost. “Did you follow me?”

Amber light bathed the small shop as Oriel lit a candle. They frowned as they lifted the candle to reveal the man. Celvene took a step back, her heartbeat stuttering, and knitted her brows. He was a hulk of a man, tall with broad shoulders. His messy gray hair was wild and unkempt; the loose waves framed his square jaw, his jowls quivering as a smile crossed his thin lips. His eyes, blazing a deep blue, crinkled. Was he from Vosalon?

“Of course not,” the man said. His voice was a rumble of thunder, a gravelly mess of two stones scraping against one another. “There aren’t many safe places you could bring someone who removed that sword, and this shop was the only one on the path to the castle. I would have thought you’d think with your brain, scholar. Not your heart. Anyone with a connection to the castle could have sniffed out your plan in seconds, and what would have happened to this lovely little lady then? Could you protect her from another assassination?”

The man—or general, as Oriel called him, had a vicious aura to him that was so intense it was nearly palpable. Celvene swore he looked familiar, but as she stared at him, she couldn’t place where. He laid a sword across his shoulder, meaty hand twitching on the hilt. Despite Oriel standing almost as tall as him, he had to be double their width.

Every inch of Celvene was screaming at her to move. To attack, to run, to do something. She knew this man was minacious, and staying here meant she was risking her life. But as Oriel stared at the general with an apathetic frown, she remained still. Perhaps her instincts were too heightened after her journey through the Slums.

“I cannot believe you would rig the ceremony. And not only that, but for this doll.” The general snickered. He stepped forward, reaching a hand out to cup Celvene’s chin, but she stepped back. Her grip on her dagger tightened, and she narrowed her eyes. “Perhaps she should be sent to the afterlife for her treachery.”

“Watch your tongue, Aleksandr,” Oriel said. “Think what you would like about me, but she finished that ritual on her own. She’s deserving of her upcoming spot in the court, and she’s deserving of wielding that blade. She is the rightful queen now. You’d do well to show her the respect that position demands and not call her treacherous.”

Aleksandr? That’s his name?

“Not all the wicked are caught,” Aleksandr said, tilting his chin up.

“Like you?”

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand, Veylor,” the general said with a sneer. “There will be no replacements in the court, I’m afraid.”

Oriel’s jaw locked, and Aleksandr tilted his head.

The general sighed before turning to Celvene. “I’m sorry… whoever you are, but I don’t accept scholar’s pets as sufficient replacements for King Virion.”

“She’s the rightful queen, whether you like it or not, Aleksandr,” Oriel said. They gripped their cane, their gloves creasing as they scowled at Aleksandr. Their eyes held chips of golden ice and they did not relent their stare. “Your worthless words do not triumph over tradition.”

A sharp bark of laughter escaped Aleksandr’s lips, and he smirked. “Oh, Veylor. Sweet, naïve Veylor. She won’t be the ruler of these lands. I forbid it.”

“And who are you to deny me?” Celvene hissed, mustering up the courage to speak. Her hand curled into a fist, and she made sure to rest it near her other dagger’s sheathe. Sure, she had a perfectly good sword sitting at her feet that was twice as lethal, but she felt far more comfortable with her twin daggers.

Aleksandr took a step forward, kneeling down so he met her height. They were nose to nose as they glared at one another, his fire against the frost of Celvene’s stare. Celvene didn’t dare breathe, and she tensed in preparation for a fight. With another infuriatingly cocky smile, Aleksandr rose and clasped his hands together.

“I’m the general of the Blightbearer Army, miss. After Virion, I’m next in command. I’m who will be standing in as king, until a man is elected as our new ruler.”

“General?” Celvene scoffed, brows lowering. “No wonder the army is in shambles.”

The Blightbearer Army’s numbers had been diminishing day after day as the Noriya Brigade continued to slaughter Aizasea’s soldiers. But Aizasea refused to surrender. It had gotten to a point where many citizens wondered if continuing to fight was worth it; after all, there was a chance Noriya could provide them with a better, more stable life than Virion had. Celvene wasn’t sure whether she agreed or not, but she’d heard countless rumors of how wonderful life in Noriya was—a utopia.

“Quiet,” Aleksandr said, eyes narrowing. His eyebrows pinched, but the corners of his lips raised in a taunting smile. “You won’t rule over Aizasea as long as I’m alive.”

“And how exactly are you going to stop me?” Though Celvene was a fly to this behemoth of a man, she knew a general had to act with tact and diplomacy out of combat. “Virion ordered that the first the sword chose would become ruler. It’s my duty. My fate. Your position in the army means nothing. Why would a general be deemed next in line to rule? That’s ludicrous.”

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

Perhaps if the circumstances were different, Celvene would agree to Aleksandr taking the throne. By the gods, she would have merrily accepted had Oriel or any other council member offered to take the throne. A general was bound to have more leadership experience than a circus mage, but judging by the way Aleksandr’s “defenses” against Noriya were going, the throne would collapse underneath him before he could utter a word. The rest of Aizasea would follow. As much as Celvene didn’t care for certain characters of Aizasea, not all of the citizens deserved such a fate. Probably.

She couldn’t say the Aizasean government had the same concern for their people. Their army had never been adequately equipped for any battle, and from the gossip Celvene heard around the circus, the military received just enough funding to take on drunkards in a single tavern brawl—yet it received the most money from Virion’s delegations, whereas failing infrastructure, withering crops, and suffering citizens received nothing. How Virion thought they could stand up to the Noriya Brigade was beyond Celvene’s comprehension.

Maybe Virion wanted to inspire the rest of Fellstride to band together against Noriya and thought struggling would make them pity Aizasea. Maybe he had a secret plan and was biding his time. Or maybe he, a supposedly wise god, was more mortal than the Aizaseans expected, especially after his wife—his only family—became a casualty of war.

Or maybe—just maybe—he wanted Aizasea to suffer.

“Duty? Fate?” Aleksandr’s voice cut through her thoughts. His tone carried a level of merriment that made Celvene’s nose crinkle. As if to rub salt in the wound, he laughed. A single, dark bark of laughter. “No. The only duty you have is to lay down your supposed right to the crown. I respected Virion, but he was soft. Weak. You would be no better. We need someone who will put a stop to this senseless war, once and for all, and your butter knives and… is that a uniform for the Painted Sky Circus?”

Aleksandr glanced over at Oriel. “You believe a jester to be fit for the throne? And I thought Virion had a sense of humor with his failed jesters. There seems to be a running trend with those who are destined to rule over this kingdom.” Aleksandr smiled, placing weight on the word “destined” as he clasped his hands together. He mocked Celvene. And he mocked the man he’d served just days before.

If there was anything Celvene could understand about the fallen king, it was how being separated from family could change a person. Maybe some, like Aleksandr, would call that weakness. Maybe, despite the military’s losses, the general was more experienced than Celvene was. But the sword chose Celvene for a reason, and from their brief conversation, Celvene was certain about one thing: Aleksandr didn’t care about the citizens of Aizasea; all he cared about was power. And as little as Celvene knew about politics, she couldn’t imagine an irresponsible army general had any right to the throne.

But she did. She knew one thing: she would fight to finish the war, one way or another.

“I’m not a jester,” replied Celvene, shaking off the note of defensiveness that crept into her voice. She opened her mouth to inform Aleksandr what exactly she did, but upon meeting his icy gaze, she clamped it shut. “And I believe I could lead this kingdom far better than you ever could. It’s been years without any progress in the war against Noriya. Why would the kingdom elevate a man who cannot control just the army—would we want the same fate to befall the rest of the kingdom? And how would you stop my right, anyways?”

She knew she was lying—she knew she’d have to learn how to lead the kingdom. She’d need to learn how to be a queen. But that was okay, because she could fix the kingdom’s problems with the power to do so. It didn’t seem as though Aleksandr felt the same. He just wanted power for the sake of having power. For the sake of having people to control.

“I have an army behind my back who listen to my every command without question. You’re one woman. You’d be trampled the moment you unsheathed those pathetic excuses for daggers,” Aleksandr said. His gaze lowered to her knives before returning to her eyes, and Celvene got the feeling he was ignoring her questions on purpose; he knew he had no right to the throne. “You should see a smith and get those sharpened.”

She opened her mouth to argue, but he was right. Even if she was the rightful ruler of Aizasea, she couldn’t defeat an entire army by herself.

She would not be queen. Not now. But now, there was a fire burning in her heart. She had the urge to prove this bastard wrong, and to make her parents proud. She could work her way up from the bottom, just as she’d been doing since she was a child.

“Fine,” was all she said as she tucked her daggers into her pocket. “But I refuse to let you strip me of everything that’s mine. I want compensation.”

Compensation for what? She didn’t know. Money? A place in the palace? She’d appreciate anything that wasn’t living in a cramped apartment lining the streets of the sea, wondering if her next circus performance would pay enough for her to buy a half-decent meal.

Aleksandr clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth as his gaze went skyward. He pondered the question for a second before asking, “Compensation how?”

“Give me a way to prove myself to you. I can lead Aizasea, and I want the chance to show that.”

Oriel shuffled their feet beside her, still remaining silent. Before, they’d been quietly tapping their cane against the floor, but now, they fell still. Were they wary of Celvene’s proposal? Did they think it was possible to overtake a general with the power to take the throne?

“I fear I don’t need a showing of your leadership capabilities. You will never touch that crown as long as I am in the castle, dear jester.” Aleksandr’s smirk, taunting and relentless, lit up with a knowing malice. His blue eyes sparkled with ignoblest. “I’m afraid all I can offer you is a position as a servant in the castle.”

A servant? That was hardly any better than her position as a circus worker—and if she was going to be a servant to Aleksandr himself, she had a hunch the position would be even worse than Painted Sky.

“That is unbefitting, Aleksandr, and you know it,” Oriel said. Their jaw went taut.

Celvene wondered if they were angry they couldn’t do more to stop Aleksandr. Like he’d said, he had the army at his back. Oriel was powerful, but she wasn’t sure if they could beat an army and emerge victorious. And even if they could, what would happen next? Aizasea would be left defenseless.

“I’m sure it’s better than what she’s doing now,” Aleksandr said, gaze flicking to Celvene’s body. “Her rags don’t indicate she’s of much wealth or status, and I’ve heard Painted Sky is quite dirty. The pay would be good, and she could house herself at the castle. The benefits outweigh the drawbacks. She’d primarily do maidwork. Cleaning, cooking…”

Celvene bit back a retort. Was it worth living a better life if she had to do so under the man stripping her of the power she hadn’t had a chance to gain? The man who was going to steal her crown?

If she accepted, she could work from inside the castle to rise to become queen. She’d be fed. She’d be paid. And she’d have a better living situation than her crummy apartment. If she denied, she’d have no way of ever becoming queen and making a name for herself. She’d have to go back to Korvin’s circus, a job she despised. She’d be barred from the castle, and perhaps from Aizasea as a whole, considering everyone would recognize her now, thanks to the ritual. There would have been enough reporters lingering around the area to catch a glimpse of her face and scribble it down. Her face would be plastered on every newspaper in the city.

She frowned, sighing. She could swallow her pride—for now.

“When can I start?” she asked.