Regent Venessa and Princess Marguen presided from the royal dais, flanked by Vasier’s most prestigious houses. Arranged by wealth and status, each noble displayed the emblem of the church’s cross, a symbol of their faith and allegiance.

Sir Tristan sat with a contingent of like-minded nobles whose collective fortunes rivaled the royal treasury. Across from them, Duke De La Castell, clad in his orange and blue military attire, stood alongside a trio of commanders in equally garish uniforms.

“The truce died with King Havious. We must act before Leichhardt consolidates his hold over Mansour,” said Sir Tristan. Dressed in peacock-hued finery, he exuded the polished arrogance of a man perpetually angling for his family’s advancement.

Princess Marguen, the last of the Vasierian bloodline, listened carefully, though her eyes frequently darted toward her mother for counsel. Regent Venessa, elegant and sharp as a coiled viper, remained ever-ready to defend her daughter.

“Though our churches may differ, we’re still bound by shared belief,” said Davos, the court’s administrator and religious advisor. His modest robes belied the weight of his influence, his seat beside the royal dais a testament to his status.

“Mansourians are cut from a different cloth, my dear priest,” said Sir Tristan. “Except for our gracious Regent Venessa, they haven’t had a monarch ascend without war or foreign conquest. And soon-to-be King Leichhardt is certainly not the latter.”

“They worship the same God,” Davos countered.

“Perhaps, but their God would see us damned just the same as the pagans whose institutions our dear princess wishes to preserve.”

“Chicanery,” Castell muttered.

“Duke De La Castell, do you have an opinion on the matter?” Venessa inquired.

“Opinions. They linger like the stench of a blackened egg,” Castell said, his tone flat and unwavering. “Nevertheless, I have reason to believe Leichhardt—yes, King Leichhardt—wasn’t the designated heir, and these actions weren’t entirely his own. Rather, his claim emanates from a conspiracy of backers who have the means to ensure he sits comfortably upon that throne.”

“That’s wonderful,” said Sir Tristan. “But it says nothing of how we should respond. Their demands imply Gideon’s surrender or else, and so far, that ‘else’ has violated our territorial rights. It is an act of war, and we should respond in kind.”

“Vague threats only reinforce my argument,” Castell retorted. “Vikings raid the north, sultans threaten the east, pirates choke our sea-lanes—and now you would plunge us into war with a coalition of kings, bankers, and religious zealots. I trust Sir Tristan chooses his business ventures more wisely than his battles.

Marguen's thoughts swirled in confusion. The binary choice of war or surrendering her uncle seemed entangled in a web of competing interests. She glanced toward Venessa for clarity but was interrupted by the sudden entrance of a short, flamboyant jester.

With a twirl of his baton and a cartwheel, the jester tumbled gracefully to a bow before the dais. “Name a highborn who did not rise on the back of a monarch’s demise! My liege, Prince Gideon, has arrived!”

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Princess Marguen's reserved demeanor softened into a rare smile. “Please bring in my uncle,” she said eagerly.

“Titles,” Venessa whispered sharply.

“Of course. I welcome Prince Gideon’s presence,” Marguen corrected herself. “With haste, my fool.”

The jester departed with a theatrical flourish, leaving the court to resume its debate.

In a more forceful tone, Sir Castel brought the conversation back. “Does the sovereign favor war or not?” asked Sir Castell.

“Um…” said Marguen.

“The Princess, like her mother, knows her eldest uncle will not feel secure so long as her bloodline occupies the Vasierian throne,” Venessa said, her voice cold and decisive. “Hence, war is inevitable. Therefore, the princess authorizes Duke De La Castell to prepare our forces for such an eventuality, while Sir Tristan will lead diplomatic efforts to turn these sultans into allies.”

“I will do as my princess commands,” Castell replied before excusing himself, offering the customary bow of respect as Gideon and his entourage approached.

Gideon, ever theatrical, knelt before his sister and niece. “My princess, my regent—bearers of the finest bloodline west of the barrens and north of the great blue desert.”

“Spare us the flattery,” interrupted Vanessa. “We have no need for a prince who leads wolves to our pastures.”

“Ah, but who better to handle wolves than the one who wears their pelts on her shoulders?” Gideon retorted with a grin.

“Always with words. You’d make a fine fool,” Venessa said, unimpressed.

“The greater fool is the one who hunts me, while the wisest of our lineage sits on the revered Vasierian throne.”

Venessa rolled her eyes and signaled for her maid. “Madeline, escort Princess Marguen to her chambers.”

“But I wish to stay with Prince Gideon,” Marguen protested.

“Patience and indifference,” Venessa reminded her sharply.

“Of course,” Marguen replied, her features hardening into a mirror image of her mother’s. She curtsied and excused herself.

Venessa cleared the court with a firm glance, leaving only Sir Bradfrey and Gideon in the chamber.

“Don’t smile too hard,” Gideon teased. “Wouldn’t want any wrinkles on that beautiful face of yours.”

Venessa’s dress snagged on a loose floorboard as she moved to respond. The tear shattered her composure, and in her frustration, she delivered a haphazard slap to the already grinning Gideon.

“I told you to kill Leichhardt,” she snapped, her eyes glistening with unbidden tears.

“Yeah. I suppose surrendering me to Mansour never crossed your mind?”

“It will cost my kingdom dearly, but I will never surrender you. Not to him. Not to Leichhardt.”

She pulled him into a tight embrace, her tears finally spilling free.

“Should I excuse myself, my regent?” Sir Bradfrey asked delicately, his gaze politely averted from Venessa’s unguarded state.

“No, not at all,” Venessa said, recovering. “Trust is in scarce supply these days.”

“Court politics getting to you?” Gideon asked with a smirk.

“I’ll age a lifetime before Marguen is ready to rule. She is everything to me, and I will not allow her to become someone’s puppet.”

“Are you sure she doesn’t need a bit more rope to learn her own way?”

“In time.” Venessa turned to Bradfrey. “As for you, Sir Bradfrey, your dedication is beyond reproach. I cannot thank you enough.” She gripped his armor sternly, ensuring he met her gaze, despite the embarrassment of her tear-streaked face.

“Thank you, my regent. But all is not well,” Bradfrey said gravely. “Grand Master Wizard Coble has met an ill fate.”

“Oh no—by what or whom?” Venessa demanded, her fist tightening against his chain mail.

“Mansourian knights, aided by a known pagan assassin. All involved are either captured or dead.”

“And his successor?”

“Unfortunately… Draconian,” Bradfrey admitted with a hint of hesitation.

“Personally, I find him perfectly reasonable,” Gideon interjected. “Stubborn, sure, but workable.”

Venessa rolled her eyes. “How convenient. They target my brother, and Coble ends up dead. Now Draconian is Grand Wizard, Pragian will almost certainly turn isolationist, and Mansour keeps its pretense for war. A war they’re unlikely to win. So what’s Leichhardt’s endgame?”

“It’s Leichhardt,” Gideon said. “Give him the weaker hand, and he’ll choose chaos over compromise every time.”