The transfer of authority was not one of continuity. The uncharacteristic absence of Venessa since her baptism had left Queen Marguen inept to the growing prominence of Arcadius and Davos. Without Venessa’s guidance, the royal court eroded into an eyrie void. There was no longer the hotbed of debate between aspiring nobility, who sought to win flavor through reputation and argument. Instead, there were just messengers from the governing politic, who bridged the gap between the sovereign and her sovereignty. All were playing a surreptitious game of Chinese whispers, more akin to guessing the queen’s disposition or the narrative of the day.

It was a game less amenable to Duke De La Castell’s sense of duty. Though his wounds reduced him to an anemic hunchback of his former self, there was no mistaking the fire within his mind and the will that accompanied his presence.

However, this couldn’t be said for Sir Tristan, who at the time of Castell’s arrival was arguing like a man wrongfully accused, stuck in the firing line of the queen’s scorn. ‘I’ve given my heart and soul in service of the crown. If I’m guilty of anything, it is of falling short of such lofty expectations.’

‘Enough,’ said Queen Marguen. She was tired and detached from her subject’s deliberations.

‘Queen Marguen,’ said Castell, taking the slow, graceful approach to pledging fealty upon shaky knees against the cold timber floors. ‘How may I service you, my great and noble ruler?’

His queen, now the embodiment of the callous indifference his mother so espoused, ruled less by word or directive, but by simple gestures of hand. Such as waving her esteemed general to his feet.

‘You’ve been rather reclusive, Duke De La Castell,’ said Davos, the high priest appearing from behind the daises, smirking with crossed arms under his long-sleeved clerical coat. His raised profile placed him as the right-hand man to the queen, with her mother absent.

Bishop Arcadius, on the other hand, moved in the background, making himself acquainted with the guards assorted around the hall.

‘Where is the queen’s mother?’ asked Castell.

Sir Tristan, head down in shame, gave what he could through quiet whispers. ‘We are in murky waters, my friend. Tread carefully.’

‘She is off on other matters. Ask me, Duke De La Castell, were you ever baptized?’ said Davoz.

‘As a child, as your predecessor would have attested to. Now, may I ask the queen why I’ve been summoned?’

‘What is your relationship with Draconian?’ Davos queried. He then pulled handfuls of parchment from his side, scattering them in front of the queen’s thrown.

‘It is a relationship based on mutual respect and necessity,’ said Castell, calm and resolute, sensing the danger, yet unafraid to face it.

‘Then why was it necessary for Draconian and his pagan peers to aid the Viking invasion?’ questioned Davos.

‘That would be contrary to my understanding.’ Castell then looked intently at the queen. ‘Queen Marguen, have you not read my messages?’

Davos, ever the theatrical, walked down to the discarded parchments, sifting through them with his bare feet. Unrelated articles flicked array by his pincher like toes until he found one piece of interest. ‘Well, well,’ he said, clearing his throat before reading aloud those sections most incriminating. ‘A letter from Draconian. “Though your aid was most welcomed, I can’t offer you any recourse other than to let slip those most unruly of my wizardry. The repercussions of which will almost certainly end in blood.” Tell me, Duke De La Castell, whose blood is he referring to?’

‘Pragian was reassuring their allegiance to the queen. Read the letter. Our aid prevented further desertion,’ said Castell like an exhausted dog, puffing air to keep up what fight he had left.

‘You are aware of Bjarke and his Viking war band?’ said Davos as he tiptoed to another message that he pinned down and pivoted to its legible orientation. ‘Draconian again. “The church has pushed us to an ultimatum. Though I don’t align directly with Bjarke, I agree this is existential to Pragian’s relationship with Vasier. Failure to do so will pit the sinister against the unruly. As it has already incited elements within the wizardry against the queen”.’

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

‘Demonic forces within the church. Read it all or hold your goddamn tongue, Davos?’ Castell retorted.

‘Enough, Castell. I shall not tolerate such blasphemy,’ said Queen Marguen.

But Castell continued, ‘Draconian isn’t one for subtlety. He calls it as it is, but without context …’

‘I think we’ve got enough context,’ said Davos. ‘Especially when our townships burn, and Draconian fans the flames of dissent.’

It left Sir Tristan needing to interject, to negotiate from whichever angle was most likely to save his skin. ‘Let us deal with the unrest. Then have Draconian brought here to testify on his own behalf.’

The words sounded of betrayal to Castell’s ears, and he tilted his head away to remove any peripheral vision of Sir Tristan’s presence.

The divide brought unmeasurable pleasure to Davos, and he gestured to Queen Marguen for a response.

She, in return, only needed a quick check from Bishop Arcadius before bearing judgement. ‘My mother trusted you, but I am not my mother. Draconian has failed in his duty and has shown himself a threat to our stability. I grant you, Sir Tristan, and Duke De La Castell full authority to raise an army and bring Draconian to justice. But know that failure to do so will be considered complicity and treason,’ she said, soft and devoid of emotion.

‘My queen, if your seal is not enough to solicit his presence, I cannot bring myself to bear arms against him. So, I beg, please, hold your decision until you’ve consulted your mother. She knows I speak the truth when I say Draconian, for all his flaws, is not your enemy,’ said Castell.

‘Sir Tristan, who gave me those letters?’ said Queen Marguen.

The wealthiest noble could barely stomach the ominous of truth. ‘Your mother, my queen.’

‘Why did she give the queen these letters?’ asked Davos.

‘After they started burning churches of the One True God, she felt compelled to bring justice upon the pagan instigators,’ said Sir Tristan.

‘Say it isn’t true,’ said Castell, needing to see the swollen tear ducts beneath the condemner’s eyes, and yet still not bring himself to believe.

‘Tread carefully, my friend,’ whispered Sir Tristan.

An obnoxious Davos then paraded upon the daises, so he could look down upon Castell with the few inches of extra height. ‘Need more convincing, Duke De La Castell?’

‘I … I once served a lord who acted out of fear and imparted that fear upon his people,’ said Castell, his thoughts reliving the event that perspired during the battle of the bloodless. A troubled time in his life when he served as a knight under Duke Derzhimont. When the naivety of youth left him ambitious without moral precedents. The feeling of invincibility as the tribal instinct surged through his veins. The mistakes of his youth, imparting a wisdom that only shame could teach. He then peered up towards the figurehead of all he held dear and spoke with true conviction. ‘The coward’s choice is to act in compliance when all moral virtues are in question. Your father taught me that. As I am saying it now. I know Draconian, and he is no traitor, as I am no coward.’

His words rippled through a confused Queen, unfamiliar with the sight of dissent. A man would kneel in loyalties but stand against her orders. Her ingrained emotional restraint unraveled into panicked breath. And she silently pleaded what she couldn’t convey in words. Her nails scrapped under pressure like a death’s grip upon the throne’s ridge frame.

‘Ah hum,’ said Davos, surprised but not moved as he threw a glance towards the back walls, where the darkness gathered around the murky eyes of Bishop Arcadius.

Arcadius then brought a sudden twitch to the queen, who with anxiety released, fell comfortably into her dead-eyed demeanor. ‘I hereby strip you of your titles and your lands. The house of Castell shall be no more, and my most traitorous of general shall spend the rest of his days in the darkest depths of the castle’s dungeon. Where he will never again see the light of day.’

The dark influences played heavy once more against Castell’s heart. And he felt the straining of the bishop’s internal demon’s influence.

It was a fact all too apparent and too late, as the royal guard approached with spear and sword. Yet in his last act of defiance, the old general opened a small, concealed tube. He then looked at Sir Tristan and swallowed the clear, foul-tasting liquid. ‘I am ready to meet my maker. To be judged by the sum of actions. Good and bad.’ Castell walked to the guards with an unusual rejuvenation. He then appeared to capitulate until closed doors brought a ruckus of clashing metal to the outer walkway. Grunts and exertions were short-lived, but they were not unnoticed by those still inside the royal court.

The queen flinched at the unsavory sounds, and her nails continued to dig lines into the throne’s armrest, while she awaited painful screams that never eventuated.

‘Pitty,’ said Davos, his fingers tapping against his side, imploring once more for his queen to take charge.

Yet without a word needing to be said, Sir Tristan dropped to one knee, daring not to raise his head as he proclaimed his allegiance. ‘If it’s Draconian you require, I will spare no expense to bring him to justice. For the peace of the kingdom, I will prevail.’