Chapter 11
A Queens Calculus
The throne room of Veridia was a symphony in cream and gold, a testament to the serene power Queen Elara projected. Sunlight, filtered through towering stained-glass windows depicting heroic myths now faded, pooled on the polished white marble floor like a liquid pearl. The air hung heavy with the scent of beeswax, aged parchment, and the faint, cloying sweetness of hothouse lilies arranged in obsidian urns. At the room's heart, elevated on a dais of veined Sienese marble, sat the Queen.
Elara Veridius was young for such weight, scarcely past her mid-twenties, yet an aura of fathomless experience clung to her, woven into the very fabric of her presence. Her beauty was undeniable, sculpted and sharp, framed by a cascade of ink-black hair pulled severely back to accentuate the stark lines of her face and the extraordinary headdress resting upon her brow.
It was no mere crown, but a masterwork of the goldsmith's art: a wide, intricate circlet of interwoven golden vines studded with cabochon rubies like clotting blood and dark, depthless sapphires mirroring her own eyes. Jewelled finials rose subtly, suggesting authority without ostentation. It seemed less worn, more grown from her, an extension of her will.
Her attire was a deliberate contradiction, a statement woven in silk and shadow. A simple, severe black crop top of finest silk revealed the taut line of her midriff and the sharp angles of her collarbones. Below, however, flowed trousers of astonishing opulence. Cut from heavy, midnight-black brocade woven with subtle gold thread that caught the light like captive stars, they billowed majestically from a fitted waist, pooling slightly over boots of tooled, black leather. Draped over her shoulders and cascading down her back, worn with the negligent elegance of a conqueror's spoils, was the coat. It was a masterpiece: floor-length, structured black velvet, its high collar and cuffs edged in dense, shimmering gold embroidery depicting stylized serpents consuming their own tails. The lining, glimpsed as she shifted, was a shocking, vibrant gold silk. It was armour, regalia, and shroud all at once.
Arrayed before her heavy marble table, like pieces on a chessboard she hadn't yet chosen to play, stood her council. Elder statesmen in somber velvets rubbed uneasy shoulders with sharp-faced financiers in damask. But the focus, the raw tension in the room, radiated from the two figures standing closest to the table, their boots scuffing the pristine floor: Warlords Kaelen Blackwood and Seth Vance.
Blackwood, a mountain of scarred muscle clad in functional, dark steel-reinforced leather. He stabbed a thick, calloused finger onto the sprawling map unfurled across the cool marble. His voice was a gravelly rumble, echoing slightly in the vast space.
"...here, Yer Majesty. Near the Bleakwater Ford, just past the border stones. A full cohort of Ardonian regulars. Not just scouts. Camped. Digging latrines, raising proper tents. "They moved like they owned the ground." His finger traced a line. "And patrols here, deeper into the Grey Marches than their treaty rights allow. By ten leagues, easy."
Vance, leaner, colder, with eyes like chips of flint in a weathered face, added, his voice precise and clipped, "Their commander, that preening peacock, Lord Valcors, sends 'regards'. Says they're conducting 'maneuvers' against bandits. Bandits who conveniently vanished the moment their banners appeared." He snorted, a dry, humorless sound. "They testing us. Like a cat pawing at a cornered mouse."
The debate that followed was a familiar dance of caution and alarm. Councilor Morel, his jowls trembling above his ruff, advocated for envoys, protestations filed with the Ardonian court, appeals to the fragile Continental Accord. "Rash action, Your Majesty, could ignite the very conflagration we seek to avoid! Let diplomacy have its day!"
Financier Rossi countered, his voice tight with the strain of emptying coffers. "Diplomacy costs gold, Morel! Gold we scarce have while Ardon floods its borders with men and steel! Every day they camp is a day they strengthen, a day our merchants fear to travel the passes! We must show strength, not supplication!"
Elara listened. Her gaze, those deep, dark eyes that seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it, moved between the speakers, lingering on the map, on the painted troop markers representing Ardonian aggression. She said little. A tilt of the head towards Blackwood prompted a grunted elaboration on troop dispositions.
A raised, perfectly sculpted eyebrow silenced Rossi's escalating pitch about grain tariffs. Her stillness was profound, unnerving. She wasn't passive; she was a deep pool, absorbing every ripple, every current of fear, ambition, and bluster that broke against the marble table.
Finally, after Rossi had sputtered into indignant silence and Morel had mopped his brow, Elara spoke. Her voice was low, melodious, yet carried the absolute clarity of a struck bell, effortlessly filling the throne room. It held no discernible accent, only pure, chilling authority.
Finally, after Rossi had sputtered into indignant silence and Morel had mopped his brow, Elara spoke. Her voice was low, melodious, yet carried the absolute clarity of a struck bell, effortlessly filling the throne room. It held no discernible accent, only pure, chilling authority.
"Lord Morel, draft the protest. Word, it strongly. Cite the treaties, the encroachments. Lord Rossi, prepare an accounting of the disruption to trade. Quantify it. "Present it with the protest." She paused, her gaze sweeping over the council. "But prepare also, discreetly, the levy rolls for the eastern provinces. Quietly. Vance and Blackwood make sure to increase patrols along the contested zone. Double them. But do not cross the border stones. Do not offer the first arrow. Observe. Report. Dismissed."
The final word was a command, not a request. It hung in the air, a guillotine blade halting further debate. The councilors bowed, a rustle of expensive fabric, and retreated, their relief at escaping the charged atmosphere palpable. Only Blackwood and Vance remained, standing rigidly at attention before the dais.
Elara rose. The movement was fluid, powerful, the luxurious black-gold coat swirling around her like a storm cloud edged in lightning. She descended the dais steps, the soft click of her boots on marble the only sound. She stopped before the warlords, her presence suddenly intimate, intense. The headdress seemed to glow in the slanting light.
"The people, Vance," she stated, her voice dropping, losing none of its authority but gaining an edge of cold inquiry. "What whispers ride the wind from the streets? From the taverns? From the fields?"
Vance exchanged a glance with Blackwood. "Unrest simmers, Majesty," Vance admitted, his flinty eyes meeting hers directly. The Ardoni camp is known. Men speak of fathers and brothers called to the levies. Women fear of harvests left untended. There is... anxiety. Fear of war's shadow."
"And anger," Blackwood rumbled, shifting his weight. "Anger that Ardon struts while we... prepare protests. Some muttered," we are weak." He didn't flinch from her gaze. "They remember the stories."
Elara's expression didn't change, but a flicker deep within those dark eyes might have been... weariness? "Calculation? "The conjurers, Blackwood," she redirected, her voice like polished steel. "How many have answered the call?"
Blackwood's broad shoulders slumped almost imperceptibly. "Seven, Majesty. Skilled enough, but... only seven. We screened dozens. These were the only ones willing to swear the oath. And they demanded premium rates."
"Seven?" The word was a shard of ice. Elara's stillness became absolute, terrifying. The temperature in the room seemed to drop. "You bring me seven conjurers? When Ardon boasts companies? When the very stones of this castle tremble?" Her voice remained low, but the intensity vibrated through the air.
Vance stepped in, his voice tight. "Majesty, it is not for lack of trying. Ardon... Ardon pays in gold mined from its southern hills. They offer land grants and titles. "Their coffers are bottomless compared to ours after the... the rebuilding." He hesitated, choosing his words with the care of a man crossing a minefield. "And there is... the talk. The rumours spread like plague from Ardon."
He didn't need to elaborate. The rumours hung in the air, thick as the lily scent, more poisonous. She poisoned her husband, King Lorian, the beloved. She smothered her own infant son in his cradle to secure the throne unchallenged. She is not queen, but a usurper, witch, monster. And worse, for the conjurers: She is a maniac of power. She would drain a thousand soldiers of their life-force to fuel a single devastating spell if it served her whim. She sees men as kindling for her ambitions.
Elara's face remained a mask of alabaster perfection beneath the jewelled circlet. Only the faintest tightening of her lips betrayed any reaction. "Ah. "The campaign," she murmured, her gaze drifting towards a stained-glass window depicting a saintly queen offering mercy. "Lord Theron's masterstroke. "Painting the mad, murderous sorceress-queen to justify his king's ambition." She turned her dark eyes back to the warlords. "And you believe these whispers sway the conjurers? These... mercenaries of the aether?"
"It sows doubt, Majesty," Vance said grimly. "Fear. Conjurers are a superstitious, cautious lot by nature. The idea of serving one rumoured to... consume power recklessly... it frightens them. Ardon offers gold and safety. We offer... uncertainty. And whispers of a queen who might turn their own gifts against them."
Blackwood shifted again. "We don't know if Ardon truly intends war, Majesty. But their movements... the coin spent... the rumours... they point an arrow. And they gather strength while we struggle to muster ours."
Elara absorbed this. She turned and walked slowly back towards the dais, her coat whispering against the marble. She didn't ascend the throne. She stood before it, a silhouette of black and gold against the cream stone, her back to the warlords, looking up at the vaulted, frescoed ceiling where cherubs cavorted amidst clouds of unknowable bliss. The silence stretched, filled only by the distant cry of a hawk outside.
"Show me," she commanded, her voice echoing slightly in the stillness. "Show me these seven paragons of loyalty."