Chapter 16
Trouble Brewing
The Kingdom of Veridia wasn't just teetering on the brink; it was performing a drunken jig along the precipice, fueled by increasingly ludicrous rumours about its queen. Tales mutated faster than swamp fungus. Elara wasn't just accused of poisoning her husband and smothering her son anymore; now she was said to command a legion of spectral badgers to steal socks (hence the nationwide shortage), to require the nightly sacrifice of a perfectly roasted capon to the moon goddess lest crops fail, and most bizarrely, to have personally hexed Old Man Hemlock's prize-winning turnips into sentient, mildly insulting root vegetables. The capital, Aethelgard, hummed with a frantic, fearful energy, like a beehive poked by a very confused badger.
Inside the relative calm of the citadel, the mood in the council chamber was less panicked beehive and more like a gathering of particularly gloomy undertakers who'd misplaced their best coffin. Kai Veridius, resplendent in a doublet of sapphire blue velvet slashed with silver (a calculated choice – it matched his eyes and subtly reminded every one of his royal blood), slouched in his chair at the massive cream marble table. He watched the parade of woe with the detached amusement of a spectator at a particularly bad mummer's play.
Official #1 said: (Huffing, clutching a singed ledger): " Your Majesty! The riots! Cabbages priced at three coppers! Three!
The greengrocer's stall… reduced to fragrant kindling!
Mistress Bramble claims it was spontaneous combustion caused by righteous indignation, but frankly, it smelled more of lamp oil and poor life choices."
Kai said: (Muttering into his goblet): "Righteous indignation and lamp oil. The classic duo. Like cheese and… more cheese, but flammable."
Elara Said: (From the throne, a statue of pale ice): "Compensation from the royal granaries. Quietly. And find out who sold Mistress Bramble the lamp oil. Tax them double."
Official #2 said: (Looking like he hadn't slept since the last Ardonian insult): "Border report, your Majesty. Ardonian scouts again. Crossed the Bleakwater markers. Didn't steal lunches this time. Just… defecated strategically near our patrol's campfire. Left a note: 'Warm regards from Lord Theron. Mind your step.'"
Kai said: (Snorting inelegantly): "Classy. Theron always did have the diplomatic touch of a constipated boar."
Warlord Vance said: (Grimacing): "The men request permission to return the… regards… with interest, Majesty. "Perhaps lobbed via trebuchet?" Elara said: (A flicker of something dangerous in her dark eyes): "Denied, Vance. Scoop it up. Package it neatly. Send it back to Lord Theron with our compliments. Label it 'Ardonian Ambition – Sample Size'."
Official #3 said: (Voice trembling, holding a ledger thinner than hope): "The treasury, Your Majesty… It… well… if we melt down the smallest ceremonial spoon… we might afford a new quill for the scribe. Possibly."
Kai said: (Leaning forward, stage-whispering): "Sister, perhaps we could rent out the throne? 'Sit like Royalty for an Hour – Only Five Crowns!' Tourists love that sort of thing. Think of the revenue!"
Elara said: (Levelling a gaze at Kai that could freeze molten lead): "Tempting, Brother. Perhaps we could start with your newly acquired velvet collection? Fifty thousand crowns buys rather a lot of flounce, does it not?" Kai sank back, suddenly fascinated by the grain of the marble table.
The bad news droned on – blighted crops in the south (blamed on the Queen's 'evil eye'), restless spirits in the old dungeons (likely just rats and bad ventilation), a sudden plague of unusually aggressive pigeons in the upper wards. Solutions proposed ranged from the impractical (pray harder) to the insane (sacrifice Kai to the pigeon god). Elara listened, her face impassive, radiating an aura of such focused, icy authority it made the very air in the room feel brittle.
Finally, she raised a single, slender hand. Silence crashed down like a portcullis." Enough," she stated, the word echoing softly but carrying absolute finality. "Your reports are noted. Your… suggestions… are filed under 'Desperation'. Leave us. Vance, Blackwood, Kai. Remain." The officials scrambled out like startled cockroaches, leaving the vast chamber feeling suddenly cavernous and cold. Kai straightened up, abandoning his slouch. Vance and Blackwood stood rigidly at attention near the queen's dais. Elara rose, the movement fluid and utterly commanding.
"She descended the dais steps, her simple gown of deep indigo seeming to absorb the scant light. "Vance. The conjurers. "Progress?" Vance cleared his throat. "Three more, Majesty. Scraped from the bottom of the barrel, truth be told. One specializes in making small, unnerving illusions of snails. Another can… slightly warm water. The third claims he can talk to rocks, but thus far, the rocks seem unimpressed. That makes ten."" Ten," Elara repeated, the word flat. Against Ardon's legions. Against Theron's fortifications. Against… sentient turnips."
She pinched the bridge of her nose, a rare display of human weariness that vanished as quickly as it appeared. "Bring them. The training yard. Now. "Kai, you will attend." Kai blinked. "Me? What for? Need someone to critique the snail illusions? I have notes. Mostly about pacing."
"Because," Elara said, already striding towards the chamber doors, her voice leaving no room for debate, "you are a Veridius. And you possess power, however chaotically you wield it. You will listen." Power? Kai thought, trailing behind his sister and the warlords. I have a knack for finding trouble and talking my way into slightly more advantageous trouble. And fifty thousand crowns. That's power, right? He glanced at Elara's straight back, radiating purpose. Hers is… different. Scarier. Like a volcano wearing a very nice dress.
The training field lay beneath a sky that seemed carved from pale silver, the morning sun a reluctant smear behind thin, drifting clouds. A breath of wind swept over the expanse, bending the tall grass at its borders into slow, rippling waves, as though the earth itself sighed in anticipation. The air smelled faintly of scorched stone and damp soil a mingling of elements that mirrored the nature of those gathered here.
Before Queen Elara stretched the wide parade ground of the Conjurer Corps, its surface marked with the scuffs and burns of countless drills. Groups of conjurers moved like fragments of a living mural some circling in disciplined formations, others locked in duels where flame clashed with torrents of water, where spears of wind tore at walls of earth. Each movement was both precise and volatile, an echo of the elemental truths that defined their craft.
From a distance, they looked almost ordinary men and women in leather armor and cloaks dyed in the deep green of Veridia but to eyes attuned, the air around them shimmered faintly. The shimmer was not heat, nor light, but the restless pulse of Spirit Energy, alive and straining against the invisible reins of mortal control. It rose from them like mist from a warm spring, drifting and curling, bearing hints of each conjurer's nature fiery threads like embers in a hearth, liquid ripples like moonlit water, dust-laden currents like desert wind.
The Queen watched from the far edge of the field, her presence silent yet commanding. Her gown was not the silken regalia of court but a deep, battle-dyed cloak trimmed with silver thread, falling to her boots. Her hair black as the void between stars was bound in a crown braid that kept it from the restless wind. She was not here as a monarch behind a desk, but as a sovereign preparing her kingdom for a shadowed horizon.
A pair of conjurers nearby clashed in sudden ferocity a burst of flame spiraling toward a dome of earth. The impact threw a dull thud across the field, rattling the air. The Queen's gaze lingered on them, not in disapproval, but with the stillness of one measuring the weight of their strength. Her mind, however, was elsewhere not on the skirmish, but on the war whose whispers were growing louder in the east.
The conjurers sensed her presence before they saw her. One by one, like reeds shifting toward the wind, their stances grew taut, their movements more precise, the casual banter fading into murmured discipline. It was not fear that held them at least, not wholly but the subtle pressure that came from being measured by eyes that missed nothing.
Elara let the silence stretch a moment longer. In her heart, she knew that silence was a teacher sharper than any sword; it let men hear the sound of their own uncertainty.
When she finally moved, it was only to lift a gloved hand and snap her fingers once. The sound cracked through the training ground like the breaking of a twig in still woods. From the far side, a tall, broad-shouldered man in black leathers strode forward Blackwood, her shadow and steward of the guard. He bowed with the bare inclination that protocol allowed and waited.
"Bring me a chair," she said, her voice even but carrying across the field like a thread of steel.
Blackwood nodded once and turned. A moment later, he returned with a high-backed wooden chair, its frame dark with age and polish, the seat draped with a cloth of deep green. Placing it where the grass met the packed earth of the training ground, he stepped back without a word.
The Queen seated herself with unhurried grace, her cloak settling like the wings of some patient bird. Her eyes those eyes few could meet for long swept once more over the conjurers before her. Then she was still.
The field held its breath.
She let the silence deepen, letting the conjurers wonder what weighed upon her mind. Only when the edges of tension had sharpened enough to cut did she part her lips to speak.