The Council of Nobles convened in fury.
Duke Hargold, crimson-faced and wheezing with indignation, slammed a jeweled goblet onto the marble table. "We are mocked daily—by a child with ink!"
Baroness Valeen nodded sharply. "He's destabilizing the caste order. Yesterday, a stableboy recited the Grain Levy rates better than my steward."
A chorus of voices rose. Grievances piled like kindling. The Queen, cloaked in violet and steel, listened silently—until the murmurs became a storm.
Then she raised one hand.
"Enough."
Silence fell like a blade.
She looked toward the royal treasurer. "Can it be bought?"
A slow nod. "If we move quickly. We offer patronage. Influence. Elevation. Riches beyond what he's seen. Enough to make him ours."
A cold smile touched her lips.
"Then let us buy the press—its machines, its scribes, its secrets. The boy's brilliance belongs to the Crown now."