Days after the king's burial, that the true battle for the throne began.
Princess Calyss sat on a throne in the Council Chamber. The heads of the four Houses faced her, a united front of wolves in sheep's clothing.
Lord Varion, was the first to speak. His voice, a low and steady rumble, carried a tone of false concern. "Our deepest condolences, Your Majesty. This is a time of great sorrow. It is also a time of great uncertainty. The kingdom needs strength and a line of succession that is secure."
He paused, a flicker of a smile on his face. "To that end, I propose a solution that will not only secure your reign, but unite our two great houses forever." He gestured to his son, Lord Mylis, a handsome, cold-eyed man with a hunger for power in his gaze. "My son is of the purest bloodline, a direct descendant of the first King. I offer him as a husband for you, to unite our houses."
Calyss's face remained a serene mask, but inside, she was a storm of fury. He was offering her a gilded cage, a marriage that would strip her of her power and make her a puppet.
A loud, sharp voice cut through the silence. Hand Haelen of the House of Sylvon, a giant of a man with a scarred face and an unforgiving gaze, stood up from his seat. "Treason!" he roared, his voice a physical force. "You speak of a king's bloodline, and you do so with a queen on the throne!"
The chamber erupted into a chorus of furious shouts. Lord Varion's face, usually so composed, was now a mask of pure, unbridled rage. "How dare you! We are of the same family! This is a sacred union!"
"Sacred union?" Hand Haelen's voice was a low, dangerous rumble. "There is no sacred union in your words, Lord Varion. Only greed and ambition. The throne belongs to the Queen, and we will not allow a usurper to sit on it."
The meeting descended into chaos. The heads of the other houses, seeing their plans exposed, stood up, their faces a mixture of fury and frustration. They were not ready for this. They stormed out, their angry voices echoing in the grand chamber.
Only Hand Haelen and Lord Cedric us remained. The room was now quiet. Calyss, for the first time since her father's death, felt the power of her new position.
***
The sun beat down on the village, a small, forgotten collection of mud and thatch huts in the province of Tarsus. Here, the bounty of Fenroth seemed like a myth from a distant land.
The fields were fallow, not from drought, but from neglect. The families had farmed these lands, but the impossible taxes levied by the House Thoryssa had broken their spirits. It was easier to let the earth rest than to work it only to see the harvest taken by the collectors.
In one of the huts, a young girl named Lira watched her younger brother, Taran, as he cried, a thin, mewling sound that was worse than a scream. His stomach, stretched and empty, ached with a deep hunger. Her mother held the last, small loaf of bread in her hands, her face etched with a silent, terrible desperation. She broke it in half, giving the larger piece to Taran. Her own eyes, usually so full of life, were empty.
Suddenly, a loud and arrogant chorus of shouts echoed through the village. A group of men on horseback, wearing the distinctive gold and velvet of House Thoryssa, rode through the dusty main street. They were tax collectors, their faces as hard and unforgiving as the laws they enforced.
"The time for tribute has come!" one of them bellowed, his voice laced with mocking humor. "We will be taking the 8th set of grains for this season."
The villagers, defeated by a thousand such visits, simply watched. The collectors laughed as they took a small sack of potatoes from one family, and a worn-out blanket from another. They entered Lira's hut, their eyes scanning the bare interior. The largest man, his face scarred and his gaze cruel, spotted the last piece of bread on the table. He snatched it, tossing it to a companion, and pointed to a small, silver locket hanging on Lira's mother's neck. "That will do," he sneered, pulling it off roughly.
Lira's mother did not fight. She did not cry. Her face remained a mask of silent resignation. But in Lira's heart, a fire was lit. She only knew that her brother was hungry, and these men were the cause.
As the collectors rode away, their laughter echoing behind them, Lira looked at her mother. A cold fury had replaced the desperation in her eyes.
"This cannot go on," she whispered, her voice a low, fierce vow. Her mother just shook her head, a silent acknowledgment of their powerlessness.
***
Calyss found her way to the royal garden. Here, the anger and fury of the lords could not reach her.
Her handmaiden, Elara, moved with a silent grace, a shadow in the soft moonlight. She placed a small, simple cup of herbal tea on the stone bench beside Calyss, her hands steady and kind. Elara was more than a servant; she was a friend, a confidante, a sister in all but blood.
"They are frightened, Your Majesty, I mean the Lords" Elara said, her voice a soft, steady hum that calmed the storm in Calyss's heart. "They fear a queen who cannot be controlled or bend to their will."
Calyss laughed, a short, bitter sound. "They fear me?."
Elara knelt beside her, her gaze unwavering. "You have a heart of courage, Your Majesty, and a spirit that will not bend. They see that. They see the strength you do not know you have yet. That is why they are frightened."
Calyss took a long, slow sip of the tea. It was warm and soothing. "How can I fight, Elara? I don't want to be like my father, everyone knows he was a mere puppet. But I don't think I have what it takes to stand for myself."
"You have the people, Your Majesty," Elara replied, her voice soft but sure. "The people of Fenroth have for a long time wish to have a ruler who rule by his own will, a ruler who understands his people, and you are that ruler, Your Majesty, give them a reason to support you. You got this your Majesty. Believe in yourself, Your Majesty, you got all it takes."
Calyss looked at her handmaiden, her eyes filled with a new resolve.