The royal court of Asteria held its breath beneath a pale morning light. The sun poured through the tall windows, cutting across the marble floor in long, solemn bands. The courtiers stood in uneasy clusters, their jeweled collars dulled by the weight of fear rather than dust or age.
"Your Majesty," Lord Merin began, his voice little more than a tremor, "we could send a peace gift , gold from the lower vaults, and perhaps the sacred chalice of Saint Aurean."
The court secretary's quill whispered across parchment, recording each desperate proposal like a funeral chant for a dying crown.
"Gold?" another noble muttered bitterly. "Varcia does not bleed for gold."
"Then what would you have us send, our sons?" snapped Lady Corven, her jeweled hand trembling as she pointed toward the great banner of Asteria hanging behind the throne , crimson silk embroidered with the silver falcon, once a symbol of defiance, now drooping in the still air. "Their king is a viper. He wants submission, not gold."
King Thorne remained motionless upon his throne, the crown's weight deepening the furrows in his brow. His silence pressed harder than any reprimand, his cold gaze sweeping across the hall , watching his nobles crumble beneath the echo of their own fear.
Lord Merin's voice faltered. "If we delay, Your Majesty, there will be nothing left to surrender. Perhaps, "
"Enough," Thorne murmured. The word was quiet, but it carried through the chamber like steel drawn from a sheath.
The nobles fell silent. The shafts of sunlight through the windows seemed to still, as though the very air refused to move.
Then the great doors groaned open. General Valtor stepped inside, his silver armor catching the morning light like a blade glinting in judgment. He did not bow. His gaze moved over the room , from the trembling nobles to the pale faces of men who had forgotten how to stand tall.
"Your council reeks of fear, Your Majesty" he said, voice flat, unwavering. "It's the quickest scent to draw an empire's blade."
Lord Alaric's tone cut in sharply. "You speak boldly, General, for a man who brings no victories."
Valtor's head tilted, his expression unreadable. "You mistake restraint for failure, Lord Alaric. There is power in what one chooses not to lose."
The words hung like smoke, heavy and stifling.
King Thorne's eyes lifted, steady and cold. "Then speak plainly, General. What do you propose?"
Valtor stepped forward, the silver of his armor glinting like frost. "Then we offer them what they truly seek, the driving force that intoxicates every conqueror, glory. For what is Asteria's gold beside Varcia's endless empire? Let them claim triumph, not just treasure."
The nobles exchanged alarmed glances, their whispers swelling like wind through dry reeds.
"Glory?" Lady Corven breathed. "You mean surrender."
"I mean survival," Valtor replied, his tone low and sharp. "They crave dominion, not negotiation. Let them take what feeds their pride , not what buries our dead."
The words struck through the hall, cold and deliberate.
King Thorne's hand clenched upon the armrest of his throne. His gaze on Valtor was unblinking , a silence that felt like judgment, or perhaps reluctant understanding.
The stillness thickened until even the air seemed to bow beneath it. Then Thorne's eyes darkened, slow and dangerous , and though his lips did not move, every man in the hall felt it: the decision had already begun.
Night had not yet fallen, but the corridors of Asteria's palace were dim, the daylight dulled by the dust of war. The council chamber lay deep within the west wing, its tall windows shuttered, the scent of wax and iron heavy in the air.
King Thorne stood over a broad table strewn with maps , rivers inked in red, cities marked with black crosses. His crown lay beside him, forgotten. Lord Alaric stood opposite, tense and unyielding, his gloved hands pressed against the table's edge.
Prince Ryker leaned against the window frame, the faint light drawing sharp lines across his face. "The court's list grows longer by the hour," he muttered. "They would trade anything for mercy."
"Read it," Thorne said.
From a scroll beside him, Alaric read aloud, his tone clipped. "Ten chests of gold from House Drenn, the emerald scepter of Marowen, the heirlooms of House Erane , rings, seals, relics. Even the northern vineyards, offered as tribute." He paused. "All to be presented as tokens of surrender."
Thorne's gaze darkened. "Trinkets," he said coldly. "No empire ever stopped its march for wine or jewels."
"Still," Alaric replied, "in the old treaties of the Eastern Wars, such gifts spared the conquered their crowns. When the Kings of Braen fell, they sent their swords and their firstborn rings. Varcia accepted."
"That was mercy bought by pride," Ryker said. "Bani doesn't trade in mercy. He trades in conquest."
A heavy silence fell. The lamps hissed faintly as their oil burned low.
General Valtor stepped from the shadows near the far wall, his armor catching the faint light. "Then we give him what he truly seeks," he said. "Not trinkets, not coin, glory. Let him claim triumph, not treasure."
Thorne's head turned slightly. "You mean to stage our surrender?"
Valtor nodded once. "Not surrender, Majesty , theater. Let Varcia march into Asteria's gates to cheers, not defiance. Let him believe he conquered a willing people. We keep our lives, our thrones, and he gains his tale of victory. He will want his legend written more than he wants our ashes."
Ryker frowned. "You would humiliate us to spare the city?"
Valtor met his gaze. "I would bury our pride so our children can see daylight. Pride won't rebuild what fire destroys."
Alaric's expression tightened. "And if he refuses such a farce?"
Thorne's eyes flicked to the map , to the red lines encircling the capital. "Then we remind him that Asteria has teeth left to show." His voice lowered. "But if glory is what the King of Varcia desires most, then we will make him choke on it."
Ryker exhaled through his nose, the edge in his voice softening. "We'll need to choose our offerings carefully. Something ancient, symbolic. The Emerald Scepter, perhaps."
Alaric nodded. "And the Keys of Ellarion , the founders' relics. Every chronicler knows their story."
"Those keys opened Asteria's first gates," Thorne said quietly. "If they pass into Varcia's hands, history will mark us as the ones who bowed."
"Or the ones who endured," Valtor countered. "It depends who writes the tale."
For a long moment, no one spoke. The only sound was the soft scratch of the quill in the adjoining room , the royal courtier still cataloging their losses.
Thorne's palm came down flat against the table. "Then it's settled," he said. The goblet beside him toppled, and red wine spread like blood across the inked rivers of Asteria.
From the far wall came a faint, muffled sound , a shuffle, a breath. Ryker turned, brow furrowing. "Did you hear that?"
Alaric's eyes followed. The lamplight flickered against the old stone. Nothing moved.
"Old walls," Thorne said at last, his tone low, dismissive. "They creak with ghosts of better days." He turned back to the table. "We end this tonight. Ryker, you and Valtor, see to the armories. Alaric, seal the lower gates. No one leaves the city without my word."
They bowed in unison. "Yes, Your Majesty."
Behind the wall, unseen, a quiet gasp slipped through a hole in the dark.
In the neighboring chamber, Princess Ava's pulse quickened, her breath catching as the wine crept across the maps , and she realized she had just heard the words that would seal Asteria's fate.
The queen's chamber was dim with the gold hush of nightfall. The scent of lavender battling the stale air of war. Queen Venice sat beside the hearth, her fingers worrying the edge of a folded handkerchief. When the door opened, she rose at once , though the look on Thorne's face halted her before she spoke.
"Don't," he said quietly. His voice was lower than she remembered it ever being. "You already know."
Her lips trembled. "Tell me I'm wrong."
He crossed the room, the faint firelight cutting across his face like old scars. "Valtor's plan is the only one that spares what's left of Asteria."
Her eyes widened, the light catching in them like fractured glass. "Spares?" she breathed. "You mean trades."
Thorne's jaw tightened. "No. It buys us time. It gives Varcia their triumph without slaughtering our people."
"And the price?" Venice whispered. "What will you give them to make it look like conquest?"
From behind the wall, unseen, a shadow shifted , small fingers pressed against the grain of the wood. Princess Ava held her breath, her ear close to the faintest seam between panels.
Thorne's silence weighed heavy. Then, softly: "An offering of surrender , relics, tokens, symbols of our line… and a hostage of blood."
Venice's eyes widened, the handkerchief trembling in her grasp. "A hostage?" Her voice barely formed the word. "You mean, "
His reply came low, reluctant. "Princess Aria. Varcia will see her as a token of goodwill, of peace."
Venice recoiled as though struck. "She is a child, Thorne. Our child. You would also send our ancestor's blade? The Crown's seal? These are not gifts, Thorne. They are our history."
He looked at her then, steady but hollow. "History won't matter if there is no one left to remember it."
"You would sacrifice our pride," Venice whispered, stepping closer, "to spare a crown of ashes."
He turned back to her, eyes burning. "I would sacrifice anything to keep their swords from our children's throats."
The handkerchief slipped from her grasp, fluttering to the floor like a fallen leaf.
For a long moment, neither moved. Only the hearth crackled, low and uncertain.
Then Thorne's tone softened, almost breaking. "When this is done, you must keep the children inside. The city will not look kindly on mercy."
Behind the wall, Ava's pulse raced. She pressed closer, her small body trembling, the words cutting deep into her chest.
Venice's tears glistened as she whispered, "You speak as if mercy is a sin."
Thorne's reply came cold, final. "In times like these , it is."
He turned to leave. The door shut with a sound that seemed to close more than a room.
Ava stumbled back from the wall, eyes wide, her heartbeat echoing in her ears , realizing she had just overheard the beginning of Asteria's end.
In the dim corridor, Ava froze as a shadow moved behind her , Ryker's voice, low and sharp: "Who's there?" He stepped closer, his gaze catching her in the half-light. For a breath, suspicion flickered , then faded as he frowned. "Ava? You shouldn't be here." His tone softened, wary but dismissive. "Go back to your
chambers."
Ava nodded quickly, retreating into the dark, her heart still thundering as his shadow lingered where she'd stood.