The great hall of the conquered Asterian city of Yorkstone smelled of wet stone and burning tallow. Tapestries that once celebrated harvests hung slashed and dulled. Torches guttered in iron sconces as the procession halted before the raised dais where King Bani sat, tall even in stillness, his chiseled form clad in blackened steel. Dark hair, dyed to conceal the white once streaking his temples, framed a face hewn from granite. His red eyes, sharp and unrelenting, cut through the dim like a predator's gaze. He did not lift a hand.
A pale eunuch stepped from the shadow at Bani's side, slender as a reed and graceful in his deference. Bowing low, he accepted the sealed scroll from the envoy's trembling hands and turned toward the throne. The crimson wax bore the silver falcon of Asteria, circled in fading crimson, a mark Bani recognized at once.
The envoy spoke, voice thin with strain. "From Asteria, Your Majesty: a pledge for peace."
With a faint motion of his fingers, he signaled the eunuch to read it aloud.
The eunuch bowed again, cracked the wax seal with a polished nail, and unrolled the scroll before the gathered court. His voice, smooth and practiced, carried clearly through the vaulted hall.
" 'To His Majesty, King Bani of Varcia,'" he began, the cadence formal yet heavy. " 'In the name of Asteria and for the preservation of her people, we lay our tribute before your throne.'"
He glanced briefly at Bani, who gave a slight tilt of his head, permission to continue.
" 'First, the Diadem of the Holy Mother , once worn by the mother of our first king , symbol of divine right and the soul of Asteria's crown, now surrendered to yours.'"
A ripple stirred among the courtiers, but the eunuch read on.
" 'Second, the keys to Lecuvian Castle, our oldest stronghold and final bastion of defense, delivered into your hand as proof that no wall stands against you.'"
He unrolled the parchment a little further.
" 'Third, the war banner of Asteria, once lifted in defiance, now lowered forever, to mark the end of our resistance.'"
The torches hissed faintly as his voice filled the silence.
" 'Fourth, the sword of King Thorne , shattered upon our defeat, offered in acknowledgment that our reign is broken and our will subdued.'"
He drew a slow breath.
" 'Fifth, the treasure thrice multiplied, gold once refused by you, now returned threefold, as repentance for pride.'"
The words fell like coins on stone.
" 'Sixth, a stallion from the royal stables, pride of Asteria's breed, swift, untamed, a gift to your command.'"
He paused only long enough to steady the parchment.
" 'Seventh, chains and shackles, to show that we accept our bondage willingly, lest more blood be drawn.'"
The hall was still but for the crackle of fire.
" 'Eighth, the royal signet ring of Asteria , once the seal of our authority, now proof that no hand in Asteria signs without your leave.'"
Then his tone softened, though his voice did not falter.
" 'And ninth, an Hostage of blood, Princess Aria of Asteria, veiled and given into your mercy, to stand as living promise of our obedience.'"
The eunuch lowered the scroll and bowed deeply. The silence that followed was long and sharp enough to cut through air, until Bani's fingers shifted once upon the armrest, a small, unreadable motion that made every man in the hall draw breath again.
A murmur rippled through the hall, sharp, startled, then swiftly swallowed into uneasy silence. Lord Renard, standing just below the dais, drew a slow, tense breath. His voice came low but taut, carrying enough weight to reach every corner of the chamber.
"They would place a princess beneath our roof," he said, each word measured, strained with disbelief. "They've laid down not only their pride… but their strength."
The words hung in the air, fragile as glass.
The eunuch inclined his head slightly, his tone quiet but clear. "So the letter declares, Lord Renard," he said, folding the parchment with care. "And their offering stands before His Majesty, as written."
The hall fell silent once more, heavy, waiting.
At King Bani's faint gesture, the Varcian attendants stepped forward. The chests were lowered before the dais, their iron clasps groaning as the lids were lifted. A muted gleam filled the vast hall, gold, silk, and steel, catching the pale light that pierced the grey sky through a single high window. Dust drifted in the beam like falling ash, settling over the relics of surrender.
When the last chest stood open, a hush fell. From the hall's archway, another procession entered, slower, deliberate, heavy with meaning. Four attendants carried a palanquin draped in black silk, its curtain drawn low. The sound of their footsteps echoed against the marble, steady as a heartbeat.
They reached the foot of the dais and stopped. At a signal, one of the attendants lifted the curtain.
Within, Princess Aria sat motionless. The sunlight from the high window brushed her face, bronze skin dulled by fatigue, a veil shadowing her features. A lock of dark hair slipped free from beneath it, a streak of white glinting faintly like a scar of light. Her red eyes, half-hidden, flickered once across the hall, calm, poised, almost serene to the watching crowd; yet beneath that practiced stillness, fear trembled like a pulse. From the dais, King Bani's gaze lingered, seeing not the mask, but the terror it fought to conceal.
The air seemed to tighten. Even the torches burned quieter.
She was the final tribute, living, silent, and veiled in her kingdom's defeat.
Lord Renard bent forward, whispering, "This is no simple tribute. They strip themselves bare," he said in amazement.
Bani's fingers shifted barely, a slight motion against the armrest, almost imperceptible yet carrying the weight of command. The eunuch inclined his head at once, bowing slightly as if to catch a whispered order.
Lord Renard remained silent, his head bowed as the hall held its breath.
Before the dais, attendants lifted each offering from its chest and laid it upon a long table veiled in crimson cloth.
The Diadem of the Holy Mother, once radiant, now dulled by age, caught a narrow blade of sunlight from the high window.
The Bronze Keys to Lecuvian Castle clinked softly as they were set down, heavy with the weight of surrender.
The tattered war banner of Asteria followed, its edges frayed, its colors faded to mourning.
Next came King Thorne's regal sword, broken clean through, a king's defiance split in half.
Then the threefold gold, gleaming in stacked bars, the same treasure Bani had once refused, now multiplied in shame.
The stallion's bridle, polished and proud, lay beside it, a token of Asteria's former glory.
The iron chains and shackles were placed next, the clang echoing like a sentence.
Then, a velvet case was opened to reveal Thorne's royal signet ring, the symbol of rule, stripped from his own hand.
And at last, all eyes turned to the final tribute: the living one.
The palanquin was lowered, its bearers trembling.
The eunuch inclined his head toward King Bani, awaiting the slightest sign. The king gave a faint nod, a gesture so measured it seemed carved from restraint.
After a heartbeat, the eunuch spoke, his tone carrying the quiet weight of Bani's intent.
"His Majesty acknowledges the tribute… but judgment will come in its own hour."
The hall remained still, neither acceptance nor rejection, only the chilling patience of a ruler who never rushed to mercy.
The great hall of Asteria lay drowned in silence. The air was thick with the scent of extinguished candles and dust, the banners hanging limp as if mourning.
The envoys entered with slow, defeated steps. One by one, their attendants placed the emptied chests before the throne, golden lids flung wide, their wax seals broken, the crest of Asteria smeared beyond recognition.
King Thorne rose from his throne as a courier knelt before him, head bowed, offering a sealed letter upon both palms. The king accepted it with deliberate calm, though his fingers betrayed a faint tremor. Veins pressed sharp beneath his skin as he broke the seal, unfolding the parchment with studied composure. Only one line met his eyes, written in an elegant yet merciless hand.
"Your gold weighs less than your guilt."
The words seemed to pulse on the page, searing into his thoughts. His grip tightened until the parchment crumpled. For a long moment, no one breathed.
Lord Alaric, standing just below the dias, felt the tremor of restrained rage in his king's shoulders. His own voice came rough, nearly a growl.
"This," he said, each syllable heavy with venom, "is how Varcia extends its mercy."
No one dared reply. The courtiers stared at the stripped chests, symbols of a kingdom's pride undone. The silence deepened, thick and airless, as though even the walls held their breath.
The great doors burst open, and a young messenger dashed into the courtroom, his boots scraping harshly against the stone. Breathless and wide-eyed, he halted before the throne, disbelief flickering through the fatigue etched across his face.
"Your Majesty, Varcia is withdrawing its army," he gasped.
A ripple of shock swept through the court, whispers rose and died.
King Thorne did not move. His gaze lifted slowly from the crumpled letter to the far window where the light bled gray through the storm clouds.
The carriage wheels clattered over the cobbled road, their echo swallowed by the towering walls of Varcia's capital city, 'Ravalé'. The Iron Gate stood before her, vast, ancient, and gleaming beneath the pale morning light. Its bronze teeth parted slowly, grinding like the breath of something old and weary.
Princess Aria sat rigid within the carriage, hands clenched in her lap. Through the narrow window, she caught her first glimpse of the city beyond, streets too clean, banners too perfect, the air heavy with order. The silence outside unnerved her more than any shout of hatred could. Even the soldiers standing in formation by the gate did not turn their heads. Their faces were carved from the same stone that built the walls.
The carriage rolled to a halt in the Palace, its final creak fading into the still air. Asteria's escort dismounted in silence, their faces drawn and grave. One of them stepped forward, hesitating only a moment before opening the carriage door.
"Your Highness," he said quietly, bowing his head as he extended a gloved hand. His tone held the weight of farewell more than courtesy.
Then, with composed grace, she placed her hand in his and stepped down. Her boots touched the cold stones of Varcia's gate road, the sound sharp against the hush.
The wind stirred, lifting the edge of her dark veil. A flicker of crimson glinted beneath, her eyes calm on the surface, yet shadowed by dread. The soldiers who lined the road did not move. Their silence was absolute, their stares indifferent, as though she were a ghost passing through their world.
The escort released her hand and stepped back, his bow deep and final. "By command," he murmured, voice barely steady, "our duty ends here, Your Highness."
Before she could speak, they turned away, mounting their horses and riding through the gates they had just crossed. The Iron Gate shuddered closed behind them, sealing her inside Varcia's heart, utterly alone.
A company of Varcian guards awaited her in precise formation, their armor dark and immaculate, their faces expressionless beneath their helms. One stepped forward, striking his chest with a fist in formal salute, not warmth, but duty.
Behind them, a cluster of silent palace servants emerged, heads bowed, gestures measured. Without a word, they motioned for her to follow.
Aria lifted her chin, gathering her veil as she stepped forward, her first walk beneath Varcia's cold sun, toward the palace that now claimed her fate.
Above, from the marble balcony of the royal palace, a shadow stirred, a tall figure standing half in light, half in darkness. His gaze locked on the veiled woman below, cold and unyielding. The faint glimmer of his eyes caught the sun, burning like winter fire.
King Bani watched as the Princess of Asteria took her first step into his domain.
His lips curved, just barely, into an unreadable, knowing smile.