Laury arrived at the castle at dawn.
He did not wait for ceremonies. He did not bow. He did not ask permission.
The moment he entered the meeting room and saw the queen, he said simply,
"I need to see the soldiers."
Margret did not argue.
In that instant, she knew—she had chosen the right man.
She led him through the corridors, past stone walls that had witnessed centuries of false power, until they reached the training grounds.
Laury stopped.
He stared.
Before him stood the army of Salvania.
Thin bodies. Weak posture. Eyes that avoided confrontation as if strength itself were an unfamiliar language. These were not warriors. These were men trained to obey, not to fight.
Laury exhaled slowly.
Without a word, he reached for a weapon and turned back to them.
"Send me your best soldier," he said.
Silence.
Then, hesitantly, one man stepped forward—clearly chosen not for skill, but because no one else wanted to try.
Laury did not even give him time to prepare.
Two seconds.
That was all it took.
In a single movement, Laury had disarmed him, his blade resting gently—but unmistakably—against the soldier's neck. The man froze, eyes wide… then promptly fainted.
He collapsed forward, landing against Laury's shoulder.
The training ground fell silent.
Someone coughed.
The soldier's face turned red even in unconsciousness.
Laury slowly lifted his gaze and looked straight at the queen.
"We will need a miracle," he said calmly, "with these."
Margret pressed her lips together.
Then—against her own fear—she smiled.
Because beneath the humor, beneath the embarrassment, she understood the truth:
At least now, it was finally honest.
And honesty, she knew, was the first step toward dignity.