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Clément was chasing a rabbit through the damp underbrush, panting as he pushed past the branches.
Behind him came Uncle Spencer, leading a small hunting party made up of a few retainers and the Lord Regent—or as Clément called him, Uncle Spencer—who always wore his leather armor.
Mama said he was my tutor.
I didn’t understand why it couldn’t be Lord Jozelin instead. He looked stronger, always clad in his shining armor. He’d even given me a forged axe for my birthday.
Something must have bothered him, because I overheard him speaking with Mama about my education.
“That man? That servant of the royal house is going to train him? No, Guine. I’ll do it. For you.”
He didn’t seem to like Jozelin very much. And he said he was going to train me now.
An arm—he said. I moved my shoulder.
“Aim, boy,” he said, handing me the knives.
I raised them. I threw.
The knife whistled through the air.
The rabbit twitched its ear—and dodged.
“Again, boy.”
I shivered.
There was something about Uncle Spencer’s smile that always made me nervous.
Like he always knew more than he let on.
Uncle Spencer made me walk alongside the black hound.
I didn’t understand why we hadn’t gone back to the castle—something about my brother Benout and some place he had to reach later.
“Focus, boy,” he murmured, his hand tightening on my shoulder.
“The rabbit is over there.”
I saw it. Spencer handed me the knives again.
I tried to creep closer, but a twig snapped beneath my foot.
“Do it.”
I threw. The knife stuck in the dirt; the rabbit shrieked and bolted, blood already dripping as the dog lunged after it.
“Catch it before the hound does, or we start over,” Spencer said.
“What?”
“Go. Or do you expect someone to kill for you your whole life? Run.”
I ran—through thickets and brambles—unsure whether I wanted to catch the rabbit or flee from him so he’d leave me alone.
I lost my sense of direction. Then I heard the barking again and followed it.
I tripped and watched the dog disappear into a cave.
“Damn,” I muttered, getting back to my feet—just as a voice called:
“Hey… I wouldn’t go in there.”
I turned. Another boy stood behind me.
“Hello.”
“Hi,” I answered, confused.
“Who are you?”
“I’m Clément… Clément von Seignon.”
“Pierre,” he said. “And I’m telling you—don’t go in. It’s pitch-black.”
I looked toward the cave.
“If I don’t, Uncle Spencer will make me hunt two more days,” I said.
“So what are you going to do?”
We both spun around as Spencer approached.
“Well, Clément,” he called, “what’s it going to be? Climb down yourself, or order this peasant to do it for you?”
“His name is Pierre,” I muttered.
Spencer fixed Pierre with a stare; Pierre fell silent. Then he turned that smile on me—the one that always unsettled me.
“Uncle… can’t you go?”
“We can spend two more days riding, if you prefer,” he replied.
I clenched my fists—I wanted to be back at the castle.
“Fine.”
I grabbed the daggers and began to descend into the cavern.
Clément — Stupid Uncle Spencer… Why this?
Oh, of course—it’s about my brother. He was planning an expedition.
Benout, going hunting near the border.
Spencer promised to go with him.
And I told him I wanted to come too.
So instead, he brought me here.
Not to Bassons.
Just here.
I heard an anguished bark and hurried over.
The black hound was sprawled on her side—she was giving birth. I realized she’d been pregnant all along, and Uncle Spencer hadn’t known. Blood was everywhere; the rabbit lay dead beside her. Then the hound went silent.
“No, no, don’t die,” I whispered through tears.
A single pup struggled to emerge, suffocating. I remembered what my brother Ansfrei once told me about dogs: the mother breaks the sack and cleans them.
I clenched my fists, slipped my knife in, and opened her belly. I lifted the pup out, peeled away the membrane, and cut the umbilical cord just as Ansfrei had explained.
I meant to climb back up immediately, but paused and grabbed the rabbit’s carcass too.
Ugh—the smell was awful, coppery. My hands were coated in blood.
The climb was awkward; I had to leave something behind, but I wouldn’t abandon the pup.
Stubbornly, I crawled upward until at last I reached the top—and saw Uncle Spencer waiting for me.
When I reached the top, the sunset sky blinded me for an instant.
Spencer was waiting, calm, with Pierre standing behind him.
“Did you get it?” he asked.
I showed him the rabbit. His eyes dropped to the small bundle beating in my hands.
“And that?”
“Her pup. I wasn’t going to let it die.”
Spencer smiled—that smile that always unnerved me.
“Sometimes,” he said slowly, “a king needs a faithful dog.”
Then he turned away.
“Come. We have much to discuss, boy.”
On the way back I glanced around. “What about Pierre?”
“He’s gone,” Spencer said, as if it meant nothing.
I searched for him, sighed, and followed Spencer to camp.
I handed over my knives; Spencer took them and called, “Servants.”
Two armed men tightened their grips on their spears.
“Cook the rabbit,” he ordered, tossing it at their feet.
Then he led me to the lake to clean up.
For a moment I waited, expecting him to wash me the way the servants did at home.
Instead he shoved me head-first into the water.
“Uncle!” I sputtered.
He laughed. “Wash yourself properly. Perhaps you’re not so pathetic after all.”
I snorted, scrubbed off the blood, and pulled on my usual clothes—still filthy after two days in the woods.
Spencer glanced at me. “So the bitch was pregnant.”
I nodded. “Yes. I—I had to open her.”
He turned, one eyebrow arched. “You really opened the belly?”
I nodded again.
“It gets easier with time,” he said, “with all kinds of animals.”
“What kinds?” I asked.
“From those on four legs to those on two,” he murmured. “They all bleed the same. You’ll get used to it.”
I held out the pup.
“Truly?” he said, surprised.
I nodded. “Thank you.”
Something lighter slipped into his voice, as though he hadn’t expected that.
“Are you crying?” Spencer asked.
I felt the tears on my cheeks.
“I want my mama,” I whispered.
He looked at me for a moment, then said,
“Well then. You brought the rabbit… and my new little friend,” he added, holding up the pup. “Double prize.”
“We head back in the morning.”
Without thinking, I stumbled forward and threw my arms around him.
The tears kept coming.
I felt his hand settle gently on the back of my head.
Spencer
The boy had potential. Cutting a pup out of a dead dog’s belly—Spencer thought as he glanced at the little thing nestled near Clément while they rode toward Pekward. It was a small castle, surrounded by forests. But without building forts around it, it’d become nothing more than a pretty mausoleum.
He looked at the boy, riding beside him, smiling as if everything were over. Spencer exhaled.
When he comes of age and wears that crown, he’ll thank me.
Or maybe not. Doesn’t matter. He’ll know how to carry it.
The pup whimpered in the satchel tied to Clément’s saddle—as if agreeing with Spencer’s thoughts—while the prince stroked its fur.
They arrived at the gates of the fortress where a small reception awaited them. Spencer’s eyes went to Jozelin, now wearing gold buttons. Well played, bodyguard—going from shadow to captain of the queen’s guard.
Next to him stood Queen Guine. Spencer muttered her name under his breath, watching her untamable hair and the hands clasped nervously behind her back.
Focus, idiot. You didn’t come here to stare—you came to use her.
But he knew that wasn’t entirely true. And that was dangerous.
Then came the sharp crack of a spear butt striking the ground.
“Presenting Lord Regent of Verradant and Prince Clément!” Jozelin announced, gripping his lance tightly.
Spencer dismounted, knowing the game, and bowed. “My lady. The boy caught a rabbit. We ate well. Not bad for a week of hunting.”
“Well, Lord Regent,” the queen said, her voice imperious, though laced with tension. Oh, queen… you love power, but not the social theater it demands.
Clément ran to hug her leg, ignoring protocol. The whims of a child. Such things could be forgiven. Not so for a man.
They entered the courtyard of the keep.
Later, the queen stepped away to speak with Clément. Jozelin approached.
“Training his arm, Lord Spencer? Don’t forget his heart.”
“A soft heart gets pierced,” Spencer replied. “A cold one carries a crown.”
“And ends up empty,” Jozelin said.
Spencer rolled his eyes. This man and his blessed honor. Still—better that than one of the leeches.
He was interrupted.
“Jozelin!” Clément called, tugging his arm. “Mama wants you to escort me!”
Jozelin bowed and followed the boy. Spencer noticed the queen shooting him a look that demanded an explanation.
He rolled his eyes.
That boy will face worse than a dead dog.
—
“Lord Regent,” Guine said. “Come with me.”
They walked through the stone hall and into her private garden—full of exotic trees and a pond filled with fish, a gift from the anti-magic order. What a lovely favor we're returning.
“Why didn’t you tell me you’d make him do something like that?” she asked, her voice taut. “He’s just a boy.”
Spencer couldn’t understand how someone so cold and proud could also be this socially inept. She was beyond him.
“My queen,” he said, “you must understand—he is a king. Gutting a dog is nothing compared to what his brothers—”
“My other sons,” she interrupted.
“Worse, then,” Spencer said, moving toward the pond. “You’ve already chosen your favorite,” he added, folding his arms behind his back.
She pressed her lips into a thin line.
“What was I supposed to do? You know how Chevalie works.”
“Oh yes,” Spencer muttered in his mind, “the lovely system of child division.” Since King Bastione refused to play favorites, the royal heirs had been murdering each other for generations.
“My queen,” he said aloud, “if Clément survives, it won’t be thanks to his tenderness. It'll be because he had the guts to look something dying in the eye… and stab it. Without crying. Well, mostly without crying. And you know it.”
She was about to reply, but they had no time for sentiment.
“How are things on your front?” she asked.
“I appointed Marsuer, as you requested. An Exalter of the Anti-Magic Order,” she replied, dryly.
“Perfect,” Spencer said. “More legitimacy when he takes the throne. No excommunication if one of your other sons steps out of line.”
“I promised Clément to Duke Hucson’s daughter,” she said.
“What?” Spencer snapped. “Do you realize a proper marriage alliance could have opened doors to foreign powers? That could’ve protected him from your other two sons—by sea!”
“You mean the fanatic?” she cut in. “He controls the entire north, yes. But he’s loyal—I’ve tested it. He has no sons, only daughters. My son will inherit everything when he marries the eldest. And she’ll be raised here.”
“Understood, Edgamar,” she said, firmly, and Spencer thought: There’s nothing I can do without risking my position. But it does secure internal control. No revolts from the northern houses if the marriage binds them.
A strategic loss. But a stable one.
“Fine,” he said. She relaxed.
“How are the preparations?” Spencer asked.
“The troops are ready to take that duchess’s fortress,” she said, with a sneer.
“Not fond of new nobility, are you?” Spencer teased.
She ignored the jab. “You need to go,” she said, her voice briefly betraying its usual frost.
“Guine,” he said softly.
She stiffened at the nickname.
“I must take that fortress. It’s our gateway to King Bernot’s kingdom. If he takes it first, he has a road into ours. Ascelina’s spies already say he’s on the move.”
“I’ll get ready,” Spencer said as he turned to go.
He felt her hand on his shoulder—a shiver down his spine.
“Yes?”
She handed him a handkerchief.
“For the blood,” she said. Then returned into the castle.
How the hell did I end up on this godsforsaken hill?
Oh right—my brilliant idea to take Bassons, to carve a path straight toward Porte de la Bastione. That duchess’s damn fortress would’ve opened the way—by land or sea—like a window into the capital. A proper army of lancers, knights, and levied infantry could’ve marched straight through.
Didn’t matter who held the pass; they held the door to the other kingdom. Damn geography. The brat’s kingdom, Varrdevett, sat right in the middle—wedged between Bastione and Ruhr, which just so happened to be ruled by his brothers.
And now here I am, stuck on a hill twenty kilometers from the fortress I came to besiege, because King Bernout’s army beat me to it. Took the initiative. Took me by surprise.
Forced me up this hill.
Luckily, there’s only one way up—and it’ll cost them dearly in blood. But what did I expect? I came with just two thousand men, planning to take a stronghold—not to face the entire royal host of Bastione, five thousand strong.
“What do we do, Lord Regent?”
The voice cracked—fear bleeding through the words.
“Ah, Duchess Arcellina,” I said, “seems there was a slight failure in your intelligence. Your little birds didn’t warn us about the army.”
“My lord,” she replied quickly, “I did warn you an army was coming. Just… not this fast.”
I looked at her. She bowed, just slightly.
Good. She lacked ambition, which was a mercy.
Arcellina of House Fidech—built like a tree stump, the political cunning of a frightened hare, and still one of the most dangerous women in the realm… because she’d never risk doing anything on her own.
“But we did get another prize,” I said, glancing at the woman shackled on the far edge of the camp. The Duchess of Bassons. Caught like a fox in the brush.
I should’ve known something was off when we stumbled upon her ducal army in the woods of Regessex. I thought it was an ambush—but no. It was the remnants.
It’s been forty-eight hours now. The royal army has been camped at the base of this hill the whole time.
And I can smell roasted meat.
Smart move by the boy king—cooking where we can all see and smell it.
It only serves one purpose: Demoralization.
As she approached, I had to admit—she cut a striking figure. Imposing. Beautiful.
But her hands told a different story.
Like I told Guine… this new nobility, you could still see the plebeian in them.
I pushed the thought aside.
“Do you always feel better with women bound, Lord Regent?” she asked.
“Not just you, Duchess Mélise.”
“It’s Duchess,” she snapped.
Arcellina scoffed. “She won’t be more than meat for the men if she doesn’t help us out of this.”
“Why should I?” Mélise shot back, looking around at my guards. “Your men already sniff the stew down below while up here they chew on horse meat.”
“Men like their meat hot or cold,” I replied, without blinking.
“Lord Spencer!” Arcellina gasped.
I grabbed the duchess by the shoulder as she recoiled, thinking I’d throw her over the cliff.
I leaned in close and whispered:
“Listen carefully, Mélie. You have four paths.”
She stiffened.
“One: when the rations run out, you’ll share a tent with starving, furious soldiers. Believe me, you won’t like that one.
Two: we hand you over to the royalists. You’ll be a beggar again, like your ancestors.
Three: I let my men do whatever they want with you. At this point, no one gives a damn about your bloodline.”
She clenched her jaw.
“There’s a fourth?” she asked.
“There is. You tell us how to scale down this hill. How to reach the forest. How to find reinforcements. And I swear, as Lord Regent of Verredevet, everything will be restored to you.”
Silence.
“Under the rule of that child… Clement?” she whispered.
I nodded.
“I’m betting on him.”
She nodded too. Very, very slowly.
Then she said, “There are dry vines on this hill. We can cut and bind them—make ropes. But it’ll have to be a small group. Armor makes too much noise… and they’re camped right below us.”
“That’s why you two will go,” I said.
Arcellina and Mélie looked at me—one with disbelief, the other calculating.
“And to what do we owe the honor, Lord Regent?” Arcellina asked. Even through her helmet, I could swear she was smirking with disbelief. “Afraid we’ll run?”
“She—” I pointed to the duchess “—knows these lands. And if she runs… she’s a nobody again.”
I knew it. That look in her eyes… once someone tastes power, nothing else ever satisfies them the same.
“And you,” I added, “you’re going because if the men start losing hope, I don’t want anyone trying anything with you.”
Arcellina said nothing. But her shoulders eased slightly. Coiled tension, loosening.
She understood. And she was relieved. A mutiny was off the table—for her.
“And what am I supposed to do if we reach the bottom?” asked Mélie, still testing me.
“You’ll swear fealty to the true king of Chevalie,” I answered. “And you’ll do it in front of witnesses. That legally obliges Valdorent to send reinforcements—to protect its vassal. And Arcellina, as the king’s Whisperer, will give him the legitimacy to act.”
Mélie didn’t argue. Not out loud.
I clapped my hands once.
“Good. You understand.” “Men!” The whole camp fell silent.
“There are dry vines on this hill. We’re going to cut and bind them. We’ll send a group down the backside to fetch reinforcements.”
The soldiers listened intently. In moments like this, it’s not charisma that saves you. It’s the guy with a plan. That’s always better than nothing.
“Move, move!” I shouted.
For hours, the crack of dry wood and splintering bark echoed through the air. Hands turned red, calloused. The smell of sweat mixed with waiting. Tension. Until finally, we had two ropes of twisted vine, strong enough to carry a desperate descent.
Now came the hard part—convincing the men.
“Someone’s coming! White banner!” a lancer shouted.
All eyes turned. I stepped forward.
“Form ranks. No weakness. You are the guardians of the true King of Chevalie!”
They roared in unison.
I nodded toward the two descending women.
Thank you, King Bernout, I thought, you just saved me a very long explanation.
We waited for the messenger. “Lord Regent,” said the royal envoy, “His Majesty Bernout invites you and your commanders to dine with him tonight—as a gesture of courtesy between Chevalien knights.”
A thick silence spread across the hilltop.
One of my captains leaned in, whispering:
“It’s a trap. Don’t go.”
I looked down into the valley—five thousand men, feasting and singing under bright banners. Roast meat smoke curled upward like a mocking finger.
“No,” I said at last. “It’s an opportunity.”
The captain blinked, stunned.
“If we die,” I added, “let it be with hot bread in our mouths and meat between our teeth. And if we don’t… we’ll have seen the king’s eyes. And maybe—just maybe—he’ll have seen ours.”
“And if it’s poison?”
“Then we’ll be martyrs. And the bards will write the story I want them to tell.”
I adjusted my belt, turned, and gave the order:
“Prepare the men. We’re going down.” Jozelin Pam ¡ The prince was striking at my squire in the training yard, his armor clanging with each blow.
He was clearly tired—his breathing ragged, his sweat dripping. I could see it in the way his shoulders heaved.
Guneide was a capable girl, no doubt used to carrying sacks of flour before I found her. She was fair in her judgment; she told the prince she'd beat him in a sparring match—and so far, she wasn’t disappointing.
Pam! She pushed him back harder.
"Use your head, boy!" I called out. "Don’t let fear take over—or she’ll kill you."
I watched him turn inward, slipping past that edge of panic. “If he doesn't learn to think through fear now, he won’t get another chance when the blades are real.”
"Surrender! Maybe the path of a seamstress suits you better, princess," I barked, half in jest.
The prince clenched his training staff, teeth grinding, and lunged forward.
She shoved him back with a grunt.
"Anger only works if you channel it," I said calmly.
The boy was panting hard, but he dodged her next strike and countered with a blow that sent Guneide to the ground. Her eyes welled up with tears, but Clement extended a hand.
"You were incredible," he told her.
She smiled, blood on her lip, and took his hand. I smiled inwardly. He was learning—like a wild wolf, but one that protected his pack. A hard-working child, no doubt.
"Go wash up. I’ll see you both at dinner."
Then I turned to the prince.
"Come with me, Your Highness. I want to review what you did wrong."
Guneide nodded and left without a word.
He came over, panting.
"What did I do wrong?"
“You hesitate. You get nervous with every decision,” I replied. “Your enemies won’t.”
“But… I don’t have enemies. Not yet.”
“You will,” I said. “And you need to be ready.”
“Where are we going?”
“To the chapel,” I told him.
The prince looked at me, confused. “I thought I wasn’t supposed to choose a path until I came of age. My sixteenth onomast.”
I smiled. “We’re not going for that. I’m going to meditate.”
“Sounds boring,” he muttered.
“There will be days, Your Highness,” I said, “when you’ll wish with all your soul that everything were just boring.”
He fell silent. And we walked, side by side, through the halls of the castle toward the royal chapel.
Just as we reached the chapel door, voices echoed from within.
I stopped the boy before we could enter through the side entrance.
“My lady,” said Arcellina, “Spencer sent me. He needs reinforcements to fight the king. We didn’t expect such a force.”
I grabbed the boy by the shoulder—he had frozen in place—and gently pulled him to my side, behind a column.
—“Shh,” I whispered, guiding him with care. We weren’t invited to that mass.
Arcellina’s voice broke the stillness of the temple:
“My lady… Spancer sent me. He needs reinforcements to face the king. We never expected an army this large.”
A creak in the floorboards made us hold our breath.
“Five thousand men,” Arcellina continued, firm. “If we don’t send help, there will be no Lord Regent left. No hill either.”
“And the Ruhr border is completely exposed,” she added with surgical precision. “If the other son makes a move, we won’t be able to stop him.”
“I agree with His Reverence, my queen,” said Huchon, his voice calm but taut. “The eastern frontier cannot be left unguarded. Prince Ansfrei might seize the opportunity.”
Fanatic, I thought. Not out of betrayal, but out of habit.
“My lady, the Duchess of Bassons herself is ready to swear fealty. She’s alive. And she’s with us,” insisted Arcellina.
A brief silence followed.
“She acts out of self-interest,” Queen Guineviere replied coldly—though her voice betrayed a trace of nervousness. “For her bloodline, her lands. Not the crown.”
You could tell the queen was still unsure. Each word weighed with poison and reason.
Beside me, the boy was breathing as though he had run a full league. I placed a hand on his arm and knelt beside him.
He looked at me.
“How was my father?”
I raised an eyebrow—not understanding what that had to do with the current conversation.
Still, I answered, “Your father was a great king, with a multitude of counselors at his side.”
“Then why did he flee?”
“Because he listened too much.”
Damn memories… I’d seen how King Gardfrei fell under that witch’s influence.
“Huh?” he muttered, confused.
“What is it to rule?” I asked, ignoring the way the conversation beyond the column was shifting in the Exalted’s favor.
“What is it to rule?” I repeated, this time more firmly, meeting the boy’s eyes.
He seemed pensive, then said—almost mechanically—“According to the clockmaker, it is the way of the crown. A preordained waypath.”
“To rule,” he continued, “is to steer a ship. To take the helm and make decisions regardless of the selfish desires of your counselors. The only ambitions a king should scheme for are those of the realm and his house.”
I nodded. “But what is ruling to you?”
The voices beyond grew louder—shouts rising.
“To rule…” he said, clenching his fists, “…is for me to steer the ship—and everyone else to row. Not the other way around.”
He stared at me, eyes blazing with new resolve.
“And what will you do, my king?” I asked.
He looked at me then—and for the first time, I saw it. Not the eyes of a child begging—but of a sovereign commanding.
“Announce me,” he said, cold and calm.
“Announce the King.”
I nodded, stunned.
I stepped forward with slow, deliberate steps. The three in conversation fell silent as I spoke:
“King Clément the First of Varredevet makes his presence known—to hear the case brought by Whisperer Duchess Arcellina.”
“How dare you speak to the Exalted like that, Sir Jozelin!” snapped Huchon, more offended by my tone toward the holy man than by my interruption.
I ignored him. The king had arrived.
“Clément, what are you doing here?” asked his mother—her tone not scolding, but curious, almost intrigued by what her son might say.
Strong woman, I murmured inwardly. She never loses her poise.
The sound of small leather boots echoed in the chamber. He wore no crown, but his training armor clinked with every step as he looked toward Arcellina.
“What is your request?” he asked, his voice calm but steady.
“My king, you should be resting,” Huchon interjected quickly, more worried about his son-in-law than about the realm.
More concerned for his own bloodline than the kingdom. Fanatic fool, I thought bitterly.
Clément gave me a subtle nod. I raised the butt of my spear and struck it against the floor with a sharp bam.
Murseur turned to face the young king, wearing that serpent’s smile of his. “As you can see, my king,” he said smoothly, “we cannot send—”
“Silence.” Bam. I struck the floor again. The sound cut through the chapel like a blade. Even Arcellina flinched.
“Whisperer of the realm,” Clément said, “state your petition.”
Arcellina, seizing the moment, stepped forward and lowered her head.
“My king… the Duchess of Bassons is alive. She is here, and she wishes to swear fealty.”
Well played, Spencer.
With that move, Valdorent would be forced to send reinforcements. A dangerous play… but he knew exactly where the hen lays her eggs, even when caught inside the coop.
“Then… the realm shall hear.”
He paused. “And the realm shall answer.”
“And who speaks for the realm?” someone asked—perhaps Marsereur.
Clément didn’t blink.
“I do.”
The Exalted made a grimace. Huchon had to swallow his words with bitterness, but he couldn’t call the King—a man married to his daughter—a blasphemer. His house had much to gain from that match.
And the Queen… she was watching with a glint of approval. Or was it relief? Who knows.
“Let her in,” she said.
And then I saw her. She did look regal—leather breastplate, sword at her hip—but I could tell. She had the same posture as Guine, my squire. One of those girls from a wealthy merchant family who clawed their way into a title. Not impossible.
King Clément looked at her as she approached, studying him in turn.
I tapped my staff. Pam.
“Kneel before your king.”
She didn’t even look at me.
I sighed.
Clément and the duchess locked eyes. The room thickened with tension.
Then, slowly, she dropped to her knees and extended her hands.
The boy took them.
She began the oath:
To serve in war.
To keep secrets and loyalty.
To never betray or ally with the enemies of her liege.
“I swear. I swear. I swear,” she repeated, eyes lowered, forehead nearly to the floor.
Then the King raised her chin, kissed her on the cheek, and held out his crown.
She kissed it.
“Then, Mother,” he said, turning toward the Queen, “open the treasury. Hire mercenaries.
If the eastern frontier worries you so much, let’s secure it.”
He glanced at the Exalted.
The Queen looked at her son. Was that gratitude in her eyes? Maybe.
She’s a shrewd politician. Overreading her expressions is always a mistake.
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