CHAPTER 390: THE QUEEN’S GAMBIT

The next morning, spurred by Helga’s quiet but firm insistence, Reuben convened his inner council to the stone chamber buried beneath the citadel—a narrow, torch-lit room with no windows and fewer secrets. The air was thick with dampness and old dust, the walls echoing the quiet dread that had begun to settle over Northem.

Duval arrived first, pale and tight-lipped, shadows beneath his eyes betraying a night of unrest. He clutched his weather-stained coat close to his chest, as though the intelligence he carried was not merely valuable, but volatile. Moments later, Malik came with his son Espiyor, their boots heavy on the stone floor, weariness carved into their features after a sleepless vigil at the eastern front.

Last came Solanio, unhurried and unnervingly at ease, his embroidered cloak swirling behind him like a banner of indifference. He swept into the room with a half-smile, as though the growing storm beyond Northem’s walls was little more than a show to him.

Helga stood near the stone table at the chamber’s center, silent for a beat, waiting. Five minutes passed. Then, with deliberate steps and the weight of legacy, the patriarchs of the Barson clan entered. Time had bent their spines and paled their skin, but their eyes still held steel.

"Father. Grandpa," Helga said with a respectful nod.

"Great-Grandpa. Grandpa," Reuben echoed.

The rest of the room dipped their heads in quiet deference.

"Begin," Helga commanded, her voice slicing through the stillness.

Duval stepped forward, his voice barely above a whisper. "There’s been a breach. Word has reached us that the joint forces of Estalis and Zura sent to Fereya are nothing more than a diversion. Their true target is Savadra. And more—" he hesitated. "The King of Estalis was found dead in his bed... over a week ago. His son, who married a Zuran princess, now wears the crown."

Silence cracked like a whip.

"What?" Reuben barked, stunned. "He died last week—and we only hear of it now?"

Duval lowered his gaze, saying nothing.

The elder Barson, his voice gravelly with age, asked, "How did this information reach you?"

Duval’s mouth tightened. He glanced sideways at Helga’s father—his uncle—whose stare was like a blade at his throat. Reluctantly, he answered.

"An arrow struck a post in our camp. It carried a note. The archer—whoever they were—never revealed themselves."

He did not admit the truth—that he and several commanders had been meeting in that very moment, unaware of any threat. The implications were damning. Had the arrow carried death instead of a message, they would not be standing now.

"A precise shot," the old patriarch murmured.

"Is it from, the camp of General Odin?"

Duval swallowed. "I... cannot say, Grandpa. Perhaps. But it might have been someone else."

The old man gave a raspy chuckle. "Who else but Odin? And if not him... then it should be Alaric."

Color rose to Duval’s cheeks.

Helga stepped closer to the table, arms folded. "We’ve since confirmed the king’s death. The palace claims illness took him, but the timing and silence are too convenient."

A heavy silence fell over the room again, each man grappling with the implications: betrayal, succession, and war—closer now than ever.

"Did you check the authenticity of the report? What if it is a ruse to mislead us?"

"Yes,we validated it your Majesty , and confirmed that the King of Estalis died a week ago. Our spy said he was murdered by his own son."

Helga and Reuben exchanged glances. Guilt written on their faces.

The torchlight flickered as the silence stretched, coiling like smoke in the stale chamber air. Then, with a sudden, sharp thump of his cane against the stone floor, the patriarch exploded.

"Damn fools!" His voice, gravel and thunder, bounced off the walls. "We sit here reacting—like farmers chasing rats after the granary’s been ransacked! A king died, a crown shifts to Zura’s lap, and no one in this room saw it coming?"

Duval flinched. Even Malik looked away. Only Solanio remained motionless, examining his fingernails.

"We have eyes and ears in every outpost, every corridor of power, and yet a man with a bride slips past us and poisons the board." The patriarch’s voice shook, not with weakness, but with rage. "I built this house on strategy and watchfulness. Now I see nothing but complacency and incompetence."

Reuben stepped forward, chest rising. His temper, like his blood, burned fast and red.

"Let me ride for Northem myself," he said, his jaw set like iron. "Give me fifty thousand men. If they think Northem weak, I’ll teach them fear before dawn. They won’t set foot in the capital..."

"You’ll ride into a trap!" Helga snapped, her voice colder than the stones around them. "That’s exactly what they want."

Reuben’s eyes blazed. "So we sit? Wait? Let Estalis and Zura divide up Northem while we whisper in candlelight?"

"Enough." The patriarch’s voice was lower now, but no less fierce. "You think war is a matter of blood and valor? You think screaming for a horse and sword makes you a leader?" He leaned toward Reuben, nostrils flaring. "Your father would know what to do."

The words landed hard. Reuben’s face hardened, but he said nothing.

Helga turned slightly, her gaze distant now, unfocused.

Heimdal.

The name passed silently through her mind, not as a thought, but as an ache. Her husband would be the one to calculate before charging, to see a dozen outcomes before anyone else had recognized the question. He would’ve seen through the decoy. He would have connected the Zuran and Estalis’ political alliance through marriage, the Estalian king’s sudden death.

But Heimdal lay wasted in his bed, too frail to even think.

"I need his voice," she murmured, not realizing she’d spoken aloud.

The old patriarch turned to her, his expression softening for the briefest moment. "So do I," he said.

A quiet settled over the room again, this time not of failure but of reckoning. The weight of what had been lost, and what now must be done.

Helga drew a long breath, pulling herself back into the present. "Reuben. You’ll not ride to Fereya. Not until we know what awaits you there. If Estalis is truly in Zura’s pocket, we may already be too late. We can’t afford more boldness without purpose."

Reuben’s hands curled into fists, but he gave a stiff nod.

"We need eyes in Carles," Helga said. "A whisper before a sword. If they’ve moved to take the capital, there’s still time to break their hold—but not through brute force."

Solanio raised an eyebrow. "So we gamble?"

Helga turned to him. "No. We play. And this time, we don’t miss the opening move."