CHAPTER 410: TROUBLES IN THE NORTH

The moon rose like a silver crown above the eastern horizon, bathing the hills and forests in cold, ethereal light.

Within the weathered walls of Greenshire Castle, its stones steeped in centuries of whispers and wars, Orion, Roldan, and Kashmeri had convened in the grand hall. Flickering torches painted restless shadows across tapestries of battles long past, while the warm, resinous scent of sandalwood curled through the air. At the center of the room, a massive oak table bore the weight not of food or drink, but of secrets and strategy.

Roldan broke the silence first, his tone grim as he unrolled a parchment across the table."A third of the nobles within and around the capital are now under Zuran control," he said, his voice carrying the heaviness of treachery. The list’s ink seemed to bleed under the torchlight, each name a blade at the kingdom’s throat. "Their tactics are the same—blackmail a servant or knight of high position, then slip inside the manor or castle under the cloak of night. If that does not work, then they use women to lure those men of high rank."

Orion leaned forward, his brows knitted. "What of the Duke and Grand Duke of Arches?" Concern weighed on each syllable.

Kashmeri paced, arms folded, eyes sharp as a hawk’s. "I visited them earlier. Their knights and servants are steadfast—for now. But the Zurans are probing, looking for cracks. They are still not giving up. Their goal is still to infiltrate."

"And Reuben’s court? How can they just watch this happen?" Orion’s voice sharpened, frustration cutting through the air.

"They’re drowning in chaos," Roldan replied. "Rebels, human traffickers, bandits—distraction upon distraction. They hardly have time to breathe."

Orion turned to Kashmeri. "Didn’t Reuben ask for your aid against the bandits? Your bandit group— turned knights, should know how to resolve it. If he sought King Heimdal’s counsel, he should have turned to you."

Kashmeri’s lips curled in disdain. "Reuben is a fool. He clings to Duval and Malik like barnacles on a sinking ship. Let them drown in their own incompetence." He scoff and his eyes narrowed as he continued. "Paying any mind to those two, what a waste! Let them wallow in their own foolishness; they deserve nothing less." The last words hissed out, sharp and final.

Orion’s gaze hardened. "Do we know when Turik will strike the capital?"

"The queen’s birthday banquet," Roldan said.

"The queen’s birthday banquet," Kashmeri echoed, their voices colliding in grim confirmation.

Orion’s brow furrowed with concern, his eyes reflecting the weight of impending doom. "That’s a day before Alaric and Odin’s army reaches the capital," he said, urgency lacing his voice. "We must send an urgent message—now. Every hour lost is a blade drawn against the capital."

Both Kashmeri and Roldan nodded, the weight of inevitability pressing upon them.

...

Meanwhile, in the King’s Palace at the heart of Savadra, Queen Helga presided over a private council with Reuben’s wives, the Prime Minister, and the Ministers of Rites and Finance. Her plan was simple: to smother unrest with grandeur, to drown the city’s unease in the spectacle of her fortieth birthday.

But the ministers exchanged uneasy glances. The capital reeled from rebel raids, caravans fell prey to bandits, and whispers of increased human trafficking spread like rot. Every coin spent on silks, food, and wine was a coin stolen from swords, shields, and provisions.

"Why that look, uncles? Don’t you agree?" Helga raised her voice. The ministers in her court were all from either her paternal or maternal families.

The Minister of Finance spoke first, each word chosen with care. "It is not that we don’t agree, Your Majesty. It is just that our soldiers and the guards lack provisions."

"Yes, Your Highness," the Prime Minister added quickly. "We need to recruit more soldiers and guards. Our resources are strained—"

"That is your problem," Helga cut in, her voice rising. "I believe the treasury is full enough. Didn’t my son earn a fortune from the new vehicle rights? Didn’t my husband fill the coffers in recent years?"

The truth—silent but heavy—hung in the air: the treasury had bled since Heimdal’s illness, noble contributions withered, and expenses swelled like unchecked tides. Some of those very ministers had deepened the drain, lining their own pockets.

In the end, they bowed their heads. "As you wish, Your Majesty."

Helga’s gaze shifted to Reuben’s wives. "Amielle, Mira—you will oversee the preparations. I want this to be remembered as the grandest banquet ever held."

"Yes, Mother," Amielle and Mira replied at the same time.

Helga reclined against the high-backed chair, her jeweled fingers drumming on the armrest like the ticking of a clock.

The ministers could not see the calculation behind her gaze, but it was there—cold, meticulous. A banquet was more than a celebration; it was a stage—her stage. Helga intended to remind every noble, every foreign envoy, and every wavering ally that she was still the Queen of Savadra.

The unrest in the streets did not trouble her as much as the unrest in the court. Too many eyes now looked to Reuben as if he were already king, too many whispers weighed Heimdal’s failing health against her own grip on power. A lavish display would silence doubters, even if only for a season.

Gold could always be found again; loyalty, once lost, could not.

But there was another layer—a private, gnawing fear she never voiced. She had heard the rumors about Turik’s movements, the strange disappearances in border villages, and the silence of some nobles. She had dismissed them publicly, yet in the dead of night, she wondered if the Zuran threat might arrive sooner than the army could respond. The banquet, then, would serve a double purpose: a mask for the kingdom, and a trap for those who thought they could play her for a fool. She needed to tell the Minister of Defense to double the security during the banquet.

Across the table, Mira lowered her eyes in a show of obedience, but inside, her thoughts burned bright and sharp.

Helga’s command was an opportunity, a weapon placed neatly in her hands. The Queen had spoken of grandeur—but grandeur was not enough for Mira. The banquet would be a masterpiece, a living jewel of color and music and light. And at its center, she would shine brighter than anyone else in the hall.

She pictured Amielle’s face, calm and unyielding as always, and felt the familiar flicker of irritation. The court adored Amielle for her poise, her composure, her quiet strength. But Mira knew how to win love by force—how to make admiration an inevitability. She would outdress her, outcharm her, outmaneuver her in every whispered conversation between goblet and candlelight.

And if the rumors that the Queen’s birthday became the very night the capital burned became a reality— well, Mira thought, then those who survive will remember me at my most radiant—unshaken, unbroken.

A future queen does not simply rise; she ascends over the ashes of others.