CHAPTER 412: THE MASTER MANIPULATOR AND THE PROUD QUEEN

Marlon Norse remained in Carles, the city’s stone walls now standing under his command like a silent challenge to the enemy. He didn’t need anyone to remind him to keep it safe—he knew that Estalis would strike back with a vengeance.

Carles was no longer a town but a city. It was Estalis that declared it a city, and there was no move from Northem to demote it back to a town.

A general of countless campaigns, Marlon wasted no time. The Zuran commander entrusted with the care of Carles, pale with fear, found himself staring at the gleam of Marlon’s sword mere inches from his throat. With steel pressing at his skin, the man was forced to send messages to Turik and the Crown Prince of Estalis, reporting a fabricated triumph: the Estalis and Zuran forces had crushed the Northem army under Marlon’s command, and he now rotted in the dungeons of Marquina Manor.

Far from the truth, at Silverstone Castle, Turik lounged in the lavish drawing room, Duke Silverstone’s finest wines at his fingertips. As he read the false report, laughter rolled from him—not the mirth of surprise, but the indulgent, gloating laughter of a man savoring a victory he thought well-earned.

"Those foolish Nords," he scoffed, swirling a goblet of wine before tossing it back in one swallow. "They thought reclaiming Carles would be as easy as marching through an open field?" His eyes gleamed with cruel delight as a beautiful woman refilled his cup from Duke Silverstone’s prized wine collection.

A man with a scar on his face stepped into the room and bowed. "Supreme General, the family of Earl Donalton has been secured in the Silverstone’s keep—the elders, the women, the children... even the children’s nannies."

Turik, who was already in a good mood, grinned slyly. "Excellent job, Scarface. Tomorrow, at dawn, let us quietly take over the Donalton Estate. The wines here are running out. I’ve heard the Earl’s winery produces vintages to rival any in the kingdom. Let us just leave enough men to secure the hostages."

"Supreme General, there has been an incident," Scarface studied Turik’s face. When he noted that he was in a good mood, he decided to break the news. "A few of the commanders took liberties with the women of Donalton while they were on the way here."

Turik’s expression didn’t falter. "Then keep it from the Earl until after the war," he said flatly, and Scarface exhaled in relief.

King’s Palace, Savadra

Queen Helga’s steps echoed through the marble corridors, each one deliberate. Torches burned steadily in their sconces, their light catching the gold trim of her gown and scattering it across the walls like fleeting sparks. The air was thick with the scent of incense, but beneath it, she thought she could smell the faint tang of oil from the weapons the doubled guard now carried.

She was heading for Astrid’s chambers, where King Heimdal chose to recuperate.

The guards assigned to protect the king have doubled. Half of them were Dakota’s knights. Despite Helga and Reuben’s resistance, Dakota insisted on the arrangement, claiming he’d pay their wages from his own purse and it will not be taken from the treasury. In the end, mother and son let him be.

"Your Majesty," the guards bowed as she approached, opening the heavy doors. The king had been informed of her visit and, surprisingly, had agreed.

Inside, the sight that met her eyes was not what she had expected. Heimdal sat upright in a carved oak chair, not in bed. Mariam knelt before him, her sleeves rolled up, her hands moving in slow, practiced circles as she massaged his feet in a steaming basin of medicinal herbs. Prince Alderan stood at his father’s side, reading aloud from a parchment in a voice clear and steady.

A pang went through Helga’s chest—sharp, unexpected. She had always assumed Mariam’s care for Heimdal was simply a concubine’s duty. But seeing them like this, with Alderan there too, an unspoken harmony seemed to weave between them; it unsettled her.

The herald cleared his throat and announced the presence of the queen with his clear, loud voice.

"Her Majesty, the Queen."

"Leave us," Heimdal said, his tone brisk.

Mariam gently dried his feet, then nodded to a servant who carried away the silver basin.

"We will take our leave, Father." Prince Alderan spoke respectfully. He helped his mother up before greeting Queen Helga as they went out and withdrew to a side room,

Helga studied her husband. His complexion was warmer, his posture stronger. Even his legs, once thin and wasted, had begun to regain their muscles and strength.

"It is good that you are looking better, My King." Queen Helga said, with a polished smile.

"Is that what your heart is saying?" Heimdal asked coldly.

Helga’s smile froze and her face contorted into an ugly frown. "What do you mean by that, My King?"

King Heimdal sighed heavily. "Nothing. Why have you come?"

"Can I not visit my husband?" she replied, feigning hurt.

"Drop the act, Helga. We have been married this long, and we know each other well. What do you want from me?"

Helga hesitated. She could feel the iciness in his voice. She studied his face. After a measured pause, she said softly, "I will be hosting a birthday banquet in four days. Invitations have gone to envoys and nobles."

Heimdal’s lips curled in sarcasm. "I suppose your ministers warned you against it. The kingdom is in turmoil, and you choose now to throw a feast? Do you wish your people to think you are mocking them?"

Helga breathed deeply. Her lips pursed. She was irritated by the way King Heimdal answered her. Her voice tightened. "This is more than a party. It’s a chance to rally the nobles and plan a unified strategy for the kingdom against the threats."

"You are giving Zura leverage, Helga. A chance for the enemy to wipe us out in one strike!" Heimdal’s voice rose despite his restraint.

"You are wrong, My King. You, of all people, should know how strong our security forces are. We will use this banquet as bait to ensnare the enemy." Helga said proudly. She had discussed the plan several times with her family, and they pledged their support.

He laughed—not with joy, but with scorn. It began as a low chuckle and built into something unrestrained.

"You’ve never fought a war, nor strategized a single one, Helga. You don’t know how the enemy’s mind works. You are making a big mistake. If you have a sliver of conscience left, you should call off this banquet and plead with General Odin Norse to save the kingdom from an impending doom."

Helga’s temper flared as she left the room. How dare he doubt me? she thought bitterly. I will prove him wrong. I am Queen Helga—and I will not fail.