CHAPTER 438: THE GOLDEN JUBILEE: THE QUEEN

The banquet hall glittered like a jewel carved from firelight. Hundreds of torches blazed in iron sconces, their glow reflected in walls gilded with gold trimmings and polished obsidian. Vast chandeliers with thousands of candles, lit like stars, hung from the vaulted ceiling.

Banners painted with the Northem’s symbol— a golden eagle clutching a ring of fire—loomed above the hall like a silent sentinel. Several long tables groaned under the weight of roasted pheasant, grilled boar, wheels of cheese, freshly baked bread, fruits and goblets of wine. The scents of the feast mingled with the sharp tang of steel from armored guards at every door.

Nobles murmured among themselves, jeweled sleeves brushing against polished goblets. Their laughter was too sharp, their smiles too schooled. Each word was weighed, each glance calculated. They had come to feast, yes, but also to measure their queen.

And then the great doors opened.

Helga entered as though she commanded not just the hall, but the air itself. Her gown of red silk shimmered with each step, embroidered with golden threads that caught the torchlight like embers. A necklace of rubies encased in gold, heavy and commanding, lay upon her breast—a deliberate reminder of both her wealth and her will.

She moved with deliberate grace, every motion slow enough to be savored, every glance a silent proclamation of authority. She wore a flawless mask on her face: the serene smile of a queen in command, the steady hand of a ruler unshaken.

None could see the storm beneath—the jealous fire that burned each time she heard whispers of Astrid’s name amongst the nobles.

Knights struck their gauntlets against breastplates in salute. Courtiers bowed, voices rising in a chorus of "Your Majesty."

Helga let the sound wash over her like a sweet melody, though she knew well that some of those who bent their heads tonight would gladly drive a dagger into her back tomorrow.

At the dais, she paused. Her eyes swept the hall, and for the briefest instant, she imagined Astrid walking at her side—beloved, radiant, adored. A shadow Helga could never banish. Her fingers tightened on the rail before she released it, summoning her most polished smile.

"Lords and ladies of Northem," she said, her voice ringing clear, "tonight we celebrate and partake of this feast not as divided houses, but as one kingdom. Enemies gather at our borders, but within these walls, we stand united. Let this night be a promise—to our people, to our sons and daughters—that Northem shall not fall."

Applause rose, though Helga noted the varying strength of it—the true loyalists, the reluctant allies, the silent watchers. Her eyes lingered a moment too long on her cousin Duval, who lifted his goblet with a smile too polished, too smooth. Malik, beside him, was harder to read, but his gaze flickered across the hall like a hawk sizing his prey.

Helga seated herself upon the chair, her gown spilling like fire across the dais. Servants moved swiftly, pouring wine, presenting dishes, filling the hall with motion and sound. Her gaze drifted, just for a heartbeat, to Heimdal’s empty seat beside hers. He had not yet entered. He sent word earlier that he would attend, but hadn’t he done the same in the past few months? He would send another word saying that he could not make it because he was not feeling well, and she was no longer surprised.

Tonight wouldn’t be any different. He would send the same message that he could not make it. Then, he would lie in the bed he shared with Astrid on nights when she was still alive.

But it would be the last, because tonight she had decided to let go. She would pave a way for Heimdal to spend his eternity with the love of his life—his favored queen, Astrid.

But then the voice of the herald, loud and clear, filled the room: "His Majesty King Heimdal and His Highness Prince Dakota."

Surprise flickered across Helga’s face, but she quickly masked it with a gentle smile, her fingers tightened around the goblet in her hand.

When Heimdal entered at last, supported by Mariam and Prince Alderan, and with Prince Dakota walking to his right, the room shifted.

Conversation faltered, laughter dimmed, and all eyes turned. The king’s presence, though softened by age and illness, still carried the gravity of command. He moved slowly, but each step rippled with the memory of battles won, of oaths sworn, of crowns defended, of the peace that was kept.

For the second time, the queen’s smile faltered for a heartbeat. Seeing Mariam and Alderan enter beside the king, the wine in her mouth stung like acid, but she swallowed it down. Her smile held, though her jaw tightened. She swept toward him with calculated grace, her hand brushing his arm as if to claim him before the eyes of all and subtly pushing Mariam to the side.

"My king," she said, her voice clear enough to silence the musicians. "Your presence honors us. Northem is strong tonight because of you."

Heimdal inclined his head, but his gaze slid past her—to the soldiers lining the hall, to the young lords vying for position, to the shadows where whispers coiled.

Prince Dakota lingered a few paces behind, watching with the patient weariness of a man who had seen too many banquets and too many queens.

"I won’t stay long. I am just here to greet my queen on her very important day and to honor the two heroes of the competition today." Heimdal spoke warmly, but only Helga felt the undercurrent in his voice.

The king and the queen walked regally toward the dais, and when they were seated, the herald’s voice rang out: "Tonight, by His Majesty’s command, the champions of the martial arts competition shall be rewarded before the crown!"

Helio and Fenris were summoned before the royal family, and King Heimdal rewarded them with gold and a set of armor.

Then the Minister of Rites came forward and read the absolution of the penalty meted out to Helio Bandor twenty-five years ago, and he was rewarded more gold to compensate for the unjust court ruling.

The king’s cupbearer passed Heimdal a goblet, and he toasted everyone to signal the official start of the banquet.

"To Northem," he declared as he raised his goblet high. "And to my wife for her birthday." his smile looked radiant when he was facing the crowd, but when he turned to face Helga, she shivered as she stared into the iciness of two obsidian orbs.

The hall echoed the toast.

"To Northem!"

"Long live the King!"

"Long live the Queen!"

But among the guests, there were a few who smirked before downing the red liquid after raising their goblets toward the dais.

Death to the Royal Family.