CHAPTER 476: RISING THROUGH THE ASHES

The envoy at the head of the table—a silver-bearded man draped in a robe heavy with gold-threaded embroidery—settled back in his chair. His smile spread slowly, deliberate as the ticking of a clock.

"Prince Reuben," he began, his voice smooth as poured oil, "we honor Northem by seeking partnership. But surely you must see—the craftsmen of Westalis are beyond compare. It is only the novelty, the strangeness, of these... contraptions that hinders us. Share the secret of their making, and together our kingdoms will flourish."

A younger envoy, his gaze hawk-sharp, leaned forward with a polite dip of the head. "Of course, given Northem’s... current circumstances, generosity would be expected. Surely your kingdom does not mean to hoard such things when allies stand ready to strengthen you." His eyes flicked, knife-like, toward Reuben’s chair. The barb beneath his civility was plain.

Reuben’s jaw tightened, but his composure did not falter. Instead, he inclined his head ever so slightly, his voice calm, even touched with amusement.

"Generosity, you say? From Northem?" His words lilted like a challenge. "Tell me—when your merchants failed to reproduce our design last year, was it generosity that compelled them to flood Westalis with their counterfeits? I hear those imitations rattled apart within weeks. Quite the gift, indeed."

A murmur broke across the table like a gust of wind through dry grass. The silver-bearded envoy’s smile froze, stiff and brittle.

Reuben’s tone shifted, steel sheathed in velvet. "You boast your craftsmen are unmatched, yet here you sit again, begging Northem to succeed where you have failed. So let us strip away pretense: you need us. You need what only Northem can provide. The question is not whether we will share. The question is—what is your offer, and will it prove worthy of our time?"

The chamber fell still. One envoy drew in a sharp breath. Across the table, postures stiffened, smirks wavered. Their practiced composure frayed beneath the weight of his words.

At Reuben’s side, Amielle lowered her cup to hide a smile. At last, she thought, here was the prince reborn—not hesitant, not broken, but a blade of wit and will, wielding his mind as deftly as a sword.

Reuben’s gaze swept the table, cold fire in his eyes. "Make your offer," he commanded at last, his voice like iron wrapped in silk. "And be certain it does not insult Northem. Or this council ends now."

The silver-bearded envoy bowed his head slightly, the arrogance gone from his tone. "Your Highness... we will send our scholars to study under your masters. We will purchase the patent—and pay royalties besides. Northem shall profit, and Westalis will honor its debt."

"No." Reuben’s refusal cracked like a whip. His voice was firm, resolute. "We will not sell secrets. We will sell you vehicles, up to a strict quota. What you do with them once they arrive in your kingdom is your burden—not ours."

The envoys sagged in their chairs, defeat heavy on their shoulders. Yet when they met Reuben’s unyielding gaze, they understood the futility of pressing further. For now, they could only bow to Northem’s terms—and bide their time for renegotiation in the months to come.

The envoys leaned together, whispering like jackals forced from a kill. Quills scratched on parchment; couriers fetched seals of wax and ribbons of authority. No longer did they smile, no longer did they play at superiority—their faces were drawn, their eyes careful, as though a single wrong word might shatter what little ground they still clung to.

At the head of the table, Reuben sat like a statue carved of obsidian, his expression unreadable. When at last the documents were set before him, he glanced over the terms with unhurried precision. Each clause was a battle scar: Northem would retain the secret of its design. Northem would dictate the number of vehicles sold. Northem would collect the coin, and Westalis would wait.

Finally, with deliberate calm, Reuben pressed his seal upon the parchment. The wax hardened beneath his signet ring like blood congealing on a blade.

The silver-bearded envoy gave a thin, weary nod. "So it is agreed," he murmured, his earlier grandeur gone, voice cracked by defeat.

Reuben inclined his head in acknowledgment but spoke no word of triumph. He let silence do the work of victory.

The meeting adjourned. Cloaks swirled, papers vanished into lacquered cases, and the envoys withdrew from the chamber one by one. Only when the last echo of their boots faded from the hall did Reuben release the slow breath he had been holding.

Alone with his thoughts, Reuben felt the tension seeping from his limbs, leaving behind a strange mixture of relief and something sharper—something almost like hunger. He had expected resistance, derision, even insult. He had braced himself to endure. Yet when he struck back, when he wielded words as if they were swords, the envoys had bent. They had bent to him.

The taste of that moment still lingered on his tongue—clean, electric, undeniable. He had not felt such command since the queen’s banquet, before the weight of loss had ground him into hesitation. And now... now he remembered what it was to lead.

But beneath the triumph lurked caution. He succeeded today but their would be others. They would plot, and scheme, and test him again. Power, he realized, was not won in a single duel—it must be defended every day, sharpened like a blade that dulled with neglect. Could he carry it? Could he be more than a flicker of his old self?

For the first time since he was crippled, he dared to hope the answer might be yes.

Amielle studied him as the envoys departed. She had watched him falter, retreat, and break beneath grief, and she had feared the man she once admired was gone forever. But today, she had glimpsed the spark again—the sharp mind, the iron will, the quiet authority that drew others to him.

Her heart ached with pride, though she hid it behind the cool mask of diplomacy. They had seen him rise. They had heard his voice cut through their arrogance like a sword through silk. That image would not be easily forgotten, and it would ripple far beyond these walls.

Her Reuben had overcome one hurdle. Yet there would be many more in the days to come. She hoped that the prince would be able to handle them, just as he had today.

Still, she allowed herself a rare smile. Today, she had not seen a broken man. Today, she had seen a prince again.