Royal council(1)

For the past 150 years, the small council room had remained as bare as the souls of those who sat within it—void of warmth, absent of grandeur, a chamber built for pragmatism, not for inspiration.

"Dull," Valeria mused, her eyes tracing the slow ripple of wine in her cup. Tilting it slightly, she watched the dark liquid catch the candlelight before bringing it to her lips.

A week had passed since the first gathering of the council. Yesterday, the oath-swearing ceremony had finally concluded. Every noble house behind Gods' Finger had pledged fealty to her son, a victory that should have filled her with satisfaction. Yet, the missives from beyond the mountains had soured any sense of triumph.

Flowery words, empty assurances—hollow, she thought, as hollow as the goblets they raised in false loyalty. Their true intentions were masked beneath layers of diplomatic niceties. They were waiting. Watching. Measuring the strength of her grip on the realm before revealing their true allegiance.

The rustling of parchment brought her back to the present.

"That would be this month's accounts, Your Grace," Lord Isidor announced, setting the report down before her.

For five years now, he had served as Minister of Economy, though his family's hand had held the ledgers long before his. The position had belonged to his father until an untimely death—and some whispered, a convenient one—placed Isidor in his stead. Accused of kinslaying, yet never convicted, he had found himself summoned to court soon after. The emperor had need of a competent man, and Isidor had need of imperial favor.

It had proven a most profitable arrangement.

Through careful maneuvering, he had secured more than just the minister's seat—he had earned royal gratitude. Or rather, royal need. And for his loyalty, he had been well rewarded: an exemption from taxation on his trade, a privilege that would soon swell his coffers beyond measure.

Valeria had known such bribes were necessary. The nobility within Gods' Finger was the foundation of stability, the key to keeping order within the empire. But loyalty did not come cheaply.

Every concession, every promise extracted from her hand only bound her tighter to the whims of those she sought to rule.

And the cost was bleeding the treasury dry.

"A gift from that bastard," she thought, resentment simmering beneath her calm facade. The emperor had left her with an inheritance of war. He had waged them constantly, for sport as much as for strategy. Every two years, it was said, he would find a reason to march. And each time, the coffers had paid the price.

Now, she was left to count the cost.

With a quiet sigh, she set down her empty cup. Her mind was already moving beyond the numbers before her. There were greater matters at hand—negotiations to be made, oaths to be secured.

"Soon, Father will come. He will help with the treasury," she reassured herself, though she did not yet fully believe it. He must see the value of what I have done. He must recognize my work.

Had she not put their blood on the throne? Had she not outmaneuvered her elder brothers, securing what they could not? Surely, he would acknowledge that. Surely, he must.

The silence stretched for a moment before she finally spoke.

"I thank you for your work, Lord Isidor."

She offered him a small smile.

"Though I trust in your diligence, I would prefer, in the future, a brief summary of the most important matters. The full report may be left to the servant I will send to collect it. Be certain that I shall read them in private."

Her smile remained, but her tone sharpened, firm yet graceful.

"After all, there are far more important things to do than count coins right now."

Lord Isidor bowed. "Certainly, Your Grace," he replied, though the empress's last remark irked him. Counting coins—how belittling. As Minister of Economy, his role extended far beyond mere bookkeeping, yet, in truth, he was more of a lender than an administrator of wealth.

His primary duty was not to foster economic growth but to secure the funds his liege required—finding merchants willing to loan coin to the crown and, in turn, managing the repayment by cutting portions from the annual budget. An arduous task, given how fiercely every council member fought over financial allocations.

After all, a larger budget meant greater influence, and no lord was willing to see his own domain deprived. The annual budget meetings were less discussions and more battlegrounds, waged not with swords but with parchment and ink.

Still, at least the treasury was free of debt, a rare and precarious advantage.

"Fortunately, Your Grace, the treasury remains unburdened. The next report will be significantly shorter," Isidor said, rising from his bow, carefully concealing his earlier irritation.

The empress gave him a small, approving smile, raising her goblet in acknowledgment. "I trust in your ability, my lord."

Across the table, Lord Marcellus took notice of her empty cup. With smooth precision, he stepped forward, decanter in hand, and offered, "Your cup is empty, Your Grace. Allow me."

Valeria inclined her head slightly, extending her goblet. Their fingers brushed briefly during the exchange.

"You are kind, my lord," she said, her voice carrying an air of measured warmth.

"It is my pleasure," Marcellus murmured, his gaze lingering on her for a fraction longer than propriety dictated as he refilled her cup.

Valeria accepted the cup and took a slow sip before lowering it, her eyes sweeping over the gathered nobles. "If there is nothing else to discuss, I believe we can conclude—

A sudden knock at the door cut through her words.

Her brow furrowed slightly as the lords exchanged uncertain glances. The knock came again—firmer this time.

"You may enter," Valeria granted, her voice carrying the weight of expectation. Any intrusion upon the council meeting surely meant the news was urgent.

As the door swung open, a man stepped into the chamber. His face was familiar, though his name momentarily escaped her. She had seen him often in the company of Lord Vritinius. Now, however, he looked flustered, his gaze darting nervously around the room, his unease palpable.

Impatience flickered across the empress's face.

"Well?" she demanded, her sharp tone cutting through the tense silence.

Beside her, Lord Vritinius furrowed his brow, his confusion mirroring hers. 

"We were in the midst of an important discussion," he interjected, his voice laced with mild reproach. "I assume your business is urgent if you could not even wait, Cleotonius?"

The man—Cleotonius—lowered his head in deference and extended an open letter toward his lord. "Forgive the interruption, my lord, but urgent reports have arrived from the East," he explained, his voice steady despite the weight of his message.

Lord Vritinius did not hesitate. He snatched the letter from Cleotonius's grasp and scanned its contents with brisk efficiency. As his eyes moved over the words, his jaw tightened, his posture stiffening with barely restrained tension.

Then, lifting his head, he swept his gaze over the gathered nobles. A solemn intensity had settled over his features, his demeanor as grave as a man delivering news of death itself.

Clearing his throat, he finally spoke.

"The eastern nobles have pledged their support to Prince Mavius," he announced, his voice even but heavy with implication. "They are already mustering their troops and preparing to march south."

The chamber fell into a thick silence.

Valeria, however, was not watching the nobles—she was watching Vritinius. The deliberate way he moved, the calculated pause before his words, the carefully measured delivery.

He already knew.And he made it a show for all of us

The lords had been waging a quiet war among themselves, vying for influence, each maneuvering to claim the coveted position of spymaster, especially since lord Julius was nowhere to be seen as he disappeared after the defeat that brought and end to Gratios' life. And now, in front of the entire council and the empress herself, Vritinius was flexing his intelligence network for all to see.

The fools fight amongst themselves while we stand on the precipice of civil war, she thought, though she supposed it was preferable to them turning their ambitions against her.

But there was no time to dwell on petty rivalries now. The East was on the move, the nobles were fractured, and her father had yet to arrive.

Valeria understood what this meant.

This was the moment. The moment she would prove—to them, to the empire, and to herself—that she was meant to rule.