City Approval

A steady hum of anticipation rippled through Celestafell's winding streets. The week since the Dark Messiah's takeover had flown by in a flurry of new decrees and hurried improvements to the city's defenses. Now, talk of her upcoming coronation—a ceremony that would name her not just a lord but a proper queen—filled the markets and taverns alike. Torch-lined walkways and merchant stalls bustled with purpose as citizens scrambled to meet deadlines for decorations, feasts, and tributes. Though tension still cloaked every street, there was also an undercurrent of cautious excitement.

Street Vendors and Gossip

Under a striped awning in the main market, two vendors stacked their crates of produce. The older one, Jareth, set down a basket of tomatoes and wiped his brow.

"So it's official, then?" he asked in a hushed tone, glancing around as though the walls had ears. "She's calling herself queen now?"

The younger vendor, a wisp of a man named Orlin, nodded rapidly. "I heard it straight from a guard who was requisitioning supplies. They're planning a big ceremony up at the castle. Banners, anointing oil—the works."

"Queen," Jareth repeated. His voice held a mix of awe and lingering apprehension. "She's only been here a week…"

Orlin shrugged, looking out at the mass of bustling townsfolk. "Could've been worse. At least she's letting us sell without crippling bribes. Did you notice the new tax rates? I've saved more coin in this past week than I did in the last six months under the old lord."

A gruff chuckle escaped Jareth's lips. "Aye, there's that, at least." He shook his head, retrieving another crate. "Dark Messiah or not, if it means fewer crooked guards hassling us, I'll take it."

Overheard in the Alehouse

Inside The Silver Chimera tavern, the atmosphere teemed with subdued laughter and hushed conversations. A quartet of travelers nursed their ales at a corner table, leaning in close to trade rumors.

"Took out the old lord and his cronies in a single night," said the first—a middle-aged mercenary with a ragged scar across his cheek.

"Chilling, the stories I've heard," muttered the second, nursing a tankard. "But look how quickly she's tightened security. Bandits've been pushed out."

"Yeah, but at what cost?" the third—a lean woman in dark leathers—countered softly. "She's called the Vengeful One for a reason. That kind of power always comes with a price."

The fourth, a stout merchant who had witnessed the old regime, sighed. "Be that as it may, I lost a fortune to the last lord's bribes. Now, I can trade freely. If I've to show up and hail her as queen, so be it."

The woman in leathers tapped her tankard, scowling. "Dunno. The way she paraded that young lordling around…" She trailed off, casting a glance at the other patrons who might overhear. "It's unsettling."

"Maybe. But the city's calmer," the merchant insisted. "We've had no riots, no plague outbreaks, no creeping corruption in our streets. For now, that's enough for me."

A Pair of Soldiers on Patrol

Two newly outfitted guards, clad in sleeker armor—part of Serena's swift reforms—strolled along the cobblestone path circling the central plaza. One, a tall woman named Lian, gazed up at the castle perched high on its rocky rise.

"Never thought I'd live to see the day we got a queen," she said quietly.

Her partner, Roan, shrugged. "We always had a lord, so what's so different?"

"You kidding?" Lian gave him a wry look. "Under the old man, we'd be leaning on the merchants, collecting 'fees' no one could afford." She patted her new armor. "Now… I'm paid on time. Got this new kit for free, too."

Roan made a noncommittal sound, glancing around for eavesdroppers. "I'm not complaining. But do you really trust her?"

Lian's gaze turned distant. "Trust, no. Respect… maybe." She exhaled. "She has a lethal edge, but I've seen her put coin into repairs and relief for the outer wards. That's more than the old regime ever bothered with."

The Crowded Plaza

Near the main square—where workers hammered decorations into place and raised new standards bearing Serena's chosen emblem—townspeople gathered in clusters to share the latest gossip.

"They say it'll be a right spectacle," a middle-aged tailor told a small circle of neighbors. "She's having robes made for the coronation—deep black trimmed in red."

An older neighbor, her arms laden with cloth, let out a short laugh. "Black and red, huh? Almost too perfect for a 'Dark Messiah.'"

A young apprentice, wide-eyed, chimed in. "Isn't she supposed to be marrying the old lord's son, too? Maybe we'll get to see two ceremonies—"

"Hush, boy," the tailor snapped, though not unkindly. "That's hardly confirmed. If it is, it'll likely be after she's crowned." He paused, then lowered his voice conspiratorially, "Between you and me, I hear she's taken a liking to changing up the city watch rotations, and the crime rate's actually gone down. Maybe she's stern, but at least she's doing something."

Nods passed among them. As harsh as her methods might be, Celestafell no longer felt strangled by corruption or terror—a delicate relief, like fresh air flowing into a stale cellar.

A Glance Toward the Castle

From an overlooking rooftop where banners now fluttered, one could see the entire city brimming with a cautious, vibrant energy. A hush fell as people paused their toiling to catch sight of the formidable silhouette on the castle's parapets—where, just for an instant, they thought they saw the new ruler surveying her domain.

Some knelt, others stood in uneasy awe. But not a single tongue uttered open rebellion. At least for now, hope warred with fear. And in a land battered by plague, corruption, and war, the promise of stability—even from a so-called Vengeful One—was more than enough for most.

And so Celestafell buzzed with preparations for a day few had ever imagined: the coronation of a Dark Messiah who called herself queen.

A noisy uproar filled Celestafell's outer checkpoint that morning. People jostled each other in the slow-moving line, each clutching a few measly coins, hoping it would be enough for entry. So many had come seeking new opportunities under the city's shifting rule—but on this day, the guards had their orders: those who could not pay the required levy would be taken to the castle in a special carriage. A frightened hush rippled through the crowd when the first guard made that pronouncement.

"But please, sir—I have a family inside!" cried an older woman, wringing her hands as a grim-faced soldier ushered her toward the dark, horse-drawn vehicle.

"Sorry, ma'am," he replied, refusing to meet her eyes. "Orders are orders. If you can't pay, you'll have to speak with the new ruler."

One by one, the eleven unfortunate souls without sufficient coin were herded into the carriage. Among them was a young mother with teary-eyed children, a bruised laborer with empty pockets, and a traveling musician who'd lost his coin pouch. They pleaded to be let off with a warning, but the guards only shook their heads, latching the carriage doors.

"I'm sorry," one guard mumbled under his breath, stepping away as the driver snapped the reins. The wheels lurched forward, ferrying the anxious group along the winding roads that led to the castle manor. Nervous whispers and muffled sobs echoed inside the cramped space. 

Not long after, the carriage rattled through the castle gates. The imposing silhouette of the grand structure loomed above them, banners of black and crimson fluttering in a faint breeze. The Requiem Core's faint hum thrummed across the courtyard, a reminder of the arcane power defending Celestafell. Guards hauled open the doors, directing the captives through a series of imposing corridors with polished marble floors. The hush was deafening.

At last, they entered the grand hall. Torches set in iron sconces cast dancing shadows across towering columns. There, at the far end, sat Serena—the Dark Messiah, the newly declared lord of Celestafell. She struck a terrifying figure: horns curved gracefully from her crimson hair, a black cloak draped over gleaming obsidian armor, and eyes that glowed an unsettling red. Her posture was languidly confident: one leg crossed over the other, her cheek propped upon a gloved fist as though bored by the spectacle. Yet the faint smirk at the corner of her lips betrayed a predatory interest.

"My Lady," announced the lead guard with a bow, voice tinged with both respect and unease. He gestured to the trembling group. "These eleven could not afford the levy at the gates. As per your directive, we've brought them straight here to your presence."

A chorus of frightened murmurs broke out among the huddle of captives, who stared wide-eyed at the woman on the throne. For a moment, Serena said nothing. The silence stretched painfully until, finally, she shifted just enough to rest both hands on the throne's armrests.

"So…" she said, her voice echoing with quiet menace, "you can't pay your way into my city, hmm?"

She let her gaze drift from one terrified face to the next. Some refused to meet her eyes at all. Others stared back, desperation etched into every line of their features. Outside, a cold draft swept in, chilling the grand hall—and setting the stage for whatever judgment the Dark Messiah deemed fit to hand down.

Serena rose from her throne, the echo of her boots on polished marble resonating through the grand hall. The captive group of eleven tensed visibly, eyes darting between her and the intimidating columns that loomed overhead. In the corner of her vision, Great Sage flickered into view, casting a translucent list that only she could see.

"Analyzing skill sets," came the calm mental voice. "Five possess significant martial experience. Three show aptitudes in woodworking and metalworking. One adult, female, proficient in cooking, accompanied by two minor dependents, female."

Serena glided forward, her black cloak trailing behind like a living shadow. She paused before the five whose forms seemed more solid, their posture subconsciously battle-ready despite their terror. Two of them had scars that hinted at past skirmishes, and another clutched an old training crest. The Great Sage's assessment highlighted relevant details: Basic Swordsmanship, Spearmanship, Archery…

"You five," Serena said, her voice clipped with authority. "I need soldiers. Celestafell's guard is expanding, and if you're willing, I will put your skills to better use than gatekeeping." She looked them over, catching the flicker of uncertainty in their eyes. "Serve me faithfully," she continued, "and you will live safely within these walls—no levy required."

She moved on to three huddled figures standing together: two men and one woman, their rough, calloused hands bearing witness to years of handiwork. Carpentry, Metalwork, and Refining glimmered in the Great Sage's overlay.

"And you three," Serena announced. "You'll be blacksmiths and carpenters. The city needs more crafters to rebuild and fortify our defenses. Find me in three days' time, and we'll arrange a workshop for each of you."

The final group was a small family: a mother clutching her two young daughters protectively. The mother's features softened when Serena's crimson gaze fell upon them. Great Sage highlighted Culinary Aptitude in glowing letters.

Serena crouched low, bringing herself closer to the children's eye level, mindful of how her horns and dark attire must appear—like a living nightmare to them. She offered the slightest smile, an expression both gentle and strangely chilling. "Do you two like soup?"

A tense moment passed before the mother nudged her daughters, urging them to speak. Both girls managed shaky nods, tiny hands gripping their mother's dress.

Serena's smile widened—an oddly bright, sincere gesture. "I do, too. In fact, I love soup so much that—" she straightened up, looking the mother in the eye, "—you'll become a soup chef here in Celestafell. I'll arrange for you to open your own shop."

A ripple of confusion and relief spread across the woman's face. "Y-you would… let us have our own store?"

"Under my protection," Serena affirmed. "Make it well, and I'll see that you and your daughters never want for anything."

She turned to the assembled eleven, who stared at her in varying states of disbelief, fear, and cautious hope. "Know this," she said, her voice carrying throughout the hall. "If you pledge yourselves to Celestafell—" she paused, letting them feel the weight of her words, "—then Celestafell will give you a life worth living."

With that, she dismissed them to be escorted away for further instructions. The soldiers guiding them saluted in unison, leaving Serena in the vast chamber, the faintest trace of warmth in her otherwise cold, calculating eyes.