The Bargain

Valencia woke to the scent of smoke.

Not the comforting hearth-smoke of Pherr's cedar fires, but acrid and metallic—Feron's forges, already roaring at first light. She dressed in black velvet, the rubies at her throat replaced with obsidian shards. Let Xyrus see mourning, she thought. Let him wonder what I've lost.

She found him in the war room, maps of the southern border unfurled. Bandit attacks, he'd claimed. But the markings told a different story: villages circled in red, Pherr's crest scribbled in the margins.

"Planning to invade my kingdom over breakfast?" she drawled, plucking a fig from a tray.

Xyrus didn't flinch. "Your 'kingdom' can't feed itself. Why would I want it?"

"Ah, right. You'd rather bleed it dry." She traced the map's edge. "These bandits—they're not stealing grain. They're burning it. Odd tactic for thieves."

His gaze snapped to hers. "What do you know?"

"What you refuse to see. These aren't bandits. They're your own people, desperate enough to torch their harvests so Feron's tax collectors can't seize them." She leaned in. "Your policies are breeding rebels. How… regal of you."

Silence. Then, a knock: the Harvest Accord delegates had arrived.

The council chamber buzzed with diplomats, Pherr's envoys in sun-faded silks, Feron's lords dripping in ermine. Valencia took her seat beside Xyrus, close enough to smell the bergamot on his skin.

Her father's steward, Garrick, pleaded for lower tariffs. "Without relief, Pherr's children will starve—"

"And without silver, Feron's armies crumble," countered a Feron lord. "Shall we send your farmers swords to till the soil?"

Valencia stood. "Why not trade?"

The room stilled. Xyrus's brow arched.

"Pherr's vineyards produce the finest wines in the realm," she said. "Feron's merchants sell them at triple the price in northern markets. Lower tariffs on our grain, and we'll grant you exclusive rights to the trade."

Murmurs rippled. Feron's treasurer leaned forward. "How exclusive?"

"Only Feron. For ten years." She paused. "But we keep 30% of the profits… to feed our children."

Xyrus studied her, a flicker of intrigue in his gaze. "And if we refuse?"

She met his stare. "Then I'll sell to Lysandra."

The room erupted. Lysandra—Feron's rival kingdom, infamous for funding rebellions.

Xyrus's fist clenched under the table. "You wouldn't."

"Watch me."

That night, Valencia found a note slipped under her door: Library. Now.

Xyrus stood by the fire, a decanter in hand. "Lysandra's a viper's nest. You'd ally with them?"

"I'd ally with a dragon if it saved my people." She snatched the decanter. "Why care? I thought Feron's walls were too thick for rumors."

"They are. But your threats are never just threats." He stepped closer. "What's your real price?"

She smiled. "Dissolve the tariffs. Let Pherr's grain caravans pass freely."

"Impossible."

"Then I'll make Lysandra rich enough to buy your throne."

He gripped her wrist, the decanter trembling. "You'll destroy us both."

"Us?" She scoffed. "There is no us."

His thumb brushed her pulse point. "There could be."

The air hummed. For a heartbeat, she saw it—the unspoken truth. Feron's vaults were emptying. His coldness wasn't cruelty; it was fear.

She pulled free. "Lower the tariffs. Or lose everything."

As she left, he called after her: "You'll need allies, Valencia. Enemies are easier to make than friends."

She paused at the door. "Good thing I excel at both."

At dawn, a sealed scroll arrived. Valencia broke the wax—Feron's crest—and read:

Tariffs lowered by 15%. The wine trade is yours. Prove I'm not a fool to trust you.

Beneath it, scrawled in bold ink:

Surprise me.

She laughed, sharp and bright. Oh, she would.

But first, she burned the letter—and began drafting a missive to Lysandra.