EPISODE 03 Poor rats of North

POOR RATS OF NORTH

After wandering through the halls for what felt like ages, the maids finally dragged her into the bathroom. They washed her body, dressed her in an elegant royal pink gown, and secured her long silver hair in a neat bun pinned with diamonds.

"You look beautiful, My Lady," Din, Elizabeth's personal maid, remarked in her usual flat tone.

Din was tall, clad in a plain black maid's dress. Her hair, tightly pulled back into a bun, stuck to her scalp. Glasses perched on her nose, and her face was blank, an expression that seemed to say nothing ever surprises me.

Standing behind Elizabeth, who was seated before the mirror, she noticed her distracted gaze.

"Is something bothering you, Milady?" Din inquired, her voice devoid of emotion.

Becky's eyes met her reflection in the mirror. "Um… Actually, yes. Do you know anything about Sir Leonardo D'Salazar?" She forced a small, awkward smile.

"You mean His Grace, the King of the North?"

"Yes! Do you know where he is right now?"

Din's expression, usually impassive, flickered with hesitation. "Milady… if you promise not to be angry, may I say something?"

Becky's lips curled into a crooked smile, her gut tightening at the sudden unease in Din's voice. "Go ahead."

"Well…" Din's eyes shifted away from the mirror. "Your recent speech at the ministers' meeting—" She stopped abruptly, uncertainty clouding her voice.

"Go on," Becky pressed, her voice taut with tension.

Din inhaled deeply, her usual stoic mask cracking with guilt. "Milady, forgive me, but I must speak, even if you decide to dismiss me from service. The royal palace has halted supplies to the northern army. His Grace has been sending desperate pleas for necessities…"

A chill ran down Becky's spine.

Din continued, her voice laced with sorrow. "The soldiers are starving, Milady. Their food rations have nearly run out, and their armor is falling apart. With constant battles and no reinforcements, their hope is fading. And…" She hesitated, her voice dropping to a whisper. "There's a rumor that His Grace may not survive this time."

Becky froze, her nails digging into the soft fabric of her gown. Her heart pounded, and a cold wave of dread crashed over her.

"What… was my speech?" she demanded, her jaw clenched, dreading the destruction her words had already caused.

Din's eyes widened, genuinely startled by the question. But what shocked her more was the fire she saw burning behind Becky's gaze—a rage that felt unfamiliar.

Without hesitation, Din relayed every venomous word Elizabeth had spoken that day.

______

One Month Ago

The grand hall of the royal palace stood in its full glory—walls adorned with paintings of war and victory, a crimson carpet unfurling over polished white marble. Around a long table gathered ministers of power and ambition. At the head of the table, on a throne of authority, sat him.

Gilbert O'Hara—Emperor of the Olanika Empire.

His suit of red and gold, tailored to perfection, exuded dominance. A crown, studded with rubies and pearls, rested upon his head, the light from the chandelier casting a merciless glow over his sharp features.

The ministers whispered among themselves, their eyes flickering toward a figure seated beside him—a woman whose presence felt like an unspoken challenge.

Elizabeth Augustine.

Today, she represented her father at the meeting.

Eyes—some wary, some hostile—drilled into her, but Elizabeth sat unbothered. She flipped through the papers before her with a cold detachment, ignoring the waves of disapproval crashing against her like brittle glass.

A voice sliced through the tension.

"Well, well, look who decided to join us today," came the sly tone of Albert Salinas, the Minister of Foreign Affairs. His lips curled into a smirk, dripping with condescension.

Several ministers looked up, sensing the bait he had thrown. But when the Emperor didn't so much as glance up from his papers, and Elizabeth, not even sparing Albert a glance, continued reading, the air deflated.

The room echoed with an unspoken message—your tricks won't work here.

Albert's face darkened with embarrassment, the failed jab searing his pride. He bit his tongue; after all, he knew who he was dealing with. Elizabeth Augustine could destroy him with a single word.

Suddenly, the Emperor spoke, his voice commanding the entire room without effort.

"How's your father?" he asked, his gaze never leaving the documents.

Elizabeth didn't lift her eyes either. "Good," she replied, her tone clipped and disinterested.

Gilbert's lips barely moved. "So, what brings you here today, gracing us with your charming presence?"

A sharp smile played on her lips. "I thought you'd be delighted to see me."

Gilbert's reply came as dry as sandpaper, "I am."

Her smile sharpened. "Yes, I can see your joy—pouring off you like a rainless drought."

The room gasped audibly.

Gilbert's knuckles pressed into the table, but the smirk tugging at his lips showed more menace than amusement. "You never fail to get under my skin, Elizabeth." His voice was low, threatening—a predator cornered but amused by the fight.

"Believe me," she replied, her smile cold as ice, "I work very hard to make sure I never disappoint Your Majesty."

Tension wrapped the room in a vice grip. The ministers sat stiff and silent, unwilling to breathe too loudly lest they become collateral damage in the cold war unfolding before them.

Gilbert leaned forward, his elbows on the table, fingers laced, and his eyes—calculating. "I know how… hardworking you are," he said, each word laced with dry venom. "So let's stop dancing and get to the point."

Elizabeth straightened, her silver hair shimmering like a blade beneath the chandelier's glow—a reflection of power born, not borrowed.

"Very well," her voice rang clear, slicing through the air, "I came to address a matter regarding our great and mighty King of the North."

A ripple of unease passed through the room. The atmosphere thickened. Ministers shifted uncomfortably, for everyone knew—the enmity between Elizabeth and the Northern King was a legend whispered behind closed doors.

Gilbert's eyes, cold as steel, lifted. "What about him?"

A smirk, slow and predatory, curled her lips. She leaned forward, planting both palms on the polished table. Her voice softened, a venomous whisper dripping with mockery.

"I heard the palace is preparing to send supplies to the northern front."

The room stilled. A sudden hush, tense and suffocating. The air seemed to stop moving, and a collective breath was stolen from the room.

Everyone knew where this was going.

And it was nowhere good.

Gilbert's stare turned glacial. "What of it?"

Elizabeth's smile widened—mocking, ruthless, and devoid of empathy.

"What of it?" she echoed, her voice dripping scorn. "Doesn't our mighty demon-eyed King pride himself on his strength? Then why not crush the enemy and be done with it?"

Her voice dropped, cold as death. "Why waste our precious supplies feeding rats on the battlefield? Are they hoping to drag out the war—bleeding the Empire dry to hoard supplies for their barren, poverty-stricken lands?"

A sharp intake of breath—the ministers froze, their hearts pounding with collective dread.

Elizabeth continued, her eyes burning with icy cruelty, "The Empire's resources are meant for our soldiers—true warriors who shed their blood and break their bones for the crown. Not for those beggars in armor, stuffing their faces with our supplies."

The final blow landed—merciless.

And with those words, Elizabeth Augustine condemned an army to starve.

No supplies.

No hope.

Only death.

And none dared object.

Because her word, as always—

Was law.