Chapter 7: Calm Before the Storm

The morning sun lit up the falcon sheds at Château de Lumière, giving the old wood a warm glow of pink and gold. For a short while, it felt like a break from the kingdom's growing troubles—a quiet moment where everything seemed still.

Vivienne stood in the falconry, her violet cloak trailing over the straw-covered floor. She ran her fingers gently over the speckled feathers of a gyrfalcon perched on her gloved hand. The bird's talons held onto the leather firmly, its sharp eyes steady and watchful—just like hers.

The air carried the earthy tang of feathers and hay, sharpened by the faint chill of dew that lingered from the night. She inhaled deeply, letting the familiar scents anchor her, a tether to something steady in a realm teetering on the edge of chaos.

Tomas approached, his heavy boots crunching against the gravel path, the soles caked with mud from his dawn patrol through the lower town. He paused a few paces away, dipping his head in a gesture of respect that felt more earnest than formal. "Your Grace," he said, his voice roughened by the morning air, "I didn't expect to find you here so early."

Vivienne turned her head slightly, offering a small, weary smile that softened the hard lines of her face. "The falcons calm me, Tomas. Their strength, their wildness—it's like looking at our people. Tough, unbroken, ready to soar if given the chance." She lifted her hand, and the gyrfalcon shifted, its wings rustling softly as it adjusted its perch.

The sound was a whisper against the distant clamor of the waking castle—servants shouting, carts rumbling, the faint ring of a blacksmith's hammer.

He stepped closer, his hazel eyes catching the light as he lowered his voice to a steady murmur. "They talk about you in the markets now. They call you the Thorned Rose—pretty but strong, a queen who'll keep them safe."

Her smile deepened, though a shadow lingered in her violet gaze. "And what do you call me?" she asked, her tone light but probing, searching for truth beneath his words.

"Hopeful," he replied without hesitation, his conviction as solid as the stone walls around them. "The changes you want—fair taxes to ease their burdens, clean wells to banish sickness, schools for the little ones—they could mend what's been broken for generations."

For a moment, Vivienne let herself dream aloud, her voice warming with a passion she rarely unleashed. "Picture it, Tomas. Villages where children sit with books instead of hoes, where fields bloom with grain for every table, not just the gilded halls of nobles"

"A kingdom where fairness flows like water—clean, free, reaching every corner." The gyrfalcon let out a sharp, piercing cry, tugging at its jesses as if it sensed her fervor and longed to join it.

She soothed it with a gentle stroke, her fingers tracing the delicate curve of its wing, then turned back to Tomas. "Do you think they'll trust that dream?"

"They already do," he said, his gaze unwavering. "Your words spread like wildfire down there—hope's a rare coin, and you've minted it anew. But there's more to show you, something that could bind them to you completely. Meet me tonight in the rose garden."

Curiosity sparked in her chest, sharp and bright, though tempered by the caution that years of rule had carved into her. She studied him—the mud on his boots, the earnest set of his jaw—and nodded. "I'll come," she promised, her mind already threading through possibilities as he bowed and retreated, his footsteps fading into the morning's hum.

---

The armory thrummed with life, a symphony of clanging metal and muffled voices reverberating off the stone walls.

Vivienne moved through the narrow aisles, her fingers brushing the fletching of arrows stacked in neat bundles, her mind tallying numbers—bows, blades, shields—against the specter of the fight she knew was coming.

The air hung heavy with the scents of oil and leather, underscored by the metallic tang of freshly forged steel. She paused beside a rack of spears, their polished tips glinting in the torchlight, and let her thoughts drift to the eastern villages, to the families who might soon depend on these weapons for survival.

She didn't hear Cedric until his shadow loomed over her, dark and unwelcome. His breath carried the cloying reek of spiced wine as he leaned in, pressing her back against the spear rack with a casual menace. "Your little helper's been busy," he whispered, his voice a silken thread laced with venom. "Sneaking through the lower town, whispering with rebels."

Vivienne's hand darted to her dagger, the blade slipping from its sheath with a soft hiss. In an instant, its point found the soft flesh beneath his ribs, a warning pressed firm against his tunic. "Watch it, my lord," she said, her voice cold as the steel she wielded, each word precise and unyielding. "Accidents happen in busy places like this—blades slip, men fall."

He chuckled, a low, guttural sound, and eased back a step, though his eyes gleamed with undeterred malice. "Spirited. You'll need more than threats when my father's army gets here, Your Grace."

Before she could retort, a horn's mournful wail sliced through the din, followed by the frantic thunder of hooves against cobblestone.

Vivienne shoved past him, her cloak swirling as she strode into the courtyard. Riders burst through the gates, their horses lathered and trembling, their banners scorched and torn like the remnants of a funeral shroud. "Ironhold attacks!" their captain roared, his voice cracking with desperation. "The eastern villages are on fire!"

Her chest tightened, a vise of dread and fury clamping around her heart. She could almost see it—the flames licking at thatched roofs, the screams of her people rising with the smoke. The threat was no longer a distant rumor; it was here, clawing at her kingdom's edges. Cedric trailed her, his grin feral, a predator scenting blood. "Looks like you'll need my help after all, Your Grace."

She spun to face him, her eyes blazing like twin violet flames. "I need nothing from you, Cedric, except perhaps your silence. My people need me now—shelter, food, hope—and I won't trade their lives for your twisted games." Her words cut through the air, sharp and final, as she turned toward the growing chaos, already issuing orders to the guards who scrambled to her side.

---

Evening draped the west balcony in deepening blues and purples, the sky a bruised canvas stretching over the cliffs below.

Vivienne stood alone, her hands gripping the stone railing until her knuckles whitened and her palms stung. Below, refugees streamed through the castle gates—a tide of desperation washing against the walls.

Mothers clutched sobbing infants to their chests, their shawls streaked with soot; old men dragged charred bundles of belongings, their shoulders bowed under grief. Each figure was a wound on her soul, a silent plea she couldn't ignore.

The wind carried the faint wail of a child, and she closed her eyes, letting the sound sear itself into her resolve.

A shadow stirred behind her, deliberate and menacing. "Tomas sends his regrets," Cedric said, his voice smooth as oil, his blade catching the last glimmers of daylight. "He's a bit tied up right now."

Vivienne whirled, her dagger flashing free in a heartbeat, its edge gleaming as she leveled it at him. "What did you do?" Her voice trembled—not with fear, but with a fury so deep it threatened to consume her, mingled with a dread she couldn't yet name.

Cedric's smile was a cruel slash across his face. "Fixed a problem. He thought he could plot against me—against us—with his rebel friends. A touch of poison sorted that nicely."

"You'll pay for this," she hissed, stepping forward, her blade steady despite the storm raging within her. "I'll see justice done, not just for Tomas, but for every soul you've crushed under your greed."

"With whose help?" Cedric lunged, his sword slicing through the air with lethal intent. "Your precious people? They're too busy dying!"

Steel met steel in a clash that rang out like a death knell, echoing over the cliffs below. Vivienne parried his strikes, her footing sure on the worn stone despite the blood pounding in her ears.

He drove her back, relentless, until her heel brushed the balcony's edge, the wind howling up from the abyss as if urging her to fall. His blade darted low, a viper's strike, grazing her ribs.

Pain flared, hot and bright, but she twisted, her cry fierce as she drove her boot into his knee. A sickening crack split the air, and for one suspended moment, Cedric teetered—his face softening into something boyish, vulnerable, lost—before the void swallowed him whole.

His scream faded into the night, a ghost on the wind.

Vivienne sank to her knees, blood seeping through the silk of her gown, staining the violet fabric a darker shade. Shouts erupted below—"The prince is dead! To arms!"—as guards stormed the balcony, their faces pale with shock and uncertainty.

She forced herself to her feet, regal despite the crimson on her hands, and seized Cedric's fallen dagger, its weight a cold comfort. "Get the catapults ready," she commanded, her voice hard as granite, unwavering. "Light the signal fires. Our people won't fall without a fight."

War horns blared through the castle, a shuddering call to battle. Vivienne pressed a hand to her wound, the pain a grim anchor keeping her grounded.

Her gaze drifted to the garden below, where a silhouette swayed beneath an apple tree—Tomas, his form limp, his face darkened by the poison Cedric had boasted of. Grief clawed at her throat, raw and relentless, but she swallowed it down. There was no time to break—not yet.

---

Night cloaked the battlements in shadow as Vivienne ascended, her violet cloak snapping like a war banner in the gusting wind.

Smoke stained the horizon, a dark smear against the stars, and the air reeked of burning tar and fear. Below, Ironhold's army sprawled across the valley—an endless sea of black tents, siege towers rising like skeletal sentinels poised to strike.

The distant clatter of armor and the low rumble of war drums pulsed through the night, a heartbeat of impending doom.

General Rourke joined her, his weathered face taut, his knuckles white around his sword hilt. "They'll attack when the sun sets tomorrow," he muttered, his voice barely audible over the wind. "When the light blinds our archers and masks their advance."

Vivienne studied the enemy lines, her mind racing through strategies, calculating distances and defenses. "Move the reserves to the east wall," she ordered, her tone clipped and decisive. "Heat the oil cauldrons—we'll turn their march to ash before they breach the gates."

Rourke hesitated, his eyes flickering with doubt. "My queen… half the men are green boys, untrained soldiers. The other half don't trust your crown—whispers of Cedric's death have spread."

Her gaze turned glacial, pinning him where he stood. "Then remind them what's at stake—not just my throne, but their homes, their wives, their children. Tell them their queen fights for them, bleeds for them, as I do now." She lifted her bloodied hand, the crimson stark against her pale skin, a testament to her resolve. "There's no place for traitors when our people's lives hang in the balance. Go."

He nodded, chastened, and turned to relay her commands, his boots echoing on the stone. Vivienne faced the valley alone, her voice a whisper carried on the wind. "Stay strong, my people. Help is coming—I swear it."

The stars wheeled overhead, cold and indifferent, as the sun's last light bled into the horizon, casting the world in shades of blood and shadow.

The calm was fracturing, piece by fragile piece; the storm was poised to break.