Chapter 11

A heavy morning hung over the palace.

Beatrice stood by the long window in the minor audience hall, arms crossed tightly over her chest, as if bracing against an invisible wind.

Outside, a cold drizzle fell—a thin, gray mist, as if the weather itself refused to clear.

Lady-in-waiting Lynette slipped quietly into the hall, clutching a bundle of letters to her chest. She hesitated before speaking.

— Your Majesty… a message has arrived from Ravel. His Majesty King Theodore reports that negotiations with the local lords have become complicated. He will be delayed for an indefinite period.

Beatrice nodded briefly.

Theodore had left three days ago to stabilize unrest on the distant borders. He was expected back soon. Now… now her shoulders were the only ones carrying the weight of power in the capital.

— Also, Your Majesty, an emissary from the High Temple has arrived. He demands an immediate audience.

Demands. Not requests. Not expects. The word hung in the air—a challenge. Beatrice straightened slowly.

— Show him in.

Even before the emissary's arrival, rumors had been carefully seeded.

The ladies whispered behind curtains. The court priests lingered in the halls, casting knowing looks at one another. Allegedly, the Queen hesitated to support the Temple. They said she neglected the sacred. They feared what would happen if the Lord turned away from the palace. Nothing direct. Nothing anyone could openly accuse her of.

Just droplets of poison, staining the fabric of her authority with rusty marks. And Beatrice felt each one of them on her skin.

The emissary was tall, gaunt, wrapped in heavy blue robes embroidered with silver lilies. A medallion of the Great Sanctuary hung from his neck. His face was impeccably polite, but the politeness was taut as a string on the verge of snapping.

He bowed, formally.

— Your Majesty, he said with a mask of respect, — The Temple is concerned. Recent misfortunes, attacks on holy lands, demand urgent action. The elders believe the endowments to the Holy Houses must be increased… to strengthen the people's faith in such troubled times.

Beatrice remained silent, letting his words fall into the hush.

— The decision, as we understand, cannot be delayed, he added with a slight edge. — For delay in matters of faith is nearly equivalent to a betrayal of duty to the heavens.

His phrasing was polished. Every turn of speech a trap. Sign, and become a pawn. Refuse, and become the enemy of the church.

Beatrice glanced at Laer, gripping her finger in his sleep. Fear burned inside her, but did not reach the surface.

She spoke slowly, clearly, giving each word weight.

— I share the Temple's concern for the people's welfare.

However, such an important decision requires complete transparency.

The emissary narrowed his eyes.

— Your Majesty?

— I command, she continued calmly, — that a full account of expenditures and requested funds be presented to the Small Council. After review, we will consider the possibility of increased funding. Openly. With witnesses.

The silence after her words was heavy.

The emissary straightened. For a moment, a wicked spark flashed in his gaze.

— Allow me to remind you, he said carefully, — that delay in serving the Faith may be… misconstrued.

Beatrice raised a hand, stopping him.

— Allow me to remind you, her voice was soft but sharp, — that the crown cares not only for eternal salvation but also for earthly order. And I will not allow anyone, be it the Temple or the council, to undermine that order with recklessness.

Her gaze was calm, steady, like still water. And within that calm, there was threat. The emissary bowed, slowly. Low. Without another word. He left, vanishing behind heavy doors.

Only silence remained in the hall. Beatrice stood alone in the middle. Her palms were cold, damp with tension.

Her knees were shaking.

At noon, a list of signatures was brought to her.

An open petition… a demand from the temple brothers: to double the donations. This time, the request was signed by dozens of names, not just one emissary. The handwriting was neat, polished, like bayonets on parade. And behind every name stood hundreds of believers. Beatrice laid the list on the table, scanning the rows of ink. Did he ignore my words? She wanted to hand off the decision. Shift the weight to the council. But now there was nowhere to retreat. No Theodore. No allies.

Only her and Laer, peacefully sleeping behind the screen. Beatrice closed her eyes for a moment. Breathed deeper.

She ordered the Small Council be convened that evening. Demanded every elder, every advisor sit in the hall as she spoke. No hiding behind signatures. No hiding behind rumors. Let them look her in the eye.

The Small Council chamber was cold and empty.

The fire in the hearth burned greedily, casting long, crawling shadows over the carved panels of the walls. The ladies-in-waiting arranged chairs in a semicircle near the queen's throne. Beatrice sat in her seat, back straight, hands calmly folded in her lap. Behind the high back of the throne, her face looked almost carved from marble.

There was a knock at the door.

One by one, the temple elders entered, in long cloaks edged with silver embroidery. After them the treasurer, the chancellor, several noble lords.

The men bowed, some low, some with a touch of laziness.

Beatrice did not rise, did not move a muscle. She waited until everyone was seated. When the last chair scraped across the stone floor, she spoke:

— Your demands have been delivered to me. — Her voice was quiet, but needed no repetition. — And I invited you today to hear your explanations in person.

One of the senior priests, gray-bearded, cold-eyed, leaned forward:

— Your Majesty, the temple merely seeks support in difficult times. Refusal will only strengthen the voices of those who see a sign in all that is happening…

Beatrice interrupted him with a slight motion of her hand.

— Do you believe the royal throne should bargain with salvation?

Silence.

— I recognize the need to care for the spiritual well-being of the people, she continued, evenly, without a tremor, — but equally, caring for the people requires maintaining order, defending the borders, sustaining the army.

She turned to the treasurer:

— The treasury is not bottomless. The reserves barely suffice for preparing new garrisons in spring. The lords exchanged glances. The elders as well. One of them stood up:

— Your Majesty, the Great Sanctuary teaches that when souls are threatened, earthly walls are nothing.

Beatrice tilted her head slightly, as if acknowledging his point.

— Precisely why, she answered calmly, — I propose:

the financial reports of the temple's expenditures will be submitted to the Council within seven days. All subsidies will be reviewed according to actual needs. And every coin will be distributed transparently. Under the crown's seal.

A murmur swept through the hall. Some of the elders tensed, some narrowed their eyes. But none dared to object openly.

She had not refused. But she had not submitted. She had seized control.

When the meeting ended, the elders slowly bowed, accepting her terms. The noble lords, some with respect, some with concern, followed after them. Beatrice remained alone.

Only the crackle of firewood filled the hall.

She allowed herself to lean on the edge of the throne. Her knees trembled from the prolonged tension, her back burned from the unnatural stillness. But her face remained cold. Beatrice looked up to the high vaults. The first blow, and you're still standing. She gave her leg a light tap with her fist. Just stop shaking!