Beneath the Table, Behind the Eyes

Location: Oslo Keep – East Wing Councilor's Alcove

Time: Evening, Day 374 After Alec's Arrival

The amber hush of late light filtered through the tall arched windows as the barons filed into the East Wing's councilor alcove — a long, wood-paneled room lined with smoke-stained banners, aging maps, and shelves of untouched decanters. The air was thick with the musk of old power and older grudges. This wasn't a space for deliberation. It was a cage for ambition.

They came without formal summons. Only a message sent by courier, bearing a seal they all recognized: Countess Elira of Oslo. But what caught them off guard wasn't the letter.

It was the fact that Alec Alenia would not be attending.

That left them with her.

And with each other.

Only four of the barons were in attendance. Baron Irden was missing.

Lady Vesch wasted no time. She poured herself a glass of dark amber brandy, the bottle clinking softly against crystal. She raised it with dry amusement. "So. We're to be yoked now, dressed up for Midgard's parade. Led like broken colts behind that boy with the hard eyes."

Baron Kersh scratched his chin. "Carowen tried something like this before the Red Frost. Centralize, reform, consolidate. Their lord choked on his own taxes. Literally."

Sir Althor, silent thus far, stood with his arms crossed, posture carved from stone. His jaw worked slowly, like a man grinding stone with his molars. He said nothing, but his gaze flicked toward the door. He was waiting. Watching.

Baron Halren, red-faced and blotchy, dabbed his brow with a square of linen soaked in sweat and pomade. "They brought us food and coin. And the roads are being surveyed. I say we let them have their little reforms. Then bleed them on the tax turns."

Vesch turned sharply. "You've always thought in seasons, Halren. That's why your people riot every other harvest."

Halren slammed his hand on the table. "I may be fat, but I've still got teeth."

"Then bite something useful," Vesch said, her tone honeyed with venom.

"Enough," Althor said, not loud — but absolute. A soldier's voice, trained to cut through chaos.

He looked at them now, steady.

"We've seen Elira rule with grief and necessity. But this—this is something different. This is the beginning of vision."

Kersh snorted. "Vision doesn't make you queen."

"No," Althor replied. "But backing does. And she's got Midgard behind her now. You saw that man. Alec Alenia. He doesn't speak to convince. He speaks to command."

Halren scoffed. "You place your faith in a man who doesn't even wear a sword?"

"I don't trust him," Althor said. "I fear what he means. That's enough."

And then the door opened.

And the one they least expected walked in.

Elira.

She wore no ducal purple. No tiara. No jewels. Just a black travel cloak lined with navy silk, high at the collar, tailored sharp at the waist. Her auburn hair was pinned in a loose coronet, stray strands curling against her cheek from the walk. Her boots were silent on the stone.

She didn't sit.

She didn't need to.

"This is no longer about petty charters or feudal borders," she said, voice cool and even. "This county is changing. And if you want to remain part of its story, you must change with it."

Vesch narrowed her eyes, lifting her glass lazily. "You've taken to speaking like your advisor. Do you think us so easily pushed?"

"I think you've mistaken quiet for consent," Elira said. "This is not a request."

Baron Kersh scoffed. "You've ruled by grief. By sympathy. That doesn't grant you authority."

Elira's gaze turned to ice.

"I've ruled through war, plague, and two winters without Midgard's grain. I held this keep when every other door shut. And now I rebuild it without Alec in the room."

She stepped forward.

"You want strength? Here it is."

Her voice didn't rise. It didn't need to.

"I buried my husband with one hand and signed tax relief with the other. I had a daughter in my arms and rebels at my gates. And not once—not once—did any of you offer me more than silence."

Halren opened his mouth.

"You were too afraid," Elira said. "Too loyal to the memory of kings and coats of arms to realize the duchy is starving for leadership."

She placed a scroll on the table.

"Your baronies will each receive a reform charter. You will implement sanitation protocols. You will begin record-keeping on land usage and livestock yield. You will establish training rotations for your local guard companies."

Kersh frowned. "On what authority?"

She looked him dead in the eye.

"Mine."

He stood, furious. "This is overreach—"

"No," she cut in. "This is what survival looks like."

Her cloak swirled faintly as she paced around the table, slow, deliberate. Measuring. Like Alec would.

"I don't care if you like me. I don't care if you think I've earned it. But you will obey. Because the ones who don't?"

Her voice dipped.

"They'll be replaced."

The room chilled.

Lady Vesch leaned forward now, her expression less sharp. More… intrigued.

"You've changed," she said softly.

"I've grown," Elira answered. "And gods help me, if you force me to choose between your pride and Oslo's future—"

She didn't finish the sentence.

She didn't have to.

She turned for the door.

Paused.

"And if you want your reports to be read," she added, "I suggest you learn to write legibly."

She left.

And this time, none of them spoke.

Not for a long, long while.