Instead she sat with all the regal grace her aides, advisors, and allies expected of her. The dress she wore, a silver gown inlaid with sparkling shards of diamond and embroidered with manastone-filigreed runes, hugged her tightly enough to almost restrict her breathing—thanks in no small part to the enthusiasm of her maids in how they had tightened her bodice.
The words of her council danced around and within her mind while she appraised them, her blue eyes moving from one face to another as they voiced their opinions—and disagreed on everything under the sun. From taxation to tariffs, from military spending to defensive investment, from economic downturn to expected highs, and even the less certain and more fantastical elements of things.
Her immediate council of advisors consisted of ten people; four nobles, two merchants, three adventurers, and the captain of her personal guard. Between them all were over a dozen more aides, scribes, and otherwise stationed around the room or sitting nearby—but the main body of her council was thus. She had to keep her circle small to avoid leaks, but even a small circle for a future Queen was large by any other standard.
The chaos of the table could sometimes be quite a spectacle, however, when certain anomalies or odd happenings were reported and debated on.
Anomalies, for example, like one Leonidas Achilles, and the irascible Duchess that had taken him as her Squire.
That particular bit of information she was glad to have received from Ceruviel herself days prior. Had she not, then she might have been in just as much of an obsession spiral as the rest of her supposedly mature and experienced aides, advisors, and allies. The fact that the Dusk-Lord had not only taken a Squire for the first time in memory, but that said Squire was a Terran had set Dawnhaven’s social fabric aflame.
With how relatively peaceful things had been for the last year or more, it was no surprise: scandal was the preferred meal of the aristocracy and citizenry both—and something that involved Duchess Latherian was about as high profile as it came, short of a royal affair.
The matter had become an unwanted distraction—a single Terran somehow fracturing years of careful narratives. And Ceruviel, as always, said nothing. Even Duke Uriel Aventus, the Dawn-Lord, had been forced to openly admit he knew nothing about the situation just to quell the not-so-subtle entreaties from various slighted noble families—all of whom demanded an explanation as to why a Terran had been chosen over their own precious offspring.
Then, of course, the rumors from the Adventurers’ Guild trial and the news about the Arena had properly spread, and the city’s rumor mill had ignited like an unchecked conflagration. Level 8, Untempered, and somehow able to defeat a near-second tier Monster and become a finalist in the Elite Slayer Trial?
It had caused an uproar, and not simply because of the circumstances: because it created a dangerous and unknown factor that only served to rekindle the embers of a tension Aylar, Braedon, and everyone else had—willingly or begrudgingly—worked together to smother: the treatment of Terrans within Dawnhaven.
It had been a passively understood constant that Haelfenn were simply superior to Terrans in both capability and training, and while Aylar was not particularly fond of that rhetoric, it had been factually true insofar as any evidence could offer.
That was until the arrival of Leonidas Achilles, and the subsequent upending of almost four years of ironclad propaganda.
Aylar exhaled slowly while shifting in her seat. The bodice was still too tight, but she made no move to adjust it.
A Queen does not fidget.
Aylar had worked tirelessly to reshape herself in the image of a Queen—to use every weapon at her disposal. Beauty. Poise. Strength.
Leonidas Achilles, in contrast, had simply ignored the rules and broken them by accident. It was a luxury he was afforded, perhaps without him ever being aware of it, by merit of his sex. It was a luxury, in contrast, that Aylar was thoroughly denied.
The passive lack of equity reminded her of a lesson from long ago.
“{A female commands not just with her presence, but with her beauty, Aylar.}”
She had looked at her mother, the Swordmaiden Heroine-Queen of Altera, with a dubious expression at her words—all fifteen years of her bullheaded attitude showing on her face. “{I have no desire to be a piece of meat for old Haelfenn to salivate over, mother.}”
The Heroine-Queen had let out a rich and knowing laugh, her golden hair catching the morning sunlight while she reached for Aylar’s chin. Her fingers, calloused from years of wielding a blade, were a stark contradiction to the softness of her smile. “{Sweet girl,}” she murmured, amusement and patience woven into her tone, “{it is not about them. It is about you. If you are to rule, you must understand that your beauty is a weapon—and wield it to your advantage.}”
“{You walk around in armor all the time.}” Aylar had objected stubbornly.
“{I do.}” her mother had conceded with a twinkle of mirth. “{And yet, it was not armor that won the heart of your father, or the loyalty of the nation. My battlefield deeds played a part, but it was my beauty combined with my feats that enchanted them. No matter how capable you are, my darling; nobody wants a boor for a Princess—and nobody wants a mannish troll for a Queen.}”
“{You sound like the geezers that insist a female cannot rule alone, mother.}” Aylar had said in annoyance.
“{We do not live in a society where the idle fancies of wishful thinking control reality, my beloved Aylar. When your time comes, you will understand: all of us, no matter our power or birth, are subject to the eclectic whims of the masses—including the aristocracy that pretends to stand apart. If those masses want a Queen, then you must give them a Queen.}”
“{But why do I have to make myself look like a dolled up fop?}”
“{Because no matter how powerful you are, my daughter; steel and blades are the equipment of a male, in the eyes of this nation, and if you try to compete with males while playing at their game—you will lose.}”
“{Then how do I win?}” she asked with frustration.
“{Make beauty your armor, make charm your weapon. Play by our rules. That is how you not only stop their game from starting—you beat them before the first sword is drawn.}”
Aylar blinked at her words, and her mother leaned in; her smile now edged with the ferocity that had made her a legend.
“{A Queen does not fight on others’ terms, Aylar. She makes the battlefield her own.}”
“{...no idea what the Dusk-Lord is thinking.}”
The voice of Marquis Yvaris, one of her four noble councilors, drew Aylar back to the present and she directed her gaze toward him at the tail end of his words. Opposite him, Viscountess Haeyr seemed a mix between amused and perturbed.
“{Attempting to guess the mind of Ceruviel Latherian is like trying to gauge the whims of a Dragon. The simple truth is that the Duchess doesn’t care, my lord. Tradition, expectation, and ceremony are as useless in her eyes as a newborn child is to our military.}”
Aylar raised her eyebrows at the certainty of the other Haelfenn female’s belief, and turned toward a third individual—Earl Maeron Brightblade—when the celebrated Knight and Lord shook his head and spoke.
“{I have known Ceruviel Latherian for over a century and fought beside her on Altera. She respects the history of our nation as much as anyone, even if she is not overly infatuated with its practices.}” he said in a tone that subtly spoke of correction. Clearly, he took issue with the Viscountess’ words. “{She was also one of the Heroine-Queen’s chosen representatives. There is a reason the King charged her to accompany us as Dusk-Lord. Be cautious that your disgruntlement does not lead you down a path toward earning the ire of one of the last Archons, Lady Haeyr.}”
“{This is all well and good,}” Taerion, one of the few Platinum Adventurers that had transmigrated with them, said with impatience immediately afterwards “{but you are all ignoring the more pressing reality here: Leonidas Achilles has completely upended the balance of power within the lower ranks of the Adventurers’ Guild. It—}”
“{Why should that concern us?}” demanded Count Saelyr, the last of her four noble advisors and a loyal enough supporter, but hot-headed at the best of times. His father had been one of Aylar’s mentors, previously, on Altera—and the young Count and she had enjoyed a healthy friendship before and after their transmigration… though her rejection of his advances had strained things for a time. “{What matters is that the Terrans are starting to grow obstinate again. We need to look at how we can curtail their—}”
“{Have you forgotten, Count Saelyr—”} cut in Taerion once more “{—that Her Highness is due to delve for her Rite of Ascension imminently? Why should Leonidas Achilles concern you? Because the boy may end up being the trump card during the delve!}”
Snorts of derision echoed around the table, but Aylar noticed not everyone seemed so ready to dismiss the idea.
Earl Brightblade looked thoughtful, the two other Platinum Adventurers—Carius Fireborne and Samira Shadebloom—seemed speculative as well, and her two Terran merchant advisors Thomas Anders and Maria Cherov, usually warily quiet during the meetings, appeared to be watching all the Haelfenn around the table with a mix of calculation and subtle displeasure.
Aylar, having been content to absorb their discourse while they argued, shifted subtly in her chair and cleared her throat. There was a time to observe, to let others show their cards and read their intent—and there was a time to steer, either gently or firmly. Her father had taught her that.
It was a lesson Braedon had failed to learn in kind, much to their parents’ chagrin.
“{You all act as if this development is solely disruptive. It is disruptive, but not only in the way you all fear. Our concern should not be that he exists—it should be how best to harness his existence for the good of Dawnhaven and all its peoples.}” she began calmly while using her eyes to ensure she captured the attention of everyone at the table. “{While the man himself is a stranger, Ceruviel Latherian is not. As Earl Brightblade so wisely pointed out, the Dusk-Lord has been a stoic and stalwart patriot of Altera her entire life—and was a favored companion of my mother, the Queen.}”
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The subtle reminder of her bloodline and the weight of its discernment worked as she had hoped, and she saw the inklings of stubborn jaws fading into consideration.
“{While his emergence certainly puts us into a precarious socio-political position, we cannot overlook the boon that his arrival offers us.}” Aylar continued while turning specifically to look at Thomas and Maria. “{Though usually quiet, our Terran friends here can no-doubt weigh in on the significance of an individual displaying the power to not only subvert expectations of Terran capability, but represent true equity between the native peoples of this world and our own.}”
Both Merchants eyed her warily when she spoke, glanced at one another in that habitual way humans were wont to do, and then slowly nodded their agreement.
“{Power does not belong to the strongest, nor to the most deserving—it belongs to those who shape the battlefield before the battle begins.}” Aylar said with an echo of pride in remembering the lesson her mother had taught her. “{In this, I believe Leonidas Achilles could prove a boon to our cause—and help bridge the painful divides that still linger between us and our Terran citizens. I would like to hear from Thomas and Maria, and understand what he represents to the Terran populace, not just what we think he represents.}”
The pair of natives glanced at one another again, and then once more turned back to the Princess—only to be stymied by an interjection from Count Saelyr when Thomas opened his mouth to speak.
“{Of course the Terrans will be thrilled. One of them managed to prove themselves worth more than hard labor.}” he said with unveiled derision.
A sharp silence fell over the table at Count Saelyr’s words.
Aylar did not immediately react. She simply looked at him—not with anger, not with offense, but with the kind of expectant patience that her mother had wielded against her in her youth. Despite the similarity of age between them, Saelyr had always been lacking in social tact and maturity.
If she had to be the one to guide him toward becoming the Haelfar his father thought he could be, then so be it. She owed the elder Count that much.
Saelyr, to his credit and her satisfaction, realized his misstep swiftly.
He was brash, and eager to prove his loyalty through bluster, but he was not a fool—at least, not when it mattered. Aylar could see it in the way he shifted in his seat and the way his fingers curled slightly against the polished wood of the table, with clear signs of regretful discomfort. Braedon might have verbally eviscerated him or shamed him for his own amusement for speaking so openly, but Aylar had learned the value of silence.
She let it stretch just long enough to become uncomfortable.
“{And yet, Count,}” she said at last, her voice as smooth as tempered steel when she finally broke the tension, “{for all your disdain, was it not your own younger brother that surrendered the trial rather than face Leonidas Achilles in combat? In fact, I believe not a single Haelfenn of pure blood made it into the final four.}”
Saelyr stiffened, but he had enough presence of mind not to argue. He had made his stance clear; now he had to weather the consequences of it.
“{It is easy to forget the gravity of an achievement, and the worth of our contemporaries, when the world is solely viewed through a biased lens. You are a treasured part of my council, Count Saelyr, but I will remind you to mind your impulses when I am speaking to a fellow councilor. This is not Altera. Remember that.}”
The Count dipped his head, but said nothing, though his cheeks were faintly flushed.
Aylar turned away from him, dismissing his objection without another word. She would let him bear the shame of the outburst, and let the room absorb the weight of her words. She had no patience for self-serving rhetoric, not when the future of her kingdom demanded foresight instead of arrogance. Her ability to accept the necessities for Dawnhaven’s future prosperity was why they followed her. Archaic perceptions of racial supremacy served them ill.
She gestured, subtly but pointedly, to Thomas Anders.
“{You were about to speak, Master Anders. Please, continue.}”
The Terran merchant’s jaw tensed slightly, his eyes flickering between the Count and the Princess. His expression was carefully neutral, though there was no mistaking the way his fingers tapped once against the polished table—a small, controlled movement that spoke volumes.
Calculating. Wary. Respectful enough to bite his tongue, but not cowed.
Terrans, she had discovered, were a very proud people.
“{Thank you, Your Highness,}” Anders said at last, and after a length of silence at her instruction that just barely bordered on impoliteness. She saw each of her four nobles, even Count Saelyr, take note of that silence with different reactions—but she said nothing, and without her reprimand, neither would they.
Given the circumstances, it was best she simply let it go.
The Merchant folded his hands before him and when he spoke, his tone was measured and even. “{I cannot pretend to speak for every Terran in Dawnhaven, Your Highness, but I can speak for those I represent in the merchant’s guild and residential quarter—and I will tell you plainly: Leonidas Achilles is not just an anomaly to us. He is a symbol.}”
Maria Cherov, sitting beside him, inclined her head in agreement.
“{Thomas speaks the truth, Your Highness, fellow councilors. For four years, the message—no matter its phraseology or intention—has been clear: Terrans do not rise. Terrans do not advance. We are weak, and we are fortunate to even find the privilege of service within Haelfenn society, be it as Adventurers, servants, or otherwise.}”
Aylar felt her expression soften with empathy at the Terran female’s words, and though she kept herself largely poised, she couldn’t help but feel some measure of guilt. It was easy to forget that they, the Haelfenn, were the invaders—and these people had built millennia of civilization and culture prior to their arrival.
By all accounts, the ‘United States’ that Maria and Thomas were born into was particularly opposed to exactly the sort of circumstances the Merchant was describing. It put the importance of Ace’s emergence into stark contrast.
“{While I understand the frustration of that outlook, Mistress Cherov, surely you know that not all of us share that viewpoint.}” Brightblade said after the woman fell silent. “{I have personally nurtured several promising Terran Knights for my House.}”
“{Whether or not the people at this table resonate with or agree with that stance is, respectfully, wholly moot, my lord.}” Thomas answered instead while fixing his gaze upon the Earl. “{Your actions do you credit, but they are not enough to outweigh the gravity of our reality. Maria’s words reflect the status quo established when you settled here, whether by law or by unspoken rule. Your act of respect, while appreciated, does not ameliorate our peoples’ circumstances.}”
He turned his sharp gaze to encompass all of the nobles at the table, lingering just long enough to be pointed before returning his attention to Aylar.
“{The rest of the Aristocracy was more than happy to reinforce that status quo as well.}” Samira put in with a small shrug of her black-robed shoulders after Thomas was done, her eyes moving among the assembled. “{Isn’t that why we are in the circumstances we are? It is insincere not to acknowledge that a large majority of nobles support Braedon specifically because of his views on Haelfenn supremacy.}”
The four nobles at the table reacted with different levels of displeasure at Samira’s words, but no one rebuked her—not even Saelyr, who only looked even more somber at the deluge of truth that had been shared. If nothing else, Aylar hoped that would work to better shape her kinsman.
Maria nodded toward Samira when she finished, and then redirected her gaze back to Aylar. The Princess did not miss the subtle embers of pride burning within her green eyes when the Terran female continued.
“{Leonidas Achilles has, by simple merit of achieving things even Haelfenn see as baffling and borderline impossible, shattered that expectation. While some among the nobility may see this as an inconvenience, the common Terrans—those who have endured four years of quiet subjugation, regardless of intention—see it as something else entirely.}”
Earl Brightblade leaned forward slightly despite himself while resting his forearms on the table. “{And what is it they see, Mistress Cherov?}” he asked with genuine interest.
Maria held his gaze without flinching. “{Hope.}”
The word landed like a hammer on the table.
It was a simple answer, but it was also the most dangerous answer that could have been given. Hope was the kindling of change, and change was a force that could not be controlled once set in motion.
For the first time, Aylar saw flickers of true realization cross the faces of her council. Even Saelyr, still ruminating from his prior reprimand, looked unsettled.
Good. Let them understand.
Aylar permitted the word’s impact to hang for a moment longer, and then folded her hands in her lap. “{Then the question before us is not whether Leonidas Achilles should be acknowledged. It is how best to make him an ally.}”
None of them knew that Ceruviel had already all but promised Leonidas—Ace—as part of her Delve team, and given the rumors and stories she had been hearing combined with what the merchants were saying now?
Ceruviel truly had done her an immense favor.
Which meant, of course, that she was plotting something.
Marquis Yvaris was the first to speak into the silence she had left while clearing his throat. “{With respect, Your Highness, if you truly intend to wield this Terran as an asset, you must consider the political cost. A singular anomaly may be tolerated, but if his success emboldens others…}”
He trailed off, letting the implication settle. If more Terrans followed in Leonidas’ footsteps, if more of them sought advancement, recognition, power—what then?
Aylar tilted her head while studying him, and smiled quietly. “{You assume this is something we must fear, Marquis. I say it is something we must shape.}”
“{While your brother remains an equal contender, shaping such things may prove difficult.}” Earl Brightblade said after a moment. “{I know you know this, Your Highness, but it is worth reaffirming the reality that Braedon’s influence is extreme among the very aristocracy you wish to corral, as already expressed.}”
“{My brother remains an impediment to many things.}” Aylar said with a nod. “{But I am hopeful that, following my Rite of Ascension, the balance of power will shift appropriately.}”
Viscountess Haeyr let out a quiet hum at her words, and amid the murmurs that followed, spoke up more directly.
“{Spoken like your mother’s daughter, Your Highness.}” she said with a dip of her head. “{Still though, some might say there is an easier solution. If you were to find a proper husband from among the Aristocracy, it would certainly ameliorate much of the concerns other parties have with your rise overturning our cultural traditions.}”
Aylar’s fingers curled slightly against the table’s edge. Marriage. Even her own advisors, loyal as they were, hearkened to it as an answer. Nods from around the table, even from the Adventurers and Terrans, only reaffirmed that her own resistance to the idea was seen as increasingly odd.
A simpler answer? Perhaps. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t considered it.
But marriage was not something she was willing to entertain so frivolously—not as a tool, not as a concession. She knew she had a duty to mother an heir, and there was no question she would; but she would not become some male’s glorified broodmare.
If Aylar was to marry, she would marry—if not for love—for respect and mutual benefit, not simply shallow politics alone. If a male was to stand alongside her as King, more than anything else, she had to be able to trust not just her safety to them; but her vision for Dawnhaven as well.
But the names whispered in the halls—veteran generals past their prime, lesser sons of noble houses seeking status, and vagabond adventurers of braggadocious temperament and no courtly training—left her with little optimism.
“{I am aware of the need to secure a match, Viscountess, but I am in no rush. After my Rite of Ascension, and once we have secured the Throne, I will look in earnest as tradition demands. For now, however, we will play with the cards we are dealt and work to harness the changes happening in Dawnhaven for the better—preferably before my brother can turn what should be an evolution into a revolution that threatens us all.}”
Viscountess Haeyr let out a quiet humm and bowed her head. “{Bold, Your Highness. You are planning on playing a dangerous game.}”
Reactions around the rest of the table were mixed, with both Terran merchants appraising her with unreadable expressions, the Marquis—a staunch traditionalist despite his loyalty to her cause—stroking his chin in thought, Brightblade peering at her in consideration, Saelyr staring stonily at the table, and the Adventurers watching everyone with open curiosity and subtle amusement.
Despite it all though, Aylar remained undaunted.
Instead she met their gazes steadily, and lifted her chin.
When she spoke, it was with every iota of her [Princess Royal] presence.
“{I am the daughter of the Heroine-Queen, good councilors. Danger is in my blood.}”
And to that, at least, nobody had anything to say.
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