Iron Queen

Two

The morning sun glimmered upon the palace dome, bathing Vermenia in a silent promise of better days to come. While the people below carried on with their daily affairs, we watched them from above without hesitation, like sea vultures poised to dive and strike.

The council chamber stood at the very top of the palace, surrounded by glass walls overlooking the capital’s harbor. The sails of the ships, illuminated by daylight, gleamed like ghosts against the dark waters.

Beyond the gardens, the gates, and the forests that stretched near the city walls, the harbor bustled with goods imported from foreign kingdoms and exported to distant continents, all distributed by Allen’s merchants. Children’s laughter, the chatter of business dealings, and the murmur of gossip echoed across the distance, crossing the bridge and reaching the jewel of the kingdom.

Three months had passed since the terrible attack against the late royal family. Since then, chaos had become the most fitting word to describe the kingdom’s condition.

Allen had always been a prosperous and powerful nation. In recent years, King Fren’s ambitions had centered on territorial expansion, transforming Allen into the second most powerful kingdom on the continent.

However, its rapid growth had come at a cost.

The damage had been festering internally for years.

The northern cities overflowed with luxury and prosperity thanks to trade and foreign influence, while those living in the south, near the enemy border, survived in misery, abandoned by a monarchy that had long since stopped caring for its people. Yet none of that seemed significant when compared to the kingdom’s accelerating wealth and influence.

Acceptable consequences.

A price to be paid.

The voice of the people was suppressed until the disadvantaged masses of the south united and sought justice with their own hands. Thus, the rebels were born—the very rebels who brought death to the royal family and plunged the kingdom into uncertainty.

Now Allen was being governed temporarily by the authority of the Five Councilors, of which I, along with several dukes and lords, was a member.

— Every lord here is fully aware of Allen’s situation. We managed to stall the leaders of the neighboring kingdoms for a time, but it won’t last much longer, I assure you. The people and the nation demand a ruler. If we fail to find one soon, we may as well prepare for the kingdom’s collapse and for our enemies to seize power both within and beyond our borders. — Duke Clevaran began yet another one of our meetings.

The Master of Coin was a pragmatic and rational man.

The great round table of black stone, dark as the primordial blood of Allen’s ancient rulers, stood as a symbol of power at the center of the room. Five chairs surrounded it, one for each councilor, their frames adorned with deep, twisted roots whose ancient strength was said to protect the kingdom.

Allen itself was carved across the table’s surface: an ancient map depicting rivers, borders, mountains, forests, cities, and villages.

An empire beneath our fingertips.

— We need someone who understands the kingdom, the monarchy, its principles, and who genuinely desires Allen’s prosperity. Daaniel is perfect for the position. Besides, he’s charismatic, and the people adore him. — the former First Councilor added.

Lord Saeom was an opportunistic and intelligent viper.

The late King Fren’s right-hand man and perhaps the most egocentric individual I had ever met.

Not that any of us lacked our own share of poison in this game.

But Saeom undoubtedly played dirtier than the rest.

He had seized this moment of vulnerability to place his puppet into the game. Daaniel was a good young man, truly. The poor boy wasn’t responsible for the uncle he had.

Saeom’s ambition was impossible to miss.

He wanted every ounce of power and wealth Allen could offer, and Daaniel was simply the easiest ladder to the top.

I adjusted the rings on my fingers, trying not to smile at his proposal.

— Of course. Placing a non-Ferro on the throne for the first time in centuries, one whose family name is stained by ancestors who betrayed their own people during a past war, would surely calm both the internal rebellion and the external conflicts Allen faces. — I remarked dryly.

As expected, the other four councilors turned their attention toward me.

Especially Saeom.

His predatory gaze burned against my skin.

That was his weakness.

The stain left behind by his ancestors.

The Astors would always be remembered as the family that betrayed its own blood.

— I agree that Daaniel is not the wisest choice at this moment. — another councilor spoke.

Hill, a short and broad man who served as Master of Ships.

— He’s a good lad, but he won’t end the rebellion. Allen needs dark blood. A Ferro. The people need hope, even if it’s only the faintest trace of it.

— The throne will only accept someone born to claim it. The blood of darkness must run through the veins of the next ruler. — I rose from my seat and spoke firmly.

— Oh, really? — a rough laugh echoed through the chamber.

Nightgart, the Master of Arms, raised an eyebrow in mockery, as though I had suggested something impossible.

— If Your Grace can find a living Campbell of dark blood—

He smiled, and the others followed.

I did not.

My expression remained perfectly calm.

The reddish strands of the weapons master’s hair swayed in the wind drifting through the open window.

As the breeze swept through the room, I lifted my eyes.

— And what if there is a living Campbell?

The laughter died instantly.

Good.

I hoped it never found its way back.

— More specifically… a woman.

The room fell silent.

— Give me one week. I’ll bring her to the castle and prove that there is still a Ferro heir for the throne.

The others stared at me with curiosity and disbelief, as though the proposal I had just made was the most absurd thing they had ever heard.

To my right, Clevaran made no effort to hide his surprise.

— That’s impossible, Lord Owen. Every dark-blooded heir is dead.

He frowned dismissively before following my gaze toward the portrait of the former royal family hanging upon the cream-colored wall.

Then his expression changed.

— Amberly… Wasn’t she dead?

— King Fren’s sister? She was first in line for succession and rejected the crown. Why would someone who refused to rule once choose to do so now? Especially under these circumstances. It makes no sense. — Nightgart replied.

He understood my move.

Or at least he thought he did.

In truth, none of them had.

I shrugged and offered the council the widest smile I had worn in years.

— Not her.

I paused.

— The true heir.

— Her daughter.

×

Four Days Later…

Golden Fox, Southern Allen

— Lord Owen, we’ve arrived in Golden Fox. — the general announced as the carriage slowed.

I slightly pulled back the curtain and watched Golden Fox reveal itself through thin columns of smoke and a patchwork of rooftops peeking over the hills.

Inside the low stone walls, rows of houses leaned against one another like people in a crowd, as if standing close together could keep away the cold, the forest, or the crushing poverty gnawing at the bones of their descendants.

People drifted along the streets as little more than silhouettes.

Wrapped in layers of clothing and bowed against the wind, they carried on with their quiet lives.

The contrast with the north had never felt so visible.

So painful.

So shameful.

I tried not to think about the cost of Allen’s prosperity as the carriage rattled onward.

Before long, the village church, modest homes, and narrow streets faded behind us.

Soon a small property came into view.

At last, we had reached our destination.

The Megan estate.

A modest farm isolated from the center of the village.

The carriage crossed the worn fence and rolled along the dirt path until it reached the house atop the hill.

The scene before me gradually took shape while my fingers tapped restlessly against my leg.

When the carriage finally stopped and the horses scraped their hooves against the ground, the guards descended and formally introduced themselves to the couple standing outside the residence.

Through the window, I observed their confused expressions and suspicious glances toward the uniformed men.

My gloved hand slid over the carriage handle.

With a fluid motion, I unlocked the door and carefully stepped onto the grass below.

The woman standing on the porch raised her eyes toward me.

I took a few steps forward, removed my hat, and pressed it against my chest before speaking politely.

— Sir and Madam, forgive the intrusion of my guards and myself, but we are here to speak with Miss Victoria Megan.