Eramis stood at the cliff’s edge, the wind pulling at his cloak and stinging his face with salt and cold. Far below, waves struck the rocks in rhythmic bursts, their impact echoing up through the stone like the slow roll of distant thunder. He watched the riders descending the coastal road, their formation tight, movement steady. House Tiderain’s banners, dark as ink, drifted limply in the morning breeze, the silver kraken and sword barely catching the light.

  The caravan was shrinking by degrees, swallowed gradually by the curve of the land. Guards held their lines. Horses kept the pace. He felt the pressure rise beneath his ribs—tight, unwelcome, refusing release. It should not have ended like this. He should have stood in the way, raised his voice, drawn a line. But no one had asked him to fight, and nothing had allowed him to.

  He pressed his hand to the stone ledge, fingers tightening until the chill of it bit through his gloves. When the last trace of silver faded into the mist, he heard the step behind him. A touch followed, light against his arm.

  Eramis did not move.

  “Come,” said Queen Ellarisa, already turning. “We have much to do.”

  The breath left Eramis slowly, a steady release that did nothing to quiet the weight beneath his sternum. The sea’s presence clung to him—brine in his throat, cold woven into his sleeves. Within the walls of Cliffspire Citadel, warmth rose from stone floors and steeped air, but it could not touch the chill that lived just beneath his skin. Tea steeped somewhere nearby, its tannic bite folding into the soft, warm scent of wax. Parchment and ink lingered beneath it, dry and bitter as worn vellum.

  The councilors arrived in silence, each settling into their place with the confidence of those for whom power had long since ceased to be new. The high council table, long and lacquered to a dark sheen, caught the gold of morning light filtering through narrow windows. Duke Cedric Wynn shifted in his seat, dragging his chair half an inch with a scrape that cut through the quiet. He made no announcement, only straightened his ledgers and cleared his throat.

  “First order of business,” he said already weary with contempt. “The Silver Coast trade tariffs—the merchant guilds are pressing for reductions, citing ‘undue strain’ on their maritime exports.” He did not bother to hide his disdain. “A rather selective hardship, considering their profits last quarter were higher than the Crown’s own levies.”

  Eramis didn’t look up, but he was already charting the outcome. Wynn would bluster, Armand would bait, and nothing would shift but the hours. The sea beyond the Citadel moved with more urgency than the people in this room, and Eramis knew which one would matter first.

  Across from him, Duke Armand Tressel, the Minister of Trade, poured himself a measured cup of dark tea and smirked. “Come now, Wynn. Let’s not pretend taxation has ever made a merchant happy.”

  “Then let’s not pretend their whining is a crisis,” Wynn snapped, flipping a page with more force than necessary.

  Eramis suppressed the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. They would circle each other like this all morning. Queen Ellarisa laced her fingers atop the table. “What, exactly, are they asking for?”

  “A five percent reduction on dock tariffs, exemptions on warship requisitions for merchant fleets—” Wynn waved a hand. “And, for some godsforsaken reason, an extension on Iskarra’s southern silk trade exclusivity agreement. Which is not even a tariff issue, mind you.”

  Lady Selene Morrayne, poised at the Queen’s right, gave a small, knowing smile. “Because Duke Farros just raised his own tariffs on their shipments. They’re compensating.”

  “Of course they are.” Wynn closed his ledger with a snap. “Merchants always think they're starving. Never mind the gold spilling from their ledgers.”

  Lord Veymar Bannon, the Chancellor of Internal Affairs, spoke for the first time. His voice was measured, calm and never hurried. "It isn’t the tariffs that should concern us. It’s what they reveal." He let the silence sit for a beat before continuing. “Alvaren has always been the gate through which western trade flows. If we start making concessions, the merchant lords will see it as weakness.”

  Admiral Cassian Rotheran, the Master of the Fleet, leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “If we push too hard, they’ll just find alternate routes. No one likes paying Alvaren’s tolls, Veymar.” His navy-blue coat, was still damp with morning mist as if he’d come straight from the docks. “We’ve already lost a quarter of the Iskarran textile trade to Thalvaran’s Brightwater Port. If we let them expand unchecked, they’ll take another quarter within the year.”

  Armand nodded. “"Thalvaran smells an opportunity. Their docks may be small, but their merchants? Flexible, eager, and—most importantly—cheap." If we refuse the tariff reduction, we may not feel it today, but five years from now? We’ll be bleeding coin.”

  Wynn scoffed, drumming his fingers against the leather-bound ledger, the rhythm impatient, like a man holding back a sharper retort. “So, we cave because some grain traders want to line their pockets?”

  “No, we adapt,” Armand countered smoothly. “The way we always have.”

  Eramis held his hands flat against the wood, willing them still. Part of him wanted to stand, to pace the floor, to break the rhythm of ledgers and policy with motion, but he didn’t move. He sat through it, exhaling slowly. It wasn’t a crisis. It wasn’t even interesting, just the same old arguments in slightly different words, noblemen trading concerns. It was tariffs and guild negotiations, quibbling over percentages and titles, the kind of governance that dragged itself forward inch by inch without ever changing course. Somehow, it suffocated him more than the thought of battle ever could. He’d rather be sailing out into a storm than sit through another hour of nobles arguing about dock tariffs like it was war. At least storms were honest.

  His mother listened without interruption. She never indulged the arguments or tried to steer them early. She measured every word, let them loop through their rituals, and only spoke when the room had exhausted itself. She let them circle the drain, never interrupting, because when she spoke, it was already over.

  “If we offer concessions, we must do so strategically,” she said at last. “A broad reduction would set a precedent, and we can’t afford to look weak.” She turned toward Armand. “What do you suggest?”

  He set his cup down. “We lower dock tariffs specifically for high-yield exports—textiles, salt, and ship timber. In return, we demand exclusivity from our merchant lords. If they want lower fees, they don’t get to split the shipments between us and Brightwater.”

  Wynn’s scowl deepened, but he gave a reluctant nod. “If it’s targeted, I won’t fight it.”

  Ellarisa looked to Veymar. “Does this address your concerns, Chancellor?”

  Veymar took his time before answering, his fingers tracing slow circles against the polished head of his cane. When the silence had drawn long enough to feel intentional, he spoke. “It will do,” he said, his voice calm. “A temporary salve.” He let the words settle. His gaze flicked to the Queen, offering the barest inclination of his head.

  Eramis clenched his jaw to keep from sighing. Gods, how did they do this day after day?

  Cassian adjusted the cuffs of his coat. “If we’re done weighing coin, let’s talk about something that actually keeps this kingdom afloat—our damn ships.” He turned toward Armand, his voice edged with something close to irritation. “Your contacts among the merchant guilds have been slow to finalize terms. I’d like to know why.”

  Armand sighed, rubbing at his temple. “Because they want more money.”

  “They always want more money.” The admiral did not blink. His shoulders remained square, and his fingers, resting against the curve of his goblet, stayed perfectly still.

  “This time, they have an excuse,” Armand said dryly. “The cost of oak from the Harthwood Vale has gone up—bad harvest, they claim, though I suspect more of a coordinated price gouge. That means shipwrights are demanding higher payment before they commit to full-scale construction.”

  “So we’re overpaying for the ships that defend their profits,” he said. “Convenient.”

  “You could always build fewer,” Duke Wynn said dryly, treasurer to the last. “If coin’s the concern.”

  The Admiral shot him a flat look. “Unless you plan to defend Alvaren with fishing boats, Duke—no.”

  Eramis traced the edge of the table with one finger, the polished wood still warm from the morning sun. Years of council meetings had worn it smooth, a quiet testimony to habit and repetition. Around him, voices carried on with practiced ease—discussions of tariffs, lumber shortages, and minor border conflicts, all wrapped in language too careful to bruise. He remained silent. His jaw set briefly, then relaxed. The room was not quiet in peace, but in pressure. Something beneath his ribs shifted, not violently, but with purpose, waiting for room to breathe. His hand stopped. He looked up.

  “And if we refuse to meet their prices?”

  Armand sighed. “Then they’ll slow production. Ships that were meant to be finished in six months will take a year. Or more.”

  “And that’s assuming we’re the only ones bidding,” Veymar added, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Thalvaran is quietly buying up resources, ensuring that any future disputes over the southern Tyalon routes work in their favor. They’ve relied on our imports for years. Now they’re positioning themselves to stop needing us.”

  Eramis frowned. “Thalvaran doesn’t even have a proper fleet.”

  “Not yet,” Cassian countered, his voice unreadable. “But they don’t need warships to undermine us. Just a strong enough merchant fleet to pull trade out from under our noses.” He exhaled . “Which is exactly what it seems they’re aiming to do.”

  The conversation stalled as a servant crossed the chamber, moving with practiced ease. He filled each councilor’s goblet in turn, the scent of deep red wine rising with the quiet clink of silver. The Queen accepted hers without a word, her fingers circling the stem as she turned the goblet slowly, never raising it to her mouth.

  Across the table, Lady Selene Morrayne shifted at last. She leaned forward, her movement deliberate, the soft leather of her gloves creasing as she rested her chin against her knuckles. “So we lower tariffs selectively. We commit to overpaying the shipwrights. And we keep an eye on Thalvaran.” Her brow lifted, the faintest curl of a smile catching at the corner of her lips. “How exciting.” Eramis resisted the urge to sigh, his hand tightening briefly against the arm of his chair.

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  “You are welcome to take my seat if you find it so exhilarating,” Duke Wynn grumbled, his voice as dry as the ledgers he guarded.

  “Oh, no, dear Duke. I find the view from here much more revealing.”

  The Queen gave them both a glance, just a glance. It was all she needed. The exchange fell quiet.

  Eramis let his eyes wander beyond the carved arches of the solar, the sea stretched in steady silence, the surface smooth beneath the morning light. Waves moved with the same quiet rhythm that ruled the chamber—methodical, controlled, indifferent. The council rarely strayed from its course. And still, he felt it—a tension that tightened across his shoulders, a resistance in the stillness. Just policy dressed in gold leaf. A kingdom that had not been threatened in years, held together by contracts and habit. Alvaren had known peace too long. A peace dulled the senses and left no room to act.

  “House Rennick is still contesting the border dispute with House Lyndain,” Veymar said, calm and composed. “They claim the House Lyndain has expanded their vineyards beyond the agreed demarcation.”

  “Gods,” Duke Wynn muttered, rubbing his temple. “Are we really debating a few miles of grape fields?”

  “To House Rennick, it is hardly just grape fields,” Veymar replied. “The land is exceptionally fertile. A wine monopoly on the southern coast is not something they intend to surrender.”

  Queen Ellarisa gave a measured nod, turning to Sir Aldren Casker, her Arbiter and one of the few men in the room whose loyalties were entirely to the throne. “Is there any legal precedent to settle this quickly?”

  Casker tilted his head slightly, considering. “The original grant of land dates back to your father’s reign, Your Majesty. The Rennicks may have some grounds, but Lyndain has occupied it for over twenty years. A claim unchallenged for two decades holds weight.”

  “A judgment will need to be made,” Selene mused.

  Armand, who had been idly tracing a finger along the rim of his cup, smirked "Let them bicker a week, then sell the land to whoever offers the crown the sweeter coin. Pretend it’s about justice if it helps."

  Eramis’s laugh slipped out before he caught it and his mother shot him a look, equal parts warning and amusement.

  “We do not auction land like a merchant sells cloth, Duke Tressel.”

  Armand lifted his goblet in surrender, the smile behind it lazy. “A shame. It would make our work so much faster.”

  “And far more chaotic,” Selene added, her voice smooth.

  The exchange passed like a breeze through old stone. Eramis shifted, his hand brushing the carved edge of the table. He had seen this pattern play out a hundred times—arguments that filled the day without ever resolving. How many of these arguments were designed to not resolve? How many feuds were left to fester, just enough to keep the court distracted? His mother had taught him its purpose, noble squabbles were safer than unified dissent. Just enough discord to keep the court busy. Even so, it wore thin. He leaned back slightly as footsteps echoed at the far door. A messenger stepped in, marked by the deep blue of royal livery. The room fell still.

  He bowed. “A dispatch from Veyndral, Your Majesty.”

  The name alone sent a small current through the room. It crept in, slow and deliberate—not fear, not yet. But awareness.

  Ellarisa extended a hand, and the missive was placed in her palm. She broke the seal without hesitation and read in silence. The chamber held its breath, not in fear, but in focus. When she finished, she set the parchment down with care, her gaze still on the words.

  “King Veyne ,” she said, “has withdrawn from negotiations over the northern trade routes. Veyndral now refuses to acknowledge Alvaren’s authority over merchant levies along the River Brinmere.”

  Eramis leaned forward slightly. “That—” He hesitated. “That is a bold move.”

  Veymar exhaled slowly. “It is also deliberate. Veyndral does nothing without intent.”

  “They’re testing us,” Cassian murmured, his voice low.

  The words settled. No one answered. A gust swept across the chamber, then silence returned, as steady and cold as the sea beyond.

  “No,” Selene corrected at last. She tilted her goblet, watching the wine shift, then looked up without hurry. “They’re waiting to see if we blink.”

  The silence deepened. Eramis shifted slightly, his hand brushing the hilt at his hip before he stilled it. His body had already reacted before his mind had formed the thought: this was not a threat—it was a challenge.

  Ellarisa turned the parchment once, the vellum whispering against her gloves. Then she set it down and spoke without looking up.

  “Options.”

  Cassian leaned forward, the navy of his coat dark against the light from the windows. He clasped his hands together, elbows resting on the polished edge of the council table. “Strike back now. Impose levies on every Veyndral ship that crosses our coast. They’ll feel it.”

  “A move they’ll have anticipated,” Veymar’s eyes narrowed. “They’ll retaliate by blocking grain shipments down the River Tyalon. And if that happens, Thalvaran’s shortages will become ours.”

  Duke Wynn gave a short, sharp breath, tapping his fingers against the ledger before him. “Then we will match their escalation. Restrict blackiron imports. Without our markets, their mining operations—”

  Ellarisa raised a hand and silence followed.

  “We will not descend into trade wars. That’s a fool’s game.,” she said, calm as the tide. “Veyndral moves with intent. So must we.”

  The room waited.

  She continued, her tone unchanged, “We will not impose new levies. Not yet. Instead, we will change the current beneath them.”

  Eramis leaned forward, brow creased. “What does that mean?”

  Ellarisa met his gaze, pale blue eyes unreadable. “We shift the tide south. If Veyndral chokes the north, we make the south more profitable. Thalvaran can’t afford to lose our southern ports—not while they’re still stitching their economy back together.”

  Armand nodded in approval. “Increase our investment in Brightwater. Encourage their merchants to expand shipping infrastructure. If we reroute even a fraction of Alvaren’s goods through them, we undercut Veyndral’s leverage over the Tyalon before they realize we’ve moved.”

  Veymar’s chin dipped in a slow nod “A measured stroke. No open defiance, but the pressure shifts in our favor.”

  Cassian gave the decision a moment longer before nodding, “It’s subtle. It buys us time.”

  Eramis watched the exchange in silence. The decision sat uneasily in his chest, it wasn’t the strike-first instinct that burned in his blood, but he saw the merit. It wasn’t bold. It bent the board without tipping it. It let them strike without raising a blade.

  Ellarisa leaned back in her chair, the movement slight, but final. “See it done,” she said. “And double our intelligence reports on Veyndral’s fleet activity.”

  Around the table, quiet murmurs answered her. None spoke loudly. The decision had landed, and with it, the realization that strategy had taken its first step. The surface stayed calm, but something had shifted.

  She looked to the messenger. “Prepare a response to King Adrien Veyne.”

  The man bowed, voice steady. “What shall I say, Your Majesty?”

  She answered without pause. “Tell him Alvaren accepts his withdrawal. And that we will act accordingly.”

  Her words hung in the room. She left it untouched—no rise in tone, no flourish, but everyone heard the meaning beneath it.

  The messenger bowed and departed.

  “Enough for today,” she said, voice quiet yet absolute. “You are dismissed.”

  The sound of chairs scraping against the polished stone floor echoed across the room as councilors gathered their ledgers and intentions. Wynn murmured to Armand as they exited, already reshaping policy in the confines of his mind. Cassian, characteristically restrained, met Eramis’s eye and offered a single, thoughtful nod before departing without comment. His silences said more than most men’s speeches.

  Selene rose last. She adjusted her gloves with deliberate grace, her movements unhurried, her gaze drifting across the solar like a woman surveying the remnants of a game already played. As she passed Eramis, she paused—just enough to suggest calculation, never indulgence.

  “Restless, are we?” she asked, voice smooth and light, as if the question meant nothing at all.

  Eramis didn’t respond.

  She tilted her head, studying him in profile. “No appetite for policy?” Her voice dipped lower, almost conspiratorial. “Or simply tired of playing audience while others steer the ship?”

  Still, he said nothing.

  Selene smiled, but it was a private thing—quiet, precise. “Good.”

  She turned as if to go, then glanced back over her shoulder. “You know,” she said, softer now, “a still sea tells you nothing about the storm beneath it. But when the waters start to move…”

  She let the sentence hang, unfinished, the implication settling in the silence between them.

  “I imagine we’ll all be watching,” she added. “Some of us more closely than others.”

  And then she was gone. Her footsteps whispered against stone, vanishing down the hall, leaving only Ellarisa and her son in the quiet that followed. The soft rustle of silk broke the quiet as she reached for the circlet resting against her brow. Her fingers moved without pause, unfastening it in a slow, practiced motion. She set it beside the stack of unread dispatches, the gesture final in its intent.

  “Walk with me,” she said. Her tone required no agreement.

  Eramis followed her onto the balcony, where the wind moved unchecked, laced with brine. It dragged at the edges of their cloaks and pressed against his chest like a hand testing for weakness. The sea moved with the quiet patience of something ancient, its surface broad and silver under the sky.

  A gull carved a path overhead, its cry trailing into the space between them. Ellarisa did not speak until the silence had weight. When her voice came, it was level and unhurried, but it pressed against the air with purpose.

  “You wanted me to act because they sent a letter?”

  Her voice carried no curiosity.

  Eramis did not answer the statement. He focused on the sea instead. The tide surged against the cliffs, rough and tireless.

  “Veyndral only respects strength.”

  “You want me to answer Veyndral’s bluff with a blade.” Her gaze remained on the sea. “Strength isn’t just action. It’s knowing when action becomes necessary.”

  “And when is that?”

  His fingers curled against the stone.

  “Not when they expect it most.” Her voice was even, effortless. She let loose a soft laugh. “They stir the water, and you expect me to dive in.”

  He turned now, his frustration tightening the corners of his mouth. “You think they’ll stop stirring?”

  “No,” she said simply. “And that is precisely why we will not be the ones to move first.”

  His breath came slow and deliberate. He shifted, a faint scrape of boot against stone. “You’re handing them the advantage.”

  “I’m handing them the illusion of it,” Ellarisa corrected, her gaze cut to his. “Veyndral thinks they hold the knife. Let them. Let them grip it so tightly that it cuts their own hand first.”

  He held still, his breath steady but shallow. She had always taught him to wait, to watch, to think. But his patience was fraying.

  “So we stand idle?”

  Ellarisa’s voice softened. She spoke his name with a steadiness that drew his attention without command, “Eramis.”

  He kept his eyes on the sea.

  “You are not made to strike blindly,” she paused. The morning light caught the silver in her hair. “You are not a blunt instrument."

  He turned slowly.

  "Not yet."

  A gust lifted the hem of her cloak. She stood in full light now, face drawn in calm resolve.She faced the horizon, hands still at her sides, her voice low and level.

  “I know what you want.”

  His mouth pressed into a line. His breath slowed.

  “I do.” There was no question in her voice. “You want to be seen.” She turned fully now, reading the defiance in his posture. “You want to be the one they remember, and when they challenge us, you want to be the one standing with a sword in hand.”

  She watched him, eyes searching.

  “You think that makes us strong,” she said. ““You think strength lies in striking first. That hesitation invites weakness. That waiting means we lose control.”

  His throat worked as he swallowed.

  “But that’s not power,” she exhaled softly, shaking her head just once. “No, Eramis. It is what weak kings do.”

  The words struck harder than any blow.

  She continued, her voice quiet but exact. “You don’t win a war by being first to the battle. You win it by ensuring it is the battle that needs to be fought.”

  Eramis wanted to look away, but he didn’t.

  Her eyes narrowed. “If you become a sword, someone else will always wield you. If you want to rule, you must learn when to draw the steel.” The sea hammered the cliffs. He gripped the railing, knuckles pale, and drew a steadying breath.

  “I won’t let Alvaren become weak.”

  Ellarisa held his gaze without blinking. “And I will not let you become reckless.” Her eyes stayed on him. “And I will certainly not allow you to become a liability.”

  His pulse climbed. He kept his voice level. “Then what will you allow, Mother? What is it you’ll let me become?”

  She didn’t answer at once. Her expression stayed still, but something shifted behind her eyes—sharp, quick, gone before he could grasp it. Then her reply came, low and unshaken.

  “More.”

  The wind pressed into the silence between them, curling around his shoulders, lifting the hem of his cloak. Eramis stayed where he was, unmoving. Her answer wasn’t a command, and it wasn’t a gift. It settled deeper than that, folding into the parts of him still unformed.

  She turned and walked away without pause. Her pace was steady, each step deliberate. The dark sweep of her cloak whispered against stone as she passed.

  Eramis closed his fingers around the railing. The stone beneath his hands held no warmth. Beyond the cliffs, the sea rolled in slow rhythm, its voice louder now, rising into the wind.

  He stayed there, watching the tide move, already knowing the truth. He would not wait for it to change. He would shape it.