The high council chamber stood in stern silence, its marbled floor reflecting the light cast from the grand chandelier above. The obsidian throne gleamed in the center, Her Majesty seated upon it like a monument of will. The two empty seats at her sides stood untouched. Behind her, the two guardians — silent shadows.
Ten chairs stretched across the grand table, only seven occupied.
A soft clink of metal broke the silence — the Queen's fingers shifting the rings on her hand. Then, she spoke.
"I thank you all," the Queen said, her voice low and cold as midnight steel, "for arriving on time. It speaks to your dedication. Even in bitter times such as these, the Kingdom stands because its pillars do not waver."
She paused. Her gaze, sharp as the blade of a spear, moved toward the three vacant seats. One, her eyes barely touched. The second, she lingered on.
"It is expected that the Head of Velrane's Adventurer's Guild would be absent. They rarely trouble themselves with council affairs. But…" Her eyes narrowed slightly. "The absence of the Colosseum's representation is far more troubling."
Lord Talen snorted. "That man hasn't bothered to show face in fifteen years, your grace. He used to send a representative — even that seems too much effort now."
"Outrageous," Lord Masquien muttered, folding one fat hand over the other. His many rings sparkled under the light. "Her Majesty honors us with her presence every year. And that... entertainer insults the crown by absence."
The Queen raised one hand. "As long as a seat is filled, I do not require the original body. But without report or voice, many matters fall into shadow. And the Colosseum... touches more threads of this web than most."
Venara remained silent, but her thoughts were sharper than most swords. Of course, she mused. The Colosseum brought in more coin than entire border taxes. And now? That lifeline is bleeding.
The Queen nodded to herself. "We cannot wait. Let us proceed—"
Suddenly, footsteps echoed behind the doors. Rushed. Erratic.
Everyone turned. Venara's eyes flicked toward her brother. Vermon looked visibly puzzled, brows knitting as he glanced toward the three empty seats. He wouldn't know. That seat — the third — was never spoken of. It simply was.
The heavy doors creaked open. A man stumbled forward, gasping, a thick book under one arm, a pointed hat slightly askew.
"Y-your Grace!" he panted, dropping to a knee. "Vice-President Marnes, of the Colosseum. Representative of the Keeper. My... deepest apologies for my tardiness. I was, ah... retrieving my notes."
The Queen tilted her head slightly. "No concern, Vice-President. Seat yourself. Let the meeting begin."
"Y-Your Grace," Marnes stammered, bowing, then practically tripping over himself as he scuttled to the seat beside Lord Bloom.
The Queen exhaled once.
"Let this year's council commence," she said. "We will begin with the Minister of Market and Agriculture. Lord Masquien."
The snake, they called him. Ruler of the Hollow Grounds. A man with vast connections and deep reach. Respected by merchants and traders, recognized by citizens and outsiders alike.
Masquien inclined his head and rose, clearing his throat with unnecessary ceremony. "With your permission, your Grace…"
She nodded.
"This year's harvest has suffered, grievously. Two plagues struck the fields of the southern lowlands and eastern riverbanks. The crops have dwindled, and the market trembles beneath the weight of scarcity. Worse — infections spread among the peasantry. There is now extraordinary demand for medicinal herbs."
He drew in a breath. "Our military campaigns consume what little food we can secure. And the Colosseum, with its hundreds of thousands of mouths, draws even more. I spoke to its staff—" a glance toward Marnes "—but they are plagued by their own woes."
His voice turned grave. "Merchants have raised prices — in some cases four to five times the original. If this continues, the market will collapse. The people cannot afford to eat. If goods grow rarer, their value soars — and so too does desperation."
He bowed his head. "This problem must be solved, your Grace. It will not resolve itself."
Venara studied him. To the ignorant, Masquien looked like a wise man fighting for the people. But she knew better. He'd skin a starving man for his last copper — but lie to the Queen? Never. One did not gamble with a woman who had ears in every shadow. One such ear sat not far away, robed in the still silence of wisdom — Lord Eleazar.
The Queen's voice rang clear. "This is deeply concerning. Let us hear the rest first. Vice-President Marnes. Your report."
Marnes shuffled, flipping open his heavy tome. "Y-your Grace. The Colosseum is... vast. Grand. Maintaining such a machine requires... well... everything."
Vice-president of the Colosseum. Face of the Arena. The big brain behind numbers and matches. Shaky voice, trembling body, but recognized as the man next to the Keeper of the Colosseum, the heart of the kingdom.
He rattled on. "We are short on guards. Gladiators fall ill. Equipment is aging. Cleanliness requires labor — often slaves. The cost of feeding, housing, guarding, and scheduling matchups for over a million fighters... it grows by the month."
He flipped another page. "Arenas are tiered. Dust, Iron, Bronze... all the way to Gold. Numbers are declining. Fewer fighters, fewer spectators. Fewer bets placed. The poor, well, they're poor. They no longer gamble. The nobles? Some, yes. But our tax revenues are slipping."
He looked up desperately. "We need more fighters. We need better incentives. Or the Colosseum's glory fades."
The Queen nodded. "You've done well to bring these matters forth. We will address them."
Her gaze turned next to Lord Bloom.
He leaned back, completely unfazed.
"Well, everyone's alive," he shrugged. "Built twenty new Colosseums. Brothels, roads, bridges, towers. Oh, and ten thousand houses in Velrey. Empty, though. Prices too damn high. But that wasn't my call — you lot suggested it."
Venara sighed, non-existent, of course. All in her mind. Cursing in front of her majesty the Queen? In High Council?
Everyone treated this as normal, which again, confused Vermon.
The Queen's lips twitched into what might've been a smile. "The foundation of our kingdom depends on your efforts, Lord Bloom. Keep building."
Lord Bloom, the man known as Wind of the South. The Jester, sometimes they called him. Free of titles and names, of house burdens and realms to rule. His home is the brothel. His life is a breeze. A mockery of the noble blood and traditions. The Minister of Construction, Housing, and Infrastructure. A man taking his job as serious as a kid erecting a sandcastle on the beach.
"Your welcome, your Grace."
Lord Talen's knuckles cracked.
The Queen turned to him.
He stood, a slab of fury dressed in steel-threaded silks.
"We crushed the rebels in Arcelia Heights. The half-giants in the north are dead. Ishan tribes, silenced. Even the Elarians — a stain upon our north — are ash now. All this… without retreat. Without pause."
The Defender of the Realm. Keeper of the Peace. The Warlord of the Land. High General of the Velrane Armies. A Master and Legend of War. The Ruler of the Drakhearth. The man whose name puts fear in the hearts of enemies and allies alike. The man solely carrying the name of House Drakmore. A man who has won every battle. His name shall not bear the stain of defeat.
He raised a hand, gesturing pointedly at Lord Faron. "But our weapons crawl through these roads. Our food freezes before it arrives. Magic fails in the northern frost — no crystals. Few mages. Men die of cold before the enemy's blade. And in the south? The sands boil skin. We need support. More men, more food, more magic, more everything."
He sat again, firm as a stone. "A kingdom without strength is not a kingdom. Increase the war budget. Prioritize power."
The Queen nodded once. "Your victories serve us all. We will consider your request. Lady Venara — the treasury?"
Venara stood gracefully.
"Our gold mines have run dry. Revenues fall. Gambling, trade, construction taxes — all are down in total. The treasury bleeds."
And she, Lady Venara of House Goldmere, a Dragon bathed in fire. Mistress of the Treasury. Feared by merchants and traders alike. The Adversary of Greed. The Collector of Golds and Coins. Sharp eyes and ears for taxes. Mistress and Ruler of the Crimson Bough. The Golden Princess of Goldmeres. Some called her the most beautiful woman in the Kingdom, rivaling Queen's beauty.
Although one should not dwell the in opinions of masses and peasants, that still made her... feel good.
She glanced at Talen. "The military expenses — equipment, transport, food — all come from us. So do the Colosseum's needs. The budget cannot sustain both without collapse. Tax evasion is up. Illegal markets thrive. And if we raise taxes again… rebellion will not be hypothetical."
Her words cut clean. "We need to cut costs. Or…" a wry smile, "Lord Dearan may need to dig us another gold vein."
The Queen nodded. "Thank you, Lady Venara. Sometimes, two fires cannot be put out with one pail. Let us continue. Lord Eleazar."
The old man's voice was soft, yet it echoed.
"Faith grows as fear grows. But if fear is not eased... faith turns to wrath. Prayers will not fill bellies. Hope does not cure rot."
The Pillar of House Tenebor. Keeper of the Faith. Master of the High Cathedral. Prayed by many and respected by all. Known as the Holy Father. A bridge that connects the world of men to world of Gods. Admired in eyes of scholars, known as the Keeper of Knowledge. Protector of Tomes and History. The Keeper of the Grand Library and Archives. But in the noble circles, they call him the Master of Spies. The Most Dangerous Man in the Kingdom. The Infamous Candle of Shadows. Only second to Queen in terms of power and influence. The Queen's most trusted man. But in the shadows, they call him the Man with One Thousand and One Faces.
He folded his hands. "The root problems must be cut. But I offer my aid — in intelligence, and in research. My candle is yours, your Grace."
She bowed her head slightly. "Your candle lights our darkest corners. We are grateful."
At last, Lord Dearan stood.
"Your Grace. Lady Venara is correct — our mines offer little now. We extract silver, copper, but the veins are thin. The precious ores — gems, gold — are nearly gone."
Master of Mines. Ruler of Kharzaya. Master of the House Kharvataš. The man who is aware of the depth and darkness of this world more than anyone else. As their motto says, "The depth knows us."
He paused. "The conquered mines? Too distant. Robbed by bandits. Transportation unviable. The terrain unyielding. We must invest in research — tools, magic, methodology. Slaves dig shallow. We need deeper arms. Smarter arms."
The Queen's voice was gentle now. "Should you succeed, you may turn the tide of our hardship. We await your discoveries."
Finally, Lord Faron rose.
"I speak only to clarify. The roads are better. Safer. A joint effort — with Lord Bloom, and Lord Eleazar's craftsmen. Magical tools, efficient deployment, soldier outposts. Merchants and nobles alike walk unafraid."
The Protector of the Paths. Minister of Transportation and Safety. The Young Lord of House Elandar. The Ruler of High Mountains. They call him the Prince of Eyrie Clouds, but not the Emperor. His father, Emperor of Eyrie Clouds, Alveth, had died, but Faron was yet to be deemed worthy of that title.
"But," he added, "marching an army still destroys land. It consumes food. And hungry men... are dangerous."
He bowed. "We've done what we can. Beyond that, only solutions to hunger will preserve peace."
The Queen nodded.
Then — silence.
Venara folded her hands. Now, she thought, comes the storm.
The first round was over. Reports done. Pleasantries stripped away.
Now — the debate would begin.
The Queen remained still. Watching.
And somewhere deep in her shadow, behind her throne, something unseen shifted ever so slightly.