Venara closed her eyes briefly. She remembered. Families used to sell their children. Some still tried.
Back then, the world was darker. Even worse than now. The common folk — the true spine of the realm — starved. Mothers sold their bodies to feed their children, and in darker corners, parents sold the children themselves to keep the rest alive.
The Queen had changed that.
It had not come from mercy — no one with power wielded mercy without cost — but from reason. For a kingdom to last, the welfare of its people had to be uplifted. The essentials of life had to be provided and sustained: Food, housing, and a state of security.
She outlawed the selling of innocent citizens. No longer could a child be handed over to a merchant's coffers. Slavery still existed, but now it was confined to criminals, rebels, or the spoils of conquest. War slaves, not citizens.
A line drawn in blood, but a line nonetheless.
The people of Velrane were not born for peace. They were carved in war, their bloodlines stained with conquest, slaughter, and the thrill of dominance. Fighting was not merely a necessity — it was their inheritance.
The old tales glorified blades wet with foreign blood, and the sagas of heroes often blurred into the stories of killers. Rape and murder were once commonplace rites of passage, chaos sewn into the rhythm of their lives.
The Colosseum was the oldest tradition born of this spirit — an altar of violence where Velranians cheered as men and women were torn apart, limb from limb. But Queen Selene, in her strange wisdom, had turned their blades outward. No longer could they spill each other's blood without cause.
She outlawed lawless killing, dulled their internal fury, and instead stoked the flames beyond the borders. She gave them tribes to crush, foreign bodies to desecrate, enemies to burn. And within the walls of the Colosseum, she gave them a stage to vent what law now constrained. The crowds cried for more blood. More cruelty. More spectacle. And so the games grew darker, more perverse, fueled by a people desperate to taste savagery in a world that had begun to dress its barbarism in silks and law.
But darkness cannot be caged for long. Despite her decrees, the old ways slithered in shadows. Smugglers passed children wrapped in sacks through the alleys behind the grain stores. Kidnappers sold fellow citizens to lesser lords with coin and no conscience. Families still bartered their daughters and sons in secret, not to survive — but to avoid the shame of open desperation.
The Queen, ever calculated, did not stamp this out. She allocated little gold or steel to chase these whispers. No task force roamed the streets in earnest. Instead, she let Lord Eleazar's spies map the filth, catalog the rot, gather names.
She did not clean the infection — she learned its shape. And she too used those channels. For her, legality was a tool, not a barrier. If one wanted to walk in sin, one had to do it through thorns and darkness. She made it painful, but not impossible. If you wished to buy flesh, a life, an oath, or a secret, you could — provided you were willing to bleed for it, risk death, and accept the weight of silence.
In Velrane, everything had a cost. And if you paid enough, everything had a price.
The Queen made a statement. "The Colosseum's revenues supply themselves. The arena pays for its food, its guards, and the beasts within."
Marnes, standing to the side with sweat on his collar, nodded slowly. His face read plainly: How in all the seven spheres am I to explain this to my master?
Then came Lord Talen's turn. The Queen addressed him directly.
"And as for war…"
Talen straightened, his expression finally easing into something proud — glad, even.
"Our realm thrives upon plunder," the Queen continued, "and upon the spoils of conquest. That is the breath that fills our coffers. Thus, I deem it fit to expand the military budget."
"Wise indeed, Your Grace," said Talen with a deep nod. "A ruler with sharp eyes and sharper aims."
Venara kept her smile, though inside, she frowned. The costs mounted in her mind. Swords were expensive. So were horses. And so were burials.
The Queen's voice was clear and unwavering. "However, the army must split. We cannot allow rebellion to take root while we look elsewhere. The borders must be watched even as we strike."
She turned her hand over, as if weighing options upon her palm.
"Let the soldiers not only fight, but also claim. Establish outposts. Secure farms, discover herbs, and search for ore. Settle near resources. Create lanes for goods and messages."
Her tone deepened.
"The captured may be used — as slaves in the mines, or as fighters in the Dust of the Colosseum. Or sold for high coin. Either way, they serve the crown."
Talen's smile widened. "By your grace, I shall make it so."
"Use local militias, and the armies of near-border nobles," she added. "We shall press the north and south both. These enemies are but scattered tribes. No true kingdom stands in our path."
Venara's thoughts wandered again — to what once had stood in those directions.
In the north, the Besathus Kingdom. A proud land that fell to civil war and the wrath of giants. Velrane had fanned the flames, and the land fractured. Now only fragments remained.
In the south, the Haraphim Empire. Once a great jewel of the desert. But storms and betrayal hollowed it out. Civil strife, stirred again by Velrane's clever hand, splintered it into six squabbling regions. One of them now served as rich feeding ground for Velrane's raids.
And to the east — Virelia. Strong in trade, but no appetite for war. Peace held between them for a century now, and the Queen, despite her ruthless nature, had never crossed that line. Virelia was no shattered kingdom. War there might prove fatal.
The Queen turned back to Talen. "Your service in war is a pillar of our strength. Velrane owes its victories to your counsel."
Talen stood a little taller, his face for once free of the frown he wore like a helmet.
Then Lord Faron could not contain himself.
"Why not build an empire?" he asked, smiling as if it were a jest.
Silence.
All eyes turned.
Talen's face darkened. "A horrendous idea," he said bluntly. "More land demands more men. Roads must be guarded. Cities must be watched. Soldiers cannot stretch like dough."
Venara gave a soft laugh. "And such holdings need managing. Feeding. Taxing. All of it costs."
Bloom nodded. "And hands must be found to build it all."
"Peasants we conquer," Marnes added, "become mouths we must feed — and can no longer throw into the pit."
Eleazar's voice was calm but edged. "Different tongues. Different gods. They will not kneel to our banner so easily."
Talen added, "And when they rise up, it is not war — it is rebellion. You, Lord Faron, should know this well."
Queen Selene let the discussion flow, then raised her hand once more. "The idea is... tempting. But we have roots to mend before we reach outward. Expansion is not our next breath."
She paused. "A vessel state? Perhaps. But these are prideful tribes. Savages, as Lord Masquien says. They know not surrender. Nor the wisdom of retreat."
Masquien's lips curled. "Savages indeed, Your Grace. No art. No strategy. Only death dances and useless bravado."
Then Selene looked to Talen again — and then to Marnes.
"And what of our shortage of soldiers?" she asked, voice mild but sharp beneath.
Marnes bowed slightly. "Your Grace, we have sent many of our finest bulls and champions — Gold Arena and above — into battle already. There remains a void in the sands of the Colosseum."
Talen scoffed. "And you weigh play against war? A game against the fate of Velrane?"
Marnes flushed. "Your Grace, the Colosseum is more than spectacle. It is revenue. It is tradition. A distraction for the poor. A symbol for the city."
The air thickened. The chamber felt smaller.
Venara remained silent, observing. The Queen let them argue, her hands folded, her smile untouched.
"But if we aim to repurpose fighters—gladiators—for battle," Marnes continued, his voice sharper now, "they might flee. Or worse—revolt. They are not trained soldiers. They know how to perform for crowds, not take orders in the field."
Talen scoffed. "Then bind them. Sacred oaths. Unbreakable contracts. We have plenty of those."
Marnes hesitated. "Such contracts require magic, my lord. A great deal of it. We're already running short on magic crystals. The Kingdom has placed rationing policies in half the districts."
Talen raised a brow. "Interesting. You already use such contracts in the Colosseum, don't you? So why is it a problem now?"
Marnes adjusted his collar. "Yes, we do—but only in higher-tier arenas. Silver rank and above. Those matches justify the cost. There are fewer of those arenas—meaning fewer fighters bound by expensive oaths."
Talen grinned, shark-like. "Then move those high-tier bastards to the battlefield. What's the issue?"
Marnes stared. "That's madness. Those fighters are the attraction. Move them, and you dilute the matches. Public interest drops. Bets decline. The entire economy of the pit suffers."
"You just want to keep them in the dirt," Talen growled. "Like cattle. This is selfish. War is greater than spectacle. Those same fighters could help us win land, conquer mines, seize plunder. All much more lucrative than ticket sales and gambling fees."
Marnes clenched his jaw. "The contracts you speak of—the ones already in place—are minimized in scope. We specifically word them to keep the fighters in the pit. To entertain, not to serve as soldiers. For the few we've sent to the frontlines, additional contracts had to be created—layered protections, more wording, more magic. It was not trivial."
Talen leaned forward. "So what? Do it again. Move from Iron to Bronze, Bronze to Silver, Silver to Gold. Upgrade them. I'm sure Her Majesty understands the value of true warriors on the field. Pour magic into the problem. Solve it by force."
Marnes exhaled, his patience fraying. "My lord… you are… frustrating to speak with."
A beat.
He realized his words too late. He went pale.
Talen's eyes flared. "Ahhh? A rat from the Colosseum dares to lecture a lion of the battlefield?"
His voice slammed into the chamber like steel on stone. Several lords shifted. Masquien smirked behind his hand.
That was when the Queen stirred.
She raised one hand—elegantly, effortlessly—and the room obeyed.
Silence demanded.
Then she spoke. "My lords, we have lost the thread. This serves no purpose."
She addressed Marnes. "Distribute the fighters more wisely. Spread the burden across all arenas. And you will work closely with Lord Talen from now on."
Both nodded, though neither looked pleased.
"Lord Eleazar," she added, "you will serve as their adjudicator. Ensure harmony."
At last, she turned fully to Venara.
Now her turn had truly come.
Venara breathed in, steadying her thoughts.
The Queen watched her — and behind those eyes, Venara felt the weight again.
Venara shifted slightly in her seat as the chamber grew silent once more. The Queen's gaze now turned upon her — steady, inscrutable, and cold as still water beneath winter's ice. Venara met her eyes, her practiced smile soft and unfaltering, but behind that veil her thoughts churned.
She had seen that look before — once, when the Queen had snatched away her food, her investment. Back in the Colosseum.
Caelvir.
The name whispered like smoke through her mind, unwelcome and persistent.
She forced it down.
Behind her, without needing to turn, she felt Vermon stiffen. His unease radiated like heat. He was good at keeping quiet, even better at vanishing into corners when the powerful spoke. But this... this was different. He feared what might come, not just for Venara, but for himself.
Queen Selene's expression was a mirror of Venara's own — gracious, warm in appearance, but beneath it... there was weight, a crushing gravity. Venara had always tried to read her sovereign, peering past the surface like a jeweler studying a gemstone for flaws. But Selene had no cracks to study. No tells. No weakness. Only presence.
Whatever lived behind that gentle smile could not be read — only felt.
"Lady Venara," the Queen said at last, her voice smooth, "you have been most patient. Now the matters of coin and sustenance await your counsel."
Venara inclined her head. "Your Grace honors me."
She had thought long on this moment. Venara, Mistress of the Treasury, carried more numbers in her head than most scribes did in ink-stained books. Her mind was a garden of solutions, but every seed bore its own poison. There were paths forward — each one paved with the flesh of trade-offs.
Venara composed herself. She needed to speak, to propose — but her mind briefly wandered again, unbidden.