Silence thickened as the Queen's gaze fixed itself upon Venara, who had waited patiently — silently — for her turn. Now, it had come. Matters of the treasury, of coin and coffers, had long lingered like a storm beyond the horizon. And now, the rain began to fall.
Venara's thoughts stirred before her voice did. There had been wisdom in what the Queen had set forth — clever threads of solutions woven through every problem: shortage of fighters, of soldiers, of grain and goods. Yet all those solutions, even when cleverly designed to answer one another, drew upon the same well. And that well was not bottomless. It came down to the one thing it always did: coin. Gold.
The Queen had found means to make the problems pay for themselves — so it seemed, on the surface. The shortage of warriors addressed by funneling convicts and war captives into the Dust. The famine eased through controlled stockpiles and new merchants flushed into the markets. Yet none of it was without cost. The treasury, already strained, would bleed faster than it filled. The Queen's policies were a dance — but one danced at the edge of a blade.
Venara finally spoke. Her tone was calm, unshaken — the voice of one who bore the burden of numbers, cold and cruel.
"Your grace, the taxes raised from the Colosseum — no doubt a clever stroke — shall return to it just as quickly. As for the new merchants, their revenue too must be spent, when the time comes, to refill the stockpiles they draw from now."
She let that sink in before continuing.
"Construction costs are bound to rise, with new camps and roads and military holdings. And the expansion of our armed forces — while needed — deepens the gulf between income and expense. Moreover, I must note the Queen's own proposition: investment into research and craft, into advancement of tools and devices... such vision requires gold. And what little we hold may not see it through."
Queen Selene nodded once, her expression unreadable. "You speak true. We walk toward deficit, and that cannot be ignored."
Venara offered a measured breath. "Plunders may come. Mines may be found. And if consumption grows, so too shall the treasury, in time. But to place our hopes in what might be — that is a wager. And we are not gamblers, your grace."
The Queen's gaze remained firm, but her reply came low, thoughtful. "Indeed, Lady Venara. Even a wise gamble is still a risk."
Venara bowed her head slightly. "Then we are left with few choices. One of them, a burdensome one, is to raise the taxes."
"I believe so too," said Queen Selene, her voice smooth like a blade unsheathing.
Venara hesitated before adding, "Yet increase upon the poor shall birth more than unrest. A revolt, at the worst. A weaker market, certainly. Less trade, less spending, less wealth to tax. A dying wheel."
"Indeed," the Queen replied.
Lord Masquien interjected, smoothing his cuffs with a slight frown. "Another concern, if I may — many of our towns and lesser realms do not sustain themselves. They rely on trade from within the kingdom's heart. If we tax such trade between cities, between barons and lords, we risk cutting their lifelines."
Lord Faron's head nodded in agreement, his tone firmer and more practical. "A wise point, my lord. Without motivation, merchants shall not brave the roads. Raise the toll too high, and the wagons shall vanish."
Venara thought quietly. Masquien, always a mouthpiece for the merchant lords and coin barons. Faron, though less suspect, was no less correct. Between the two, their warnings were valid. A heavier hand would break the back of the trade routes.
And so it remained — a hall of clever voices, none with the answer. Everything suggested was a hope, a path that might yield gold later. But later was not good enough.
Venara's mind circled back to the same thought: What solution lies before us that does not rest upon chance? What can we do now, this very moment, to delay the draining of our coffers?
The Queen had offered long-term schemes, ambitious and grand. She had pointed to better crafts, more efficient tools, advancements that would enrich the kingdom in a decade's time. But what of now?
Venara had been thinking. Quietly. Carefully. She had already gathered some ideas — sharp ideas — ones that might plug the hole in the ship, if only for a season longer.
Venara took a long breath, her fingers steepled under her chin. "If we are to steady the treasury, in the short term… we must demand more from those who still have more to give."
The chamber grew quieter, the murmurs stilled.
"I propose," she said, her voice smooth and composed, "a levy—a tithe. Temporary, but firm. A Blood Tithe, drawn from the wealthier circles of the realm: the noble houses, merchant guilds, and affluent estates."
Masquien's brow tightened. "A tithe, you say? Another name for extortion. The merchant class already bears the weight of tax and regulation more than any other."
Venara did not flinch. "And yet they profit still, Lord Masquien. Even now, even in famine, even in war. The war enriches them as much as it does endanger us."
"You would shatter what trust remains between crown and coin," he warned.
"Not if it's dressed in honor," Venara replied, coolly. "We call it service. To be seen as loyal. To be written in record. For the guildmasters and noble heads who pay their tithe in full, there can be returns: a writ of royal favor, exclusive permits, temporary tax relief, perhaps trade monopolies for a season."
Masquien's protest wavered. "A bribe cloaked in honor, huh..."
Venara continued, now turning slightly toward the Queen. "Your Grace. It is a badge. Those who contribute shall be lifted in the eyes of the court and the people. And those who refuse… shall be remembered."
Queen Selene's lips curved—lightly. "A fine use of pride and greed, Lady Venara."
"Pride cuts deeper than any blade," Venara said softly.
Masquien still lingered on doubt. "If we demand such offerings now, we expose weakness. The guilds will see the treasury bleeding, and circle like hounds."
"The treasury is bleeding," Queen Selene replied sharply, her voice the cool edge of glass. "But hounds only circle where they sense no teeth. Let them see we bite. And reward those who feed the hand."
"Let us make it ceremonial," Venara added. "A gathering of guildmasters and nobles. Each bearing their offerings before the court. Let them compete to be more generous. Let their pride do the work."
Masquien's eyes narrowed, the tension in his jaw visible. "It will buy us time, perhaps. But it will leave scars."
Venara tilted her head. "What is governance but the art of deciding where to leave scars?"
Masquien fell silent.
She folded her hands once more. "It is not a cure, only a reprieve. But if our long-term programs bear fruit, the treasury may find breath enough to survive the storm."
Queen Selene sat back in her throne, one finger lightly tapping the armrest. Her gaze lingered on the sigil carved above the chamber doors—the old sword of Velrane crossed with the candle of the faith. "A tithe, you called it," she said slowly. "Then let us call it what it is."
Venara looked up, sensing a shift.
"A tithe is not merely coin taken by crown," the Queen continued. "It is coin offered to the divine. And if it is framed as such… then we are not bleeding our realm dry—we are cleansing it. Honoring the gods, and preserving our divine destiny."
She turned her head slightly, toward the robed man standing like a statue at the edge of the chamber's light.
"Lord Eleazar."
He inclined his head, his voice a low and precise echo. "Your Grace?"
"This Blood Tithe—could it not be enshrined as piety? As a holy act in service of our continued survival? A gift to the divine, to preserve Velrane's path?"
Eleazar's eyes did not waver. "It can be done. The clergy will speak of it in the tongues of scripture. It shall not be presented as obligation—but as duty. Sacrifice for the realm, that the heavens might look upon us with favor."
Venara watched the exchange with quiet appreciation. She had hoped for the Queen to lean upon Eleazar's influence, but the way Selene wielded faith, as she did fear and coin, was seamless.
"Then we shall make it so," the Queen said. "The tithe is not from guilt, but reverence. Let the nobles boast of their righteousness as much as their wealth. Let the merchants compete for divine favor."
Masquien gave a slow exhale through his nose. "Even the most stubborn of them will yield to salvation when profit is not enough."
Venara smiled faintly. "They always do."
Queen Selene's gaze lingered on Eleazar. "Let the priests begin their whispers. Let the chapels speak of holy sacrifice. Let our people believe—truly believe—that in giving, they shall be blessed."
Eleazar gave a single nod. "It shall be done, Your Grace."
And with that, the Blood Tithe was no longer a clever trick of coin—it was now doctrine, sealed by the crown and sanctified by the faith.
Venara felt the tide of triumph wash through her chest like warmth. She had played her piece well—threaded the needle between treasury, tithe, and appeasement. The Queen had not only accepted the proposal, she had fortified it with Eleazar's blessing. Good, she thought. For once, the numbers moved in her favor.
But she had forgotten.
Forgotten the weight behind her. The quiet presence that had been still as a shadow throughout the council's length.
Vermon.
He stood just behind her chair, where he had remained without a word, young and composed, his shoulders square but untested by the blades of power that crossed in this room. She had invited him to observe. To learn. But not—certainly not—to speak.
Yet Queen Selene had seen him. She always saw what others missed.
The Queen's gaze shifted, cool and unblinking, upon the young man. And in that gaze, Venara noticed something shift. Her Majesty's tone had not hardened—but her eyes were curious. Measuring. Probing. The way one might glance at a knife to test its sharpness.
"Lady Venara," Queen Selene said, voice deceptively soft. "Is the man standing behind you the heir to the Crimson Bough and House Goldmere?"
Venara blinked, her mouth parting for a moment as her mind caught up. "Yes, Your Grace," she said, rising a little straighter. "He is my younger brother, Vermon. I granted him leave to join us, that he might listen and learn the burdens of crown and realm. One day, he shall bear the mantle of Lord of our House. Ready to serve Her Majesty, as I do."
The Queen offered a slow smile. "I see."
Then, with that same smile—still gentle, still courteous, yet unmistakably predatory—she added, "It seems Lord Vermon has something to say, doesn't he?"
A silence took hold.
Vermon stiffened. A thousand eyes seemed to turn upon him, though the chamber was small and few present. Still, it felt like judgment itself had taken form.
Venara's heart gave a quiet lurch.
No… not now.
She knew how this pressure would twist his breath. She remembered how easily he stammered when tutors questioned him too suddenly. And now—now the Queen herself had turned the blade of attention toward him.
Vermon opened his mouth—and then, astonishingly, found air.
"I dare not speak when the High Lords and Council voice their wisdom," he said, his voice uneven but struggling for strength. "I am but a guest in this hall. I came to learn."
Queen Selene chuckled.
"Enough of that meek posture. I asked for your thoughts, Lord Vermon. And when the Queen inquires, the heir of a Great House ought not decline. What say you, then? On the matter of coin, of tithes, of this kingdom's bleeding pockets—have you no view?"
Venara's lips held a smile, but her mind had grown cold.
This was no accident.
A move. Deliberate. As she had cornered Masquien with loyalty and coin, now she was being cornered through the future of her bloodline. Her brother. Her weakness.
If he failed here, it would be House Goldmere that failed. Not just a boy in his youth, but the bloodline itself—found wanting beneath the Queen's gaze.
And if, gods forbid, he succeeded—then the Queen would know more than she should. She would see Vermon. Measure him. Place him in her game.
No good… Venara thought.