Her brother surprised her.
Vermon stepped slightly forward. Not too bold. But not timid either.
He took a breath. The entire chamber had gone still. Silence was heavier than stone. The boy lifted his chin, gaze steady though his hands, half-hidden beneath the fold of his robe, trembled slightly.
"If I may speak, Your Grace," he began, voice composed beyond his years. "I have listened to the proposals with great respect. Lady Venara, my sister, spoke with the brilliance we of House Goldmere have long treasured."
Venara did not turn, but he could feel her stiffen slightly, unsure if he meant to praise or to shield. He continued,
"But perhaps… if I might offer thoughts untainted by allegiance or vested stake, there are paths yet unwalked."
Queen Selene tilted her head. "Then walk them for us, young Lord."
Vermon nodded. "First, I propose that we awaken the dormant royal debts. In the previous reigns, coin was lent freely in times of abundance. Records of such generosity lie buried in vaults and ledgers. If the Crown were to call upon those who once benefited—noble or merchant alike—to honor those debts, it would not be tax, but obligation fulfilled."
Masquien scoffed lightly. "Many of those debts were pardoned outright, or repaid in ways not measured in coin."
"Then let them say so before the court," Vermon replied. "Those who hold their honor high would not fear the light of public record. And those who do—well, their silence shall be profit enough."
A murmur rippled through the council. Queen Selene's lips curled in faint amusement.
"Go on," she said.
"Second," Vermon said, growing bolder, "I speak of vice—of what already thrives beyond our sight. Let us not pretend we can cut every root of the black market. Instead, draw some into sunlight. Licenses for controlled indulgences—smoke dens, drink houses, brothels—let them pay for permission. Let them fund their own regulation."
Faron raised a brow. "That would grant them legitimacy."
"Only under the Queen's banner," Vermon replied. "What is forbidden gathers power in the dark. But what is permitted with leash… brings coin and control."
Talen gave a dry chuckle. "You speak as if you've seen such places."
"Only in tale, my lord," Vermon said, the hint of a smile flickering. "But tales often speak truer than law."
Selene gestured for him to continue.
"Third, the lands abandoned in revolt—estates of traitors, ruins unclaimed—should be auctioned for tenure. A ten-year lease, perhaps, sold to those with silver but not titles. Their labor will restore the lands, and their coin will restore the Crown's coffers."
Masquien frowned. "And what of the old families, those who may yet have claim—"
"Let them return and plead their case," Vermon said. "Until then, we gain naught by letting weeds grow where wheat once stood."
There was silence again. Then he added, with quiet certainty, "Fourth: let new merchant houses, those risen by recent favors, give royal tribute. Not a tax. A token. Let it be a rite—proof of loyalty, and of ambition. They will pay it gladly, for it cements their station."
Eleazar finally spoke, voice soft, measured. "And you see this as nobler than a tithe?"
Vermon's gaze did not waver. "I see it as more honest, Your Grace. Piety that costs the poor more than the rich is not righteousness. It is a burden shaped to look like virtue."
Venara's fingers curled faintly at her side, but she said nothing.
Vermon's voice steadied as he continued, "Another notion I would offer, is the issuance of Crown Bonds. A debt borne by the Crown, yes, but sold with promise of return. Let the nobles, guildmasters, and merchant-princes lend their wealth to the realm—at interest. Not tithe. Not tax. A contract, honored by the seal of Her Majesty."
That brought a twitch to Lord Masquien's brow. His lips pulled in an almost-smile—half mockery, half disbelief. "Bonds?" he said, the word dragged out as if it were an offense to his tongue. "You mean loans?"
Vermon tilted his head, cautious. "Yes, my lord. An instrument of trust—"
"An illusion," Masquien cut in. "Non-existent gold promised as a reward for imagined patience. A clever play, perhaps, in Virelia or the western banking dens. But in Velrane? Who do you think would buy these... promises? The people? Or the very same nobles and traders who already fear for their coin?"
Vermon hesitated. "Some might not trust it at first, but if made official—"
"It is radical," Masquien said. "New. Too ambitious. Such a system requires time. Influence. Strong, longstanding institutions. Here, we have swords and pits. Trust is measured in scars, not scrolls."
"Indeed," added Lord Faron, arms folded. "I've yet to see a peasant trust a parchment more than a blade. You'd need the voice of gods and gold together to sell that dream."
Vermon paused, then replied, "It does not need to be bought by peasants. Only those with coin to spare and minds to invest. If merchants fear instability, this offers them a stake in the realm's recovery. Not a seizure. A seat."
Masquien scoffed. "You offer them a throne made of sand. This is not how things are done here. This is not Virelia."
Queen Selene, quiet until now, finally spoke. "And must we ever only do as has been done before, Lord Masquien?"
The room stilled.
Masquien bowed his head slightly. "Your Grace, I merely mean to say—if we gamble on too many things untested, we may find ourselves with neither coin nor time left to recover."
"I take your caution for wisdom," she replied, with a smile that concealed its edge. "But I also hear in it fear. Lord Vermon does not propose fantasy. The Crown would be held to its word. That makes it costly, yes. But also respectable."
Eleazar added, "A bond, if legitimized under sacred oath, could be sanctified as a promise before the gods themselves. But fail to honor it, and the throne shall owe penance not only in coin... but in spirit."
Vermon inclined his head toward Eleazar. "And I believe Her Majesty intends to keep all debts sacred."
Queen Selene leaned forward, resting her chin upon her hand. "And what of those who demand the return when the Crown can least afford it?"
"Then we ask: what is more ruinous—repaying a favor, or bleeding the people dry to avoid the favor altogether?"
There was a beat of silence.
Masquien grunted but said no more.
Venara, though silent, watched her brother closely. There was a seed of pride there—quiet, beneath her composed mask. Yet also fear. He had played his hand in front of wolves.
Selene studied him, long and quiet.
"You are not merely here to learn, Lord Vermon," she said. "You are learning as you speak."
Venara's throat was dry. She dared not speak.
Selene's eyes gleamed. "Tell me then, young Goldmere. Are you prepared to stake your name on these words?"
Vermon did not falter. "My name, and the will of House Goldmere."
The Queen's smile was unreadable. But she said no more.
And Venara knew—he had passed her test.
Venara did not speak.
She couldn't. Not yet.
She stared ahead, but her thoughts spiraled inward.
Her brother.
Her little brother.
That boy who once tripped over his training blade in the halls of Goldmere, now stood before Queen and Lords and made them pause. He had taken the Queen's trap and twisted it into a moment of poise and reason. He had faced Masquien, Eleazar—even Faron—and did not wither. The same nerves that once made him stutter in courtly dinners had not broken him here.
Venara swallowed. The sensation caught her somewhere in the chest.
Gods... she thought. You've grown, haven't you?
A part of her—one forged in politics and shadowed by loss—resented the ache that followed pride. Because pride was dangerous. It made people foolish. It made them trust. It made them hope.
And that reminded her—Caelvir...
The Colosseum. Her investment. That calculated bet. Not for glory, not even for profit—no, for proof that something could be built. That control could exist. That she wasn't just spinning coin in the whirlwind of the Queen's designs.
But Caelvir was long gone now. Unbranded. Unmarked. Unclaimed by her.
Vermon…
He, too, was a kind of investment. But not one measured in gold or wagers. An investment of time. Of protection. Of memories stitched together through a sister's quiet devotion. We all invest in our little siblings, she thought. And when they stand—truly stand—gods, what joy it brings.
Her smile came slow. Unbidden. Not drawn from politics or feigned charm. A rare thing. A real thing.
Few would notice the difference.
But then...
Caelvir.
The thought returned with a force that hollowed her chest.
She had spent time on him too. Nights pacing in thought. Days rearranging schemes with him at the center. Her mind had clung to his rise and fall like a wheel to track. Was he only an investment of coin? Of sword and blood?
She had Sylvenna heal him.
Not just any healer—the best. A personal plea, a favor called in silence. Why?
Why had her heart beat just as wildly in the Colosseum as it had now while Vermon spoke? That pulse—furious, fearful—was not one of strategy. It was not about a house or a plan. It was human. It was hers.
And both times—when Caelvir stood alone in the pit, and now as Vermon faced the chamber's scrutiny—she had done nothing.
She had remained silent. Cold. Detached.
Back in the arena, when the Queen offered Caelvir a path to salvation, to fight in the name of the Crown—and he refused, driving his sword into the earth instead of raising it—Venara had felt it: fear.
Her excuse then was duty. House. Position. She could not afford to interfere. Could not afford to stand against the Queen.
And now?
Now she had watched the heir of her house be drawn into the same crucible.
And again, she had offered no hand.
She had been played. Again.
Defenseless.
Directionless.
Hopeless.
Before her.
Queen Selene.
That thought sat like a stone on her chest. Not rage. Not resentment.
Sadness.
And with it... came the echo of a name.
Caelvir.
It rang through her like a bell tolling in a ruined temple, waiting to be claimed.