Location: Armathane, Midgard Ducal Court Time: Day 70 After Alec's Arrival
—
The letter arrived before dawn.
It bore no sigil, no wax seal—only a faint trace of dried brine on the edge of the parchment and the angular, efficient handwriting of Teren, the silent observer Vaelora had embedded in Alec's construction team. That absence of ceremony told her more than the words.
It was functional. Direct. Nothing ornate to veil fact.
She read it alone in her solar, standing by the arched window that overlooked the northern slope. Her court had not yet risen. The city was quiet, still resting beneath its lacquered mask of order.
Vaelora read it once, slowly.
Then again.
Then folded it and placed it on her desk, beside a cup of already-cooled tea.
He had done it.
The outer wall had been raised. The tide, redirected. The fields had not drowned in three nights. The villagers were asking for seed. The masons were calling for more stone, not less.
And most importantly—Alec hadn't requested coin. Not once.
He'd used what she gave him. Made more of it than she would have thought possible.
It was not a full victory yet. But it was a declaration of competence, and in Midgard, competence was never quiet for long.
She rang for her steward.
—
Ferrin arrived swiftly, as always. Vaelora handed him the dispatch without comment.
He read in silence.
Then: "This will stir the lesser barons."
"Let it."
"And the crown?"
"The king is too busy balancing Edenia's marriage game. He won't notice until it's a headline on a bard's tongue."
Ferrin returned the letter. "The city will talk."
"They already are."
He waited.
Vaelora returned to the window.
"Call the blue chamber," she said. "Let's see how much control I still command over stories."
—
Later that morning, the blue chamber filled with those who mattered—or at least, those who still believed they did.
Lady Alra arrived first, as always, with her silver hair bound in coils and her eyes gleaming like wet glass. She said nothing when she sat, but her fingers drummed on the edge of the table—always listening, always feeling for the tremors before they cracked.
Roen, the castellan, entered in full uniform despite the informal setting. He bowed, offered a gruff greeting, and leaned against the wall instead of taking a seat.
Scribe Dallien arrived next, carrying two bound ledgers and a fresh quill. He nodded politely, but his brows were drawn together before anyone had even spoken.
Then came Lord Haras, a new addition to her council—a minor noble elevated after his predecessor died mysteriously of gut rot and too many lies. He was thin, sharp-eyed, and entirely too eager.
Vaelora entered last.
They stood.
She sat.
The chamber settled into silence.
"Alec has begun to reshape Grendale," she said without flourish. "The outer wall is half-built. The tide has been diverted. Salt intrusion slowed. The first marsh crops seeded. No aid requested."
Dallien glanced up. "Under budget?"
"Completely."
Roen snorted. "He'll bankrupt the masons before he ever asks for a coin."
Alra leaned forward. "And you believe the reports?"
"I believe competence when I see it executed without complaint."
Haras shifted. "With respect, Your Grace… he's not nobility. He doesn't owe us anything. Should we really be celebrating that?"
Vaelora fixed her gaze on him.
"I'm not celebrating," she said. "I'm assessing."
Haras flushed. "He's popular. Among the workers. That much is clear. What happens when he returns and they speak his name louder than ours?"
"Then I'll remind them who gave him the stage," Vaelora said calmly.
Alra's lips twitched.
Roen crossed his arms. "If he keeps winning, you won't be able to claim he's your tool. You'll need to make him something else."
"A banner?" Haras asked.
"A name," Alra said. "Something the court can tolerate. Nobles don't hate competence. They hate unpredictability."
Vaelora nodded slowly.
"We shape his image in stages. First, a restorer. Then a reformer. Later, perhaps, something more. If he allows it."
"And if he doesn't?" Roen asked.
Vaelora looked at the scroll again, unread now for the tenth time in her mind.
"Then we will decide whether to bend the knee to innovation, or to kill it quietly."
—
That evening, she did not dine with the court. She took her meal alone in the garden-facing chamber, where the lanterns burned blue and the breeze whispered without witnesses.
Serina found her there.
She always did.
"You didn't tell them everything," her daughter said as she walked in barefoot, carrying a satchel of scrolls.
"Didn't I?"
"No," Serina said, dropping into the chair across from her. "You didn't say you were impressed."
Vaelora didn't answer.
Serina opened a scroll. "This came through the market scribes today. A bard in Tavenshire sang a verse about a man who taught water to kneel."
Vaelora exhaled. "That was fast."
"It always is."
Serina leaned forward. "You know they'll start naming him things soon. Builder. Stormborn. Architect."
"None of which he asked for."
"But that won't stop them."
"No," Vaelora said. "It won't."
Serina studied her mother. "You still don't trust him."
"I trust no one who changes the rules before asking who wrote them."
"You think he's dangerous."
"I know he is."
Serina smiled faintly. "But you like him."
Vaelora's eyes narrowed.
"I respect him."
"Same thing."
"It isn't."
Serina stood, walked to the window.
"You're trying to decide if you want him close, or far enough to kill."
"Yes."
"Then bring him closer," Serina said without turning. "If he is what you fear… distance won't save you."
Vaelora sipped her wine.
"I know."
—
Later that night, she wrote a letter herself. To Alec and his entourage.
There wasn't any reason for him stay in Grendale much longer.
It was short.
You are summoned back to the capital as soon as possible.
No explanation. No signature beyond the Midgard sunburst and her initials.
She sealed it, then sat back.
Alec had passed the first test.
The second would be how he handled the shadow his own success cast.