Two weeks after the first mana stone chunk was lifted from Willodale's
depths, sorrow quietly descended upon Ciolove. Marta—the old woman who had
become the only true family Clara had left—finally yielded to age. Her breath
faded in the hospital, beneath the dim glow of oil lamps and the grip of a hand
that never let go.
We've only lived together a few months, Grandma, Clara's swollen
eyes whispered in silence. But you left me first. I wanted you to sit under
that maple tree, to see the bread stalls you loved. Why did you leave so soon?
The hospital bell tolled, slow, three times. In the corridor, people
muttered a few words, then bowed their heads and walked on. Clara straightened
the blanket across Marta's chest, patting it once like she was tucking in a
child. Inside her own chest was a hollow she had never truly mourned: the faces
of her father and kin in Riverbend, torn away by Roderic without mercy—while
she had not been there when it all collapsed. The wound lingered quietly,
throbbing only when silence stretched too long.
News of Marta's death reached the palace before dusk. Arthur came to pay his
respects. He could not always attend funerals—too many lives departed every
day—but for those within Valoria's circle of builders, those he knew and
respected, he came.
The funeral was simple. A white cloth draped over Marta's body, prayer cords
tied at her wrists, wildflowers scattered by neighbors. An elder recited a
short prayer, answered by a low chorus of amen that passed like a
breeze.
When the earth closed over the coffin, Arthur laid a hand on Clara's
shoulder.
"Your grief is not yours alone," he said softly. "Anyone who ever kindled a
small fire in another's home… has already given enough to this kingdom."
Clara nodded, her lips trembling. "You are kind to come, Your Majesty. I…
only wish she had lived long enough to see Ciolove become a true home."
"She saw enough," Arthur replied. "Enough to trust that you would guard it."
Some townsfolk, seeing their king stand on the soil of a commoner's
graveyard, bowed deeper. There were no cheers, only a quiet reverence that made
no noise at all.
Two days she rested. On the third, Clara returned to her chair in the town
hall. Papers stacked neatly before her. Her face still swollen from tears, but
her voice clear.
"How far have we reached with the city's legal adjustments?" she asked.
Marcel ran a finger down the list. "Almost finished. We're syncing with
Valoria's statutes: basic taxes, land rights, market regulations. For the
transition, we propose leniency—three months without fines for new merchants."
Clara looked at the scribes. "Agreed. But make sure every stall gets the
message. No one should be caught off guard by rules they don't understand."
A scribe raised his hand. "Baroness, what about migrants from surrounding
villages? They've begun arriving after hearing the market is thriving. Should
we require entry cards?"
"Yes," Clara answered, "but don't make it a burden. Just note their names,
origin, and trade. If they stay more than thirty days, they must register as
families. Help them find lodging—don't let anyone sleep in warehouses."
Marcel nodded. "For house taxes, keep it simple: floor size and road access.
No extra fees for newcomers, at least until their first harvest."
"And the market?" Clara studied the city map. "Rearrange the bread stalls,
spice sellers, and metalworkers. Keep the main street clear. I want one lane
reserved for stretchers. We once lost a life simply because a stretcher
couldn't get through."
An old merchant bowed deeply. "Thank you, Baroness. We feel… organized, not
dictated to."
Clara gave a faint smile. "We all want this city to breathe. If your streets
are clogged, its breath stops."
Outside the hall, Ciolove was alive. Children ran from the half-finished
schoolhouse; blacksmiths hammered anvils, sparks bursting; mothers bargained
for vegetables while laughing. Economic reports showed steady growth: stable
taxes, flowing goods, no hunger at the edges. In hushed voices, people said, "Only
months old, but Ciolove already feels like Valoria's second heartbeat."
But news is a horse that cannot be tethered. Word of the mana stone mine at
Willodale galloped along Etheria's trade roads, traded over cups of tea and dry
bread.
In Veritas, a stone hall became a chamber of debate without raised voices. A
map of Etheria stretched across the long table, and on Valoria's lands a new
mark appeared.
"If the vein is truly that large," an elder merchant stroked his beard, "we
send caravans. Bring silk, perfumes, forged tools. We demand a share. If they
agree, all rejoice."
A young noble folded his arms. "And if they refuse?"
"Then," the merchant replied quietly, "they'll soar ahead alone."
"Mana stone drives railways," the young noble cut in, "empowers mage towers,
and—used wisely—can forge weapons. We must be at the table, not left outside."
At last they decided: Veritas would dispatch official envoys along the
western road. Diplomatic letters prepared, honeyed in tone, edged with
conditions. Diplomacy first, threats later.
Far north, in Seahaven–Northwood's cold timber hall, the voices held no
sugar.
"Valoria devoured Draxenhold," a general broad as a wardrobe growled.
"Solaris bound by truce. Now they hold a mana mine. How long before they press
north?"
A middle-aged noble shook his head. "They're not conquering. They're
building."
"That's more dangerous," the general snarled. "Power grown in silence." He
jabbed the map. "Fortify the borders. Increase cavalry patrols. Forge pacts
with neighbors—balance of power."
A younger advisor spoke cautiously. "If Valoria opens trade, we buy a share.
Bind them in contracts—mutual dependence."
"And if they sell only scraps?" The general's brow arched. "They'll feast
first, toss crumbs later."
The hall did not declare war, but it agreed on one thing: pressure. If not
by sword, then by politics, treaties, and numbers.
All of it flowed back to Arthur's desk in the palace. Veritas's letter
smelled faintly of tea; Seahaven–Northwood's draft was cold as morning steel.
Arthur read them one by one, silent.
Marcel waited at his right. "Your reply, Sire?"
"To Veritas," Arthur said, "we welcome them. Write: Valoria is willing to
trade within reason, with priority for internal needs. They may submit
quotas—we will evaluate each season." He paused. "The wording must be warm, but
give no illusion of infinity."
"Yes, Sire."
"To the north," Arthur continued, "say this: Valoria is no threat. We are
building. We monopolize nothing—but we won't let anyone dictate our hearth
either. If they wish to talk, we'll prepare a table; if they wish to point
fingers, we'll stand tall."
Marcel bowed. "Understood."
Arthur turned to the window. Roads stretched like veins on a palm: one
flowing to Ciolove, another to Willodale. Four years of peace were not for
sleeping, he thought. Four years were for planting roots.
Night draped Ciolove like clean cloth. Clara sat by her baroness's window,
lighting a single candle. On the table lay the white ribbon she had tied around
Marta's wrist. She no longer wept—not because grief was gone, but because it
now sat quietly beside her, like a guest in a chair.
"I'll always come home," she whispered, to no one in particular.
Her father's shadow flickered across her mind, fragile as memories dragged
by time. Roderic had taken everything from Riverbend; she knew it, she
remembered. But tonight, vengeance was not fire—it was a warm stone in her
pocket, heavy but not burning.
She blew on the candle, letting the wick glow softer. In the distance came
the familiar pulse of night: a dog's bark, the creak of a final cartwheel,
laughter trailing down a lane. Ciolove breathed, and for the first time since
the funeral, Clara felt her breath match the city's rhythm.
In Willodale, hammers still struck in measured tempo. In the palace, a
diplomatic answer waited to be sealed. In the north, some eyes half-closed—not
in sleep, but in calculation. Etheria did not move quickly—it shifted its
weight slowly. And Valoria was ready to become its axis.