"I want everything ready before the end of the week. Am I clear?"
"Yes, my lord." The servant left the room to go about his business, and only the two nobles remained in the office. A man with a thick black beard was absentmindedly stroking it as he stood at the window, watching his knights train in the palace courtyard. The nobleman sitting on the couch behind him was sipping tea from a very fine ceramic cup, with gold decorations around its rim. The man recognized the ceramic's provenance and smiled: he, too, had trade relations with foreigners, which was a obvious matter when you were at the border; what could the queen expect?
For everyone to follow her orders like lovable lapdogs? That woman had the title of regent, but she didn't deserve it. She hadn't even conceived an heir to the throne since marrying the king! A disgrace for Arran!
And that's why it was necessary to overthrow the order, for the good of the country.
"Does the Marquis love this kind of tea?"
"I love many things: women, money, and power. Tea isn't on the list." The bearded nobleman chuckled, picking up his cup and examining the dark color of the drink, then putting it down. "I had to accept my lady's gift, to avoid unnecessary arguments. That woman will drive me crazy one day!"
"They're women, Marquis, what can we do?" The two laughed, and the Marquis returned to sit across from his assistant. They were allies, they trusted each other, even if the Marquis feigned complete loyalty to the other nobleman, his provincial neighbor. He would only trust himself.
The marquis of Terran, a border province and soon-to-be-flourished territory of the Kingdom of Arran...
Sorton was an unscrupulous man, his allies knew it and feared him for it, but his influence extended beyond the kingdom's borders, which gave them strong support to achieve their goals. For the time being, few nobles were willing to betray their kingdom, but Sorton promised wealth, power, and above all, autonomy, something the kingdom was unwilling to bestow upon its nobles. In reality, the Council was committed to maintaining order and, above all, constantly discussing compromises between the demands of the various factions within the kingdom, but this didn't matter to the fanatics who followed Sorton Quentin.
Not everyone knew it, but Quentin's trusted partner was the head of a private cult, a sort of sect that admitted only those of "pure" and worthy blood—certainly only nobles willing to accept the cult's teachings. They called themselves TheHeirs, descendants of the serpent's blood, a creature that appeared monstrous in local myths but was endowed with immense power and unpredictable form. Many referred to it as the essence of evil, a tempting figure in the lives of men, but the sect celebrated it as a bringer of miracles. Power, for the nobles and beyond, was undoubtedly important.
"I wonder how he'll convince the Council to agree to his proposal."
"Detrimik, do you really think I care what the Council and the regent think? When the competition begins, we'll spread the word among the nobles, and if it reaches the foreign princes, it will be really easy to force the queen to agree. Besides, the princess won't be able to say anything."
Sorton had thought of everything; he had already taken care of communicating with the nearest foreign kingdom, sending letters to his ally, Roland Ohniz. The nobleman who represented the kingdom bordering Arran had clearly stated that they would support him adequately if he carried out his duties efficiently. But it was known that the Quentins had been great strategists and calculators for generations, and Sorton Quentin was no exception. Indeed, he was as cunning as a fox, astute and lacking in empathy: essentially, he was a war machine.
He didn't worry about the future: in his eyes, the queen couldn't do much, and he didn't even consider the princess, a mere pawn in his grand strategic game.
"My lord?" A man knocked on the door, once again interrupting the meeting between the Marquis and Sir Demitrik. The two noblemen turned to the servant angrily, but what he had to say froze them, making them freeze in their seats: "The queen and the princess are on their way to the mansion, my lord."
"H-here? The queen? And the princess?" the Marquis shouted, shocked.
What were they doing here? Why were they on their way to his palace? When did they enter the province of Terran?!
"Marquis, don't worry. There must be an explanation for all this." Sir Demitrik stood up, grabbed his cane and hat, and was ready to head outside. "I imagine you'll have to make preparations... I'll be out of your way. Have a nice day."
"Where do you think you're going? Coward!" Quentin knew full well that his assistant was leaving to avoid trouble, and so he found himself alone with the task of resolving the situation in no time. He hastily sorted out his letters and official documents, slamming drawers shut and moving objects around on his desk to keep things tidy. "You!" When Sorton regained his usual composure and calm, he turned to his servant and shouted a few questions, trying to get as much information as possible from him. "I don't know, my lord! We weren't warned of anything else. The border guards probably didn't make it in time, or—"
"Silence! I won't listen to excuses. They're incompetent! They should have seen her, there's no other way to reach Terran! Now go, before I beat you! And make sure everything is ready for the queen's arrival!"