The palace was in chaos. Sunlight caught the gilt and made the thrown objects sparkle as they skipped across the council chamber; the First Prince, always more ornament than backbone, cowered in a corner and tried to look as if he belonged there while dodging vases and inkstands hurled by his father.
"How could all this fall apart so quickly?" Hanz bellowed, pacing with the rage of a man who'd never learned to lose. "Right before I almost had everything locked in and ready? It's Nicolae—always Nicolae—fucking everything up!"
Darius, rigid in his uniform, watched the King from the edge of the storm. He kept his face smooth; a soldier shows concern quietly. "Your Majesty," he said, measured, "he could not have done this alone. I have every guard questioned. They're held in the barracks for interrogation. There had to be help."
The King hissed between clenched teeth. "No help. No excuses. We will isolate her. Kae has no one when her entourage is gone. She caves when she has no chorus."
"How do you expect to make that happen?" Darius asked. It was not an accusation so much as a probe—how far was Hanz willing to go?
Hanz's smile was thin and certain. "She is my ward. I will bring her here, under my roof as she once was. No escorts. No friends. When she is alone, she signs." His fingers drummed the rim of a goblet like a metronome.
"You can't force her to sign the contracts." Darius's voice held a soldier's steadiness, but there was steel beneath it.
The King's answer was silk and a trap. "I will not force her, Darius. I will offer her something she wants—something she cannot refuse. She will be grateful, and she will sign as if it was her choice." He leaned forward, predatory. "It will be very simple."
Before Darius could press the point, a soldier burst into the chamber, breathless, cloak caked with the road. "Your Majesty—message from the captain of the guard with the caravan." He handed Hanz a folded scrap of paper. Hanz tore it open; his face went from mask to raw wound in a heartbeat. He flung the nearest brass inkwell at the wall; it shattered with a sound like a threat. The First Prince ducked instinctively.
Darius reached, took the note, and read aloud, voice flat so the words could not hide:
"To Hanz Drachenberg II—
Your wagons travel light and your larders fat. We borrowed what your soldiers took from Nubarra and gave it back to those who starved. Keep your wedding, keep your crowns. Remember the hungry. — Nightwatch."
Under the fold, a black feather, dirty and deliberate, lay like a mockery. The word "Nightwatch" tasted like defiance. For a long, suspended moment the chamber breathed as one—then the King's nostrils flared; his face became a map of white veins.
"Nightwatch," he spat. "Cowards. Names to hide behind." He jabbed a finger at the advisors. "Now we have a vigilante on our heels. Of course there is—these peasants worm through the lot of you like maggots in grain."
Darius folded the paper carefully, watching Hanz instead of the torn edges. "Sire, the captain reports that most of the escort deserted and aided the theft. That suggests organized planning. There was a brazier—manifests burned. Tracks led back toward the river slums. Whoever did this expected the wagons to be found."
"Traitors." The word was an executioner's bell. Hanz's plan sharpened to cruelty. "Seal the roads. Marshal the garrison. Find the deserters and make an example." He smiled then—a grin that had no warmth. "Hang the ring-leaders in public. Let every cart passing through see them sway."
Darius's reply was quieter, a soldier's reluctant logic. "If you punish now, you risk making martyrs. If you crush sympathy, you breed rage. The people fed by this will remember faces."
Hanz's hand slammed on the desk until the wood whined. "Then bring me martyrs, Darius. I will burn their names until the scent of rebellion is only ash."
Ritchor's voice trembled with the ridiculous pride of a sparrow that thought itself a hawk. "Why don't you ask Bennihan? Isn't she always the one releasing him from the dungeon?"
Hanz's eyes flicked up to his son, slow and calculating. "I thought of her," he said, letting the syllables hang like bait. "But she was elsewhere when he vanished. I had a man follow her—she truly has no idea what's happening. She isn't that good an actress." He smirked, pleased with the small cruelty of the thought.
Darius watched the glint spark in the King's eyes and felt the cold slide of premonition down his spine. Hanz was tasting the contours of a plan; the scent of it pleased him. "However," the King continued, voice soft with amusement, "Bennihan will still be the best tool to draw him out. Keep Kaelani near as insurance, but Bennihan—she can be used." The twinkle in Hanz's eye was that of a hunter pleased with the trap he'd set. "Good job, Ritchor. At last you say something useful."
Ritchor straightened imperiously, as if the praise were a medal. He licked his lips, basking. Darius felt the room tilt—watching a boy puff himself up on approval like a dog given a scrap.
"Bring Kaelani to me," Hanz ordered. "Quietly. No fanfare. Make it seem like a routine call to counsel. If Nicolae has a weakness, it is her presence. If she will not sign when she is alone, she will surely flinch when she sees Bennihan used against her."
Darius's jaw tightened. He opened his mouth, measured the protest, closed it. The chain of command was a thing soldiers obeyed; open argument in the council hall was a luxury for men who had never had a hand around their throats. "And the deserters?" he asked instead flatly. "You will want them brought in first—confessions, names. If there's a network, we need its nodes."
"Round them up," Hanz said, already turning away to the next cruelty. "Make an example at dawn. Post their heads along the West Road. Let the people see what sympathy gets you."
Darius nodded once and stepped toward the door, the soldier's motion smooth and controlled. As he went, his mind was already tallying risks and counterweights. Keep Kae close—yes. Use Bennihan—perhaps. But if Hanz moved with all the lethal certainty of a man who believed fear could chain a nation, Darius knew where he stood: between the King's appetite and the ruin of those he swore to protect. He would obey orders—but not blindly. There were other ways to find a boy in the smoke and shadow. There were other ways to keep a queen from being crushed.
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Emily had never seen Kaelani that excited about anything that didn't involve sex, drink, or a brawl. She was on fire. Kaelani had pulled together women from every walk of life—nobles and merchants, laundresses and seamstresses, officers' wives, market girls—everyone with a skirt and a story. They crowded the estate lawn like a small army; even a smattering of men had come, curious or frightened or both.
Kaelani climbed the dais in pants, hair wild, eyes bright as flint. She spoke slow and hot about equality, about progress not being something to fear, and about the few who kept their feet planted on other people's necks. The crowd roared with her—some with agreement, some with skeptical curiosity.
"How do you fight men who have been in control for centuries?" a woman called from the crowd.
Kaelani paced, grinning. "How, you ask?" She let the question hang, then leaned in, conspiratorial. "Sisters—what is the one thing a man wants more than power, more than glory, more than legacy?" Silence fell. She waited until every eye looked back. Then she pointed, lewd and theatrical, between her knees.
A scandalized titter, then whoops and cheers. Even the prim ones who pretended shock couldn't keep the grin off their faces.
"That's right," she said, voice fierce. "They want what's between our legs. So why are we handing it over when they won't even see us as human beings?"
A woman near the front clapped a hand on her knee and shouted, "Hell yes! Men mean nothing without us."
Kaelani's smile sharpened. "Then we'll stop making them whole. We'll starve them of our bodies, our marriages, our obedience. No more touching, no marriages, no courtships—until this law is signed." She held the paper high: a draft law for women's rights, everything notarized except the final signature.
"I'm tired of women being treated like trash—just breeders and cooks. We can't even inherit, own homes, or make our own choices. Why do you think that is?" she asked, sweeping the crowd with her stare.
A smooth, seasoned voice cut through the murmur. "Because if we had control over our own lives, they wouldn't be able to control us." Ms. Tempers stood where everyone could see her, voice like a blade honed on experience.
Whispers rippled like wind through the field. Kaelani nodded, eyes hard. "Exactly. They keep us docile because a world where we're not is—what?—scary for them. They're terrified we'd outpace them." Laughter and a cascade of cheers followed.
"So here's what we do," Kaelani said, planting both hands on the paper and looking each woman in the face. "We cut them off. All of them. No marriages. No sex. No courtships. Not until we get what we deserve."
She raised the document again. The lawn erupted—claps, stomps, a few women weeping, others laughing too loud. The spark had become a flame: women supporting women, finally loud enough to make the city listen.
"Spread the word," Kaelani barked to the crowd, voice rolling over the lawn like a drum. "From the brothels to the high houses — every woman must take part. Anyone who refuses is to be shunned. This only works if we all unite. Do not let anyone stop you. We will stand together and make this work — but only if we all do it together."
She grinned, suddenly lighter. "Now eat cake, drink some damn tea, and talk to each other. Ignore station — ignore who is who. We are all sisters in this. We will not let them divide us any longer." She slammed the unsigned law down on the table beside her with a satisfying clap. "This ends here and now, with all of us united!"
Applause broke like thunder. Women swarmed forward: questions, embraces, stories spilled into the grass. Emily watched, chest full, proud in a way that made her eyes mist. Kaelani was on fire — the leader she'd always had in her, finally unchained. Emily didn't know why Kaelani had hidden that spark before; maybe it was what their father had done. Now it was back, and Emily felt whole.
Her joy died in a single look. Bennihan stood at the edge of the crowd, half a dozen soldiers behind her, faces stony. Duty had put steel in Bennihan's jaw; she didn't look pleased.
She moved forward, stopping before Kaelani. "By order of the King," she said, flat, "Her Majesty is to come with me to the palace and remain as the King's ward."
Kaelani laughed at first — sharp and incredulous. "You can't—" she started.
Bennihan produced a folded document and held it up. The signature at the bottom—her uncle's—was clear as ink. Custody transferred. Authority ceded.
Kaelani's hands trembled. The laughter left her in a breath. "No. I can't go there with him..." she whispered.
Bennihan's hand landed on Kaelani's shoulder in a gesture that was apology and armor both. "I'm sorry, Your Highness. I tried to talk him down—especially after... after what you said," she murmured, voice soft with shame.
Kaelani crushed the paper in her fist for a moment, then turned to the watching crowd, voice steady and furious. "Do not forget today. I will fight from within the halls, and you will fight here in the city. I will have your backs. We will no longer let them do this to us. If a queen cannot be in charge of her own life, then no woman will be."
She faced Bennihan, the fire in her eyes narrowing to a blade. "Let's get this shit over with."
____________________________________________________________________________
The doors burst open into the council chamber where Hanz still held court with advisors. Kaelani stormed in, fury raw and immediate; Bennihan followed with a half-dozen soldiers who looked as if they weren't sure whether they'd been ordered or volunteered into the moment.
"What the fuck are you playing at, Hanz?" she snapped, voice cutting through the room. She was livid, and every inch of her was incandescent with rage.
Hanz rose slowly, the practiced poise of a man who believed surprise would never unseat him. "Ah—Queen Kaelani. Finally back where you belong," he said, as if she'd come home for a courtesy call.
"What bullshit is this?" she shot back. The chamber watched, taut as a bowstring.
"You know your kingdom is in tatters," Hanz said, syrup-smooth. "There are linkages between our courts that must be repaired. You opted out of ruling; some of us have taken it upon ourselves to reconstruct things so peace will be inevitable and our realms united."
Kaelani stepped forward—shorter than him by a head, but heavier with fury. "You and my uncle stripped my power away when I was a child. Don't pretend you're doing this for any noble reason."
Hanz offered the slow, terrible calm of a man arranging chess pieces. "Your kingdom will be in good hands with my stewardship, and you will remain Queen in title while my son is groomed to secure the line." He produced a stack of papers like a priest producing absolution.
She snatched them and read. Her face contorted at the words. "What the fuck, Hanz—you're blackmailing me into marriage with your crusty son or he marries Malieka she's only twelve years old, all this just so you can get your hands on my resources?" Her voice was acid.
Hanz corrected her with silk-cold precision. "I offer options—marriage to Prince Ritchor, or other dynastic arrangements that secure succession, your half-sister will be married in your place if you refuse. It is for the good of both realms." He tried to hide a smirk; his eyes betrayed him. Checkmate, he thought.
The papers hit the desk. In a motion so fast it left the room breathless, Kaelani vaulted onto the wood, seized Hanz by the throat, and squeezed. The King's composure shattered into a strangled gasp.
Soldiers lunged. Hands closed on her waist and wrists—Bennihan the first to act, hauling her down and dragging her back. "Your Majesty—this is not the place!" Bennihan hissed, pinched with duty.
Kaelani struggled, veins standing at her temples, rage raw and bright. "I'm going to kill you, Hanz," she snarled, every word a promise. "One day I will end you—and I will have sex on your corpse, I SWEAR IT!" She was dragged from the chamber, still kicking, still spitting curses that rang off marble.
Hanz coughed, fingers clawing at his throat as advisors moved in like shadows to smooth the moment into a report. Prince Ritchor, who'd cowered as vases flew earlier, managed a weak, ridiculous suggestion from the floor. "Well—they're cut from the same cloth. Maybe they should be married," he offered, thinking he'd earned praise.
Hanz's hand cracked across Ritchor's cheek; the boy toppled with a whimper. "Never say that in my presence again," the King snapped, voice iron.
Straightening, Hanz jabbed a finger at his counsel. "Make sure she signs those papers by the end of the day." The lawyers bowed and retreated, shuffling to turn the King's wrath into ink and seal. They left behind an embarrassed prince on the floor, a sovereign rubbing his throat, and a chamber of bewildered men tasked with cleaning up the mess.
____________________________________________________________________________
The tavern stank of boiled cabbage, cheap wine, and the sweat of men who'd spent the night gambling away tomorrow's bread. Lanterns swung on iron hooks and threw everything into angles; faces were half light, half rumor. He sat at the far table, elbows on wood scarred by a thousand nights, knife between his fingers and the cloak drawn tight. He ate slow and listened—because gossip was fuel, and tonight the city was full of flame.
A group near the hearth argued about the King's new parade of power. A woman with a husk of a voice kept saying the same thing like a prayer: "She'll be his—he's got her signed." Another laughed and mimicked the First Prince in a too high voice, and men laughed with her because it was easier to laugh than to think.
When someone mentioned the wedding—"The Queen, to that useless prince"—the masked man's jaw tightened. He set his cup down so hard the wooden ring shivered and fell. He finished his bread in two bites and then picked up a stool and chucked it at the wall. The thing shattered into a spray of splinters that rained on the table beside him.
Silence sucked the room dry. Eyes turned. A knife clinked against a plate somewhere back in the dark.
Then someone, tall and lanky, rose from the crowd—hood up, face masked like the rest of them—and went to the center of the room. He spoke low, a hand sweeping the air. "Forgive him," he said to the barkeep, half-pity, half-command. "He's had a bad break. Leave him be. Wine for his table on the house." The barkeep grunted obedience; men muttered, shifted, and the mood eased as if someone had let air into a tightened fist.
The tall man guided the stool-thrower by the shoulder back toward the corner where the fire threw heat like a lie. He pulled off his own mask—revealing Darius's face, the same squared jaw the court knew but softened by tavern light—and sat opposite the stranger. No one who knew the soldier would ever have guessed he could move like a puppeteer in a room of men. He ordered stew, tore bread, ate as if he'd not a care in the world.
The stranger—still hooded, cloak clinging like shadow—kept his hands to himself. He watched the talkers with the patience of a man who'd learned the cost of haste. After a time, with the fire throwing their faces into bronze and black, the hooded one leaned in. "Is it true?" he asked, voice low as a grave. "Is she to marry the First Prince?"
Darius chewed, swallowed, and nodded once. "It's true."
The man cursed, but it was a soft sound, nothing theatrical. "She was forced," he muttered, eyes on the table, words gone into the grain. "I know it."
Darius's gaze didn't flicker from the stranger. "She's safe for now," he said. "But you can't lose sight of the work. Tonight—hit the supply chains. We weaken the garrisons, we starve the war machine, we give what strength we can back to the people. Don't make this only about you."
Something struck the table: a palm, hard. "She is my only sight," the stranger said, voice like iron. "Nothing else matters but her."
Darius looked at him for a long, unreadable beat. He had seen obsession enough to know the edges of it; he had learned to steer men who could swallow kingdoms with their mouths. "This is longer than you and her," he said finally, softer. "This is ending a war, and getting your people out of my country. Keep your head. Keep the prize in sight."
He slid a folded paper across the table. The stranger reached, fingers brushing the map, opened it with a quick, practiced ease. There were lines and roads, little crosses where wagons paused, notes in the margins—times, guards, a penciled warning: trap?
Darius's voice stayed even. "Here—next supply chains. Two are clean, one is bait. Be wary. You do a good hit, and the people get bread. You stumble into the trap, you get taken, and that's a chain for Hanz to pull." He kept his hand on the stranger's shoulder, a soldier's grip—steady, grounding.
The hooded man didn't look up. He took in the maps, tracings like the beat of a war-hungry heart. Then, almost offhand, he asked, "Does she ask about me?"
Darius heard the hunger in the question and felt, uselessly, a twinge of pity. It would help, he thought, if the man had that small comfort—if the thought of being remembered eased him into discipline. "No," he said honestly. "She hasn't. She's been... occupied. But I hear this: since you left, she hasn't touched another."
It took a second for the words to land. Then, under the hood, something like a light blinked through the slit of the mask—eyes catching candle-glint, blue as a hard winter. For a moment the world narrowed; the stranger's shoulders slackened a fraction, a small, private smile loosening his face beneath the cloth.
"Really? She... she hasn't—" he trailed off, breathless, and Darius could see the hunger blunt into something fiercer, steadier.
"Tonight," Darius said, standing and folding the maps back into the small square, "you strike the chains. Hit every marked stop. Be back before dawn. Don't get sentimental. Don't get sloppy." He gave the man's shoulder a last, firm squeeze. "Keep your eye on the prize, and don't let her be the only thing you're fighting for, Nightwatch."
The stranger—Nightwatch—smirked something that might have been gratitude, perhaps amusement, perhaps a promise. He rose, slipped back into shadow, and left the stew-scented warmth of the tavern for the wet, hungry alleys beyond.
Darius watched him go, the maps folded like a promise in his palm. He wanted, absurdly and fiercely, to give the man something more than a plan: a life that could survive his obsession. But there was a war tonight and wagons to ruin and mouths to fill. For now, the country needed strikes, not solace. He slid the maps into his coat, stood, and let the tavern swallow the shadow after him.
____________________________________________________________________________
The doors slammed open and Ritchor tumbled in, breath blown, cloak askew, a folded scrap clutched in one trembling hand. He'd raced from the city wall—musty smoke and shouted curses still clinging to him—because the captain there had sent word they couldn't afford to ignore. He needed his father to listen.
Hanz looked up from the table, pleased as a man who'd just been handed his favorite chew-toy. "Ah—speak of the groom," he purred, palms already smoothing the air. "Here he is." He held out a hand; Ritchor stepped forward like a boy expecting a scolding and found instead a command to smile.
"Make sure his uniform is perfect," Hanz said to the planners before Ritchor could even find his voice. "Golds. Whites. Maybe a ruby or two. The Queen will match—her skin is dark as night; she'll wear anything and look divine." Even Ritchor flinched at that, the words sticky with the King's usual assumptions.
But Ritchor's face had been carrying a weight all morning, and it didn't belong to costume fittings. Hanz noticed the look and scoffed. "Why do you look more like a frightened pup than the future king?" he teased, sliding a hand down Ritchor's shoulder in deliberate familiarity—then, with practiced ease, his fingers left the shoulder as Ritchor held up the report.
Hanz took the note and unfolded it with indulgent, fatherly care, like a man reading a child's bad joke. Ritchor braced for an explosion of fury—another object thrown, another lesson in submission. Instead Hanz laughed, a small, dismissive sound. "Withholding, are they? Over what, pray tell—because the men won't bow? Theatre, all theater. We have more important matters."
He tossed the paper back toward the table and turned amusement into reassurance. "Don't worry, son. Once you get the Queen to marry you, the women will drop the act. Everything will fall back into place." His smile was a trap disguised as comfort.
Ritchor felt the shape of the room change around him. The report had said more than a staged protest—it hinted at networks forming, women trading plans and names like currency. The crowd he'd seen outside had not looked theatrical; they'd looked organized, eager, and dangerous in a way a forced marriage might only inflame.
He watched his father's confidence—so sure, so smug—and for the first time a cold, small voice in him wondered: what if Hanz was wrong? What if this was a fire a crown couldn't stomp out with a ring and a decree?
____________________________________________________________________________
On the other side of town, past the river odor and the market's tired shouts, the broken mansion leaned into the sky like a complaint. Nicolae had found it — or been given it, a hollowed reward from a father who kept favors as if they were coins to be spent later. Kaelani stood in a ruined parlor and snorted at the idea of the place being a trophy. The ceiling gaped; light fell through in angry strips. Wallpaper curled like dead skin.
She wasn't laughing at Nicolae's scrappy prize so much as at the man who'd been given scraps because he refused to be a puppet. That streak in him — the sheer stubborn will — had always glittered at her. He did enormous things with a shrug and a grin, battering his head against whatever wall stood until it cracked. It was glorious and ridiculous and the kind of reckless she loved.
Where are you, Nicolae? she thought, more ache than question. Especially now, when she needed him most.
Six soldiers made a half-circle around her like ceremonial teeth; "safe" meant Hanz didn't want her vanishing on his watch. Rumors hissed through the city — Nightwatch, the masked thief who left feathers and messages. The thought of a masked, dangerous stranger made a thirsty part of her tingle. She'd liked the idea of trying that bad-boy flavor once. But since Nicolae disappeared she hadn't wanted the usual comforts — the wine tasted flat; the beds were empty of warm trouble. Something else had slid in: a small, ridiculous sadness at the steady absence of that blonde shadow who used to follow her like a fly on a horse.
"Eww," she muttered out loud, more to herself than anyone. "I think I miss that blond thing."
She laughed, then the laugh broke. The absurdity of her own longing pulled something raw loose. Tears came, slow and quiet, tracking bright paths through the dust on her cheeks. She sank to her knees and picked up a glass doorknob that had survived one of the ceilings' rebellions. It was ridiculous and ordinary and she clutched it like a relic.
The guards froze. One hovered too close, unsure whether to fold into comfort or obey the edict: hands off unless ordered. He stood with the rigid patience of a man ready to scoop her up if she fell but not brave enough to touch grief.
"Nicolae, you idiot," she whispered into the ruined light, voice thick. "God, I hate you for leaving me."
Her face hardened with a new, steady resolve. She gripped the doorknob and slid it into the small leather pouch at her hip. If he was dead — if Hanz's machinations had taken him — she would not let him be swallowed by the dirt of some forgotten ditch. This house would not stay a ruin. She would make it a thing: repairs, roofs mended, rooms for people who had nowhere else. If he was gone, she'd make his memory useful — a shelter for battered women and children, a place warm enough to keep names alive.
She rose, wiped her face with the back of her hand like a monarch erasing a misdemeanor, and let the plan alchemize into action. There would be men and workers and carpenters sent. There would be records, lists, the awkward bureaucracy of kindness. There would be work, and the work would hurt in good ways.
A last flash of memory lit her — a laugh from him, a look, a ridiculous, brutal afternoon tucked like a coin — and something inside her curdled sweet with regret. "I'll avenge you, Nicolae," she said to the plaster and the empty windows, steady as oath and twice as dangerous.
The soldiers gathered her cloak and escorted her back to the carriage. She climbed aboard with the doorknob warm in her pouch and a new axis of fury turning in her chest: the protest still needed fanning, the city needed to burn in the ways she chose, and she, Queen or not, would not let his name be taken without answer.