The next morning, I was awoken—not by Cordelia's dry humor or any of my own retinue—but by the soft rustle of silk and the faint scent of jasmine. A maid of the Cloud-Dancer stepped into my chambers without hesitation, her measured footsteps followed by three dressers who moved with the brisk efficiency of those accustomed to clothing royalty.

They did not ask permission. They did not speak until they were already in the process of dismantling what I had slept in, replacing it with fine cloth dyed the deep, arterial red of the Scarlet Table. The fabric was cool against my skin at first, but heavy—weighted with threadwork that caught the light in subtle glints.

It was a scarlet suit, its cut sharp and its fit precise, embroidered with three spears that angled toward the heart. Each stitch seemed purposeful, as though woven not merely for beauty but for the weight of meaning.

"While at court," one of the dressers said, her voice measured and gentle, "as the bearer of the Spear, you are expected to wear regalia that signifies this. A visual reminder, so there is no mistake in the eyes of the court, nor the public, who you are and what you have accepted."

I glanced down at the spears etched into the cloth. Symbols were dangerous things. They could raise armies or make enemies in silence.

"You should also dress yourself for the station," she continued, now stepping aside to allow another dresser to open a long, flat ivory box. The hinges creaked faintly, and the smell of polished metal and stored silk escaped. "As such, Her Royal Highness has requested we loan these to you. You are expected to wear jewels that signify your importance."

Inside, the box was a small treasury—brooches of silver and gold, necklaces set with stones cut into precise, cold facets, rings that gleamed as though they'd never been worn. Yet I could feel the weight of history in them. These were not mere decorations; they had belonged to other hands before mine, carried in other ceremonies, seen other blood spilled.

I ran my fingers across the array, not choosing immediately, but letting my hand linger. The cold touch of metal seemed to whisper—some with pride, some with warning.

In the end, I took a sapphire and silver brooch, its blue sharp as a winter sky, and a bronze-and-opal ring whose milky fire caught the light with quiet defiance. My last choice was for my horn—a gold band that fit snugly at its base.

When I turned it in my hand, I saw what was etched inside, the words cut in the curling, deliberate strokes of old Bastian script: Betrayal is to be Bathed in Bloodshed.

I had heard those words before—not in courtly speeches, but in whispers about the real rusted Sanguine Spear. They were the creed of its bearer, the truth not spoken aloud in the great halls. The original weapon still existed, though only in pieces. The inscription was half-eaten away by rust, but the surviving fragment had been replicated here, in miniature, for the one who now carried its authority.

The dresser caught my gaze lingering on the words. "It is tradition," she said simply. But her eyes told me she knew it was more than that.

I did not answer her. Instead, I slid the ring onto my horn, the metal cold at first before it warmed with my skin. It felt almost like a shackle, and yet… it was one I had accepted willingly.

The court of Bast was already in motion by the time I arrived.

The Cloud-Dancer's halls were a lattice of sunlit marble and stained glass, each window painting the stone floor in fractured color. The air smelled faintly of rosewater, parchment, and the metallic tang of polish—both for steel and for silver. Nobles were gathered in shifting clusters, their silks and satins whispering as they turned to watch me.

The moment I stepped through the archway, the conversation thinned like a candleflame before a gust. Eyes tracked me—some openly curious, others calculating. A few narrowed, weighing me as though they could measure the sum of my worth from the way I wore my regalia.

The scarlet suit did its work well. It was not simply clothing—it was a statement. The three embroidered spears, bright against the deep red, seemed to catch every glint of light. The brooch at my breast caught the morning sun, its sapphire sending cold blue flashes into the sea of faces. The opal on my finger was softer, almost hidden, its shifting fire visible only when I moved.

And the ring on my horn… that one I felt more than saw.

I reached the central aisle between the two great wings of nobles. A herald's voice rose, smooth and practiced:

"Alexander Duarte. Bearer of the Sanguine Spear."

The title hung in the air like the first rumble of distant thunder. In public, it meant defender of the court, protector of the Crown, guardian of Bast's honor. That was the story they would tell—the one gilded with duty and loyalty.

I inclined my head in acknowledgment, the gesture measured, neither overly humble nor arrogantly dismissive. The murmurs resumed, like the quiet turning of a tide.

High Queen Lillianne sat at the far end of the hall, her throne framed by draped banners of scarlet and gold. She watched me with the stillness of a statue, save for the faint curve at the corner of her lips—a smile too slight to read.

The walk to her was deliberate, the sound of my boots echoing against the stone. With each step, I felt the weight of the ring's inscription pressing against my thoughts.

Betrayal is to be Bathed in Bloodshed.

The nobles watching me thought they saw a new ornament for the Queen's court. They had no idea they were looking at its knife.

When I reached the dais, I went to one knee. The Queen rose—not quickly, but with the unhurried authority of one who knows every gaze is hers already.

"Rise, Alexander Duarte," she said. Her voice was velvet over steel. "Let all present witness the newest hand at the Scarlet Table, who bears the Sanguine Spear."

The court applauded, some eagerly, others because they knew it was expected. The sound was polite, controlled.

I rose and met her eyes. For the briefest instant, the applause dulled to nothing in my ears.

"As we have all borne witness," Queen Lillianne began, her voice carrying with effortless precision, "Alexander Duarte—Prince Alizade—has accepted his seat, as tradition demands. An outsider, yes… but one who carved his name into our histories, and chose to bind that name to Bast through patronage and loyalty."

A ripple of acknowledgment moved through the crowd. She allowed it a heartbeat to breathe before continuing.

"On such a day, by custom, we would feast and frolic until dawn. Wine would flow, music would shatter the air, and—" she arched a brow, her tone sharpening into wicked amusement, "—many of you would find yourselves indulging in… extracurricular partnerships." The murmur of laughter was cautious, knowing. "And yes, you will have your chance to do exactly that tonight, as planned."

Her expression cooled. "But today… we gather not merely to welcome a hand to the Scarlet Table, but to mark the death of rot within our walls. We celebrate new lands wrested from the unworthy, a name smothered into ash, and—let us not forget—we mourn that we allowed such swine to nest in our attic for so long."

She did not raise her voice, yet the words struck like thrown knives. "Wilstead—formerly Wilstead Karhile—is dead. Slain in a duel he sought, in which he dared to spit upon my name, the name of a Prince, and the honor of Bast itself."

The court stirred, whispers sparking like dry tinder. The Queen let them burn for a moment before speaking again.

"Alexander Duarte-Alizade," she said, her gaze falling on me like the weight of a crown, "was not only victorious—he was decisive. Cunning. Unshaken. The boar was put down with eloquence, with ease, and with the efficiency of a surgeon removing diseased flesh."

Her voice softened, almost sweet. "As the duel's terms dictate, the Alizade name will now hold the Moscatt Manor, the Karhile Vineyard—henceforth the Alizade Vineyard—and the late family's prized sand-galleon. A clean inheritance, unsoiled by their stench."

For a heartbeat, silence held the room. Then the applause began—not the raucous cheer of festival crowds, but the deliberate, measured clapping of nobles who knew how to turn even praise into politics. Rings clicked faintly against goblets, gloves brushed together in polite approval.

From the edges of the hall came murmurs. Too soft for the Queen to acknowledge, but not too soft for me to hear.

"…clean inheritance indeed…" "…Karhile's bloodline ends like this? Fitting." "…Alizade has teeth after all…" "…outsider or not, he did what no one else would…" "…and if he could do it to Karhile…"

The last voice trailed off, as if realizing it had spoken too loudly.

Further back, where the commoners and lesser merchants crowded near the marble pillars, the reaction was less guarded. Whispers tangled with quiet chuckles, and more than a few approving nods were exchanged. A woman in a green shawl muttered, "Good riddance to the boar," while an old vintner near her replied, "If he can handle Karhile, maybe he can keep the Vineyard worth drinking from."

Ultimately, I could see it already. The rifts in the courtroom. More than eighty-five percent of the people here approved of Karhile being defeated, deposed, and decaying. The worrying part was the fifteen percent who held that sway in the other hand of the scales. The biggest voice of disgust I could see, was fellow Prince Nathaniel Vick. Zh shenyeptes at megdel hesh'even. "He Who Broke the Clocktower." Or at least I'd assume. The more literal translation was "One Who Broke the Clock in the Tower in the Sky at Dawn." Most called him Clock-bearer. Behind him was two others, Viscountess Juliet Bragavara – Courtesy name unknown by me or my gloss, and another noble that I don't even have the name of at all.

The applause swelled again as the Queen lifted her hand, cutting through the tangle of whispers and muttered speculations like a blade through silk. The room fell into a tense, expectant hush.

"For those of you who wish to object," she said, her voice carrying the weight of steel and the ease of long practice, "feel free. I offer my throne to all who dare wish it. The Seat of Sorrows does not accept anyone who will not scar themselves in war. Karhile was fat, lazy, and frankly, an inherited noble riding on the ghost of another man's labor. His father, Yulian Wilstead, will not share in his disgrace. Yulian served too valiantly for that—saved too many civilians during the war with the Lost Republic for us to tarnish his memory."

She let the words settle, letting each faction in the crowd consider where they stood before continuing. "As such, in his honor, we will erect a statue of him, wrought from the metal he so cherished—Green Iron—to stand before the Museum of Naval History. There, his legacy will remain unmarred by the swine his bloodline produced."

The chamber erupted again in thunderous applause—this time richer, more unified, though the unity was brittle. In the faces of the court, I could already see the splinters: those who applauded because they believed her, those who applauded because they feared her, and those who applauded because to do otherwise would mark them as prey.

It was a clever thing, this declaration. More than a placating gesture to the Wilstead loyalists or a symbolic erasure of Karhile, it was a controlled burn—cutting away rot while leaving a monument as a token for those who might otherwise rebel. It soothed, but it also warned.

And for me… it was something else entirely.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report. Not a gift. Not an olive branch. A prompt.

A way to watch the crowd, to feel the ripples of power shift and settle.

To measure.

***

I was escorted to a backroom. The air was cooler here, the bustle of the outer halls replaced with a heavy stillness. Candlelight and the faint blue shimmer of manalamps gave the space a muted glow, their light catching on the rough texture of sandstone walls and the veins of granite running through the floor. Shadows hunched in the corners like eavesdroppers too stubborn to leave. The faint scent of wax and old parchment hung in the air.

Three figures waited for me.

The first was the Queen herself, seated at the far side of the table, her crown absent but her presence no less commanding. To her left sat a man of middle age, his build lean but corded with quiet strength. His clothes were unremarkable—muted brown wool, no obvious insignia—yet his posture was that of someone who could draw a blade before most could draw breath. A compact crossbow rested holstered at his left hip; on the other, a short-barreled rifle of some unfamiliar make. His eyes were the color of wet slate, watching everything without a hint of warmth.

The third figure could not have been more different. An older woman, silver hair tied neatly behind her head, her hands folded in front of her with the practiced ease of someone used to putting others at ease. Her dress was modest and patterned with tiny embroidered flowers. She looked like she belonged behind the counter of a bakery, offering warm bread to neighbors, or tending a garden under morning sunlight. She smiled as I entered, and the whole dim room seemed a little less oppressive. It was the kind of smile that could lower your guard—perhaps that was the point.

"Star-Writer," Queen Lillianne said, motioning to the seat of honor at the end of the table. "Sit."

I did. The wood was polished smooth from decades of use, but solid beneath my hands.

"Allow me to introduce you to the two people you will be working closest with in matters of national statecraft," the Queen continued. She gestured to the man. "This is my Spymaster. Codename: Hollow."

Hollow gave a single curt nod. No words. No attempt at cordiality. Just that unblinking assessment, as though he were taking my measure for strengths and weaknesses to exploit later.

"To my right," Lillianne said, turning toward the older woman, "is the one person you are required to report to. You will treat her words as greater than mine. If she says kill, you kill. If she says jump, you jump. She will not waste either command. This is Mother."

Mother's smile did not fade. "Your Majesty overstates my authority," she said in a voice as warm as tea on a winter morning, though there was a faint iron under the softness. "But she does not exaggerate my reach."

"She is," the Queen continued, "by all rights the most effective intelligence operator in the entirety of the Continental Alliance. Some say beyond it. She has eyes in places that would make you lose sleep and ears in places you thought were silent."

Mother inclined her head toward me. "Your reputation precedes you, Star-Writer. But reputation is wind—it can carry you or cut you down. My work is to make sure it carries you, and in turn, the realm."

Lillianne folded her hands on the table. "We are not here for pleasantries. You hold the Scarlet Spear. That means you will be wielding it not just in public, but in the shadows, whether you like it or not. Hollow and Mother will be your lifelines in both worlds. Hollow handles operations—quiet, quick, efficient. Mother handles the threads—information, influence, the quiet removal of threats before they even think to lift a blade."

Hollow finally spoke, his voice low and even. "I'll be blunt. You'll never see half the work I do. If I'm doing my job right, you won't need to. But if I come to you, it's because I need something sharp, immediate, and ruthless. Can you be that?"

I met his gaze but said nothing yet.

Mother's tone was gentler. "And I, dear Star-Writer, will give you the truths you need to act before the blood spills. I will tell you which whispers to ignore and which to act upon without hesitation. I will keep you from wasting your strength where it will do no good."

Lillianne leaned back. "Understand this, Alexander—this meeting is not for ceremony. It is for clarity. There will be days when the law cannot be followed to the letter. There will be days when justice is a blade in the dark, not a gavel in daylight. The Scarlet Spear must be willing to wield both."

Mother's smile returned, this time tinged with something almost maternal. "And that is why you report to me. Because there will come moments when even the Queen must be questioned, and in those moments, you will need a voice unbound by the throne's chains. I am that voice."

Hollow's eyes narrowed slightly, as if measuring whether I truly understood the danger implicit in that arrangement.

The Queen let the silence stretch a moment before breaking it. "Now, Star-Writer, let us talk about your first lesson in statecraft—how to hear the truth when it comes wrapped in lies, and how to tell a lie that carries the weight of truth. Mother will begin."

Mother leaned forward slightly, the soft folds of her sleeves brushing the polished surface of the table. "Alexander," she began, her tone almost conversational, "the first lesson in ruling is deceptively simple: learn to listen. But not just hear. Listen for what is unspoken."

She tapped a finger against the table. "Every whisper you encounter at court is layered. A baron's flattery may hide envy. A marquis' laughter may mask fear. And a queen's smile—even mine—can conceal necessity or peril. You must hear beneath the words, beyond the gestures. Only then can you act in a way that truly matters."

Hollow leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. "And sometimes," he added, voice low, "those unspoken truths will cost lives if ignored. Information is useless if you cannot wield it decisively. You will need to determine which morsels are poison and which are tools. Misstep once, and the court will devour you without a second thought."

Mother glanced at Hollow but kept her eyes on me. "Do not confuse his tone for rudeness, Alexander. Hollow's world is knives and shadows. Mine is threads and webs. Together, we ensure that your decisions—public or private—are anchored in knowledge, not presumption."

I nodded, letting their words sink in. "How do I begin?" I asked. "How do I know which threads matter most?"

Mother's lips curved into a faint, knowing smile. "By observing, recording, and questioning. Never accept a report at face value. Always cross-check, always triangulate. Every noble has motivations you cannot guess from a single conversation, and every whisper is a puzzle piece. Assemble enough pieces, and the picture will reveal itself."

Hollow's crossbow shifted slightly on his hip as he added, "And remember—timing is just as critical as knowledge. Acting too soon can alert enemies. Acting too late can make you irrelevant. You will need to balance patience with ruthlessness. That is the essence of surviving the court."

Mother nodded in agreement. "And there will be times when waiting is impossible. Decisions must be made without hesitation. That is why you report to me directly. I will guide you on when a single move could shift alliances, topple rivals, or secure a victory before it is even noticed by your enemies."

I frowned slightly. "And if I… make a mistake?"

"Then you survive it," Hollow said flatly. "Or you do not. Simple as that."

Mother's smile softened the edge of his words. "Mistakes are inevitable, Alexander. But the Scarlet Spear does not fail in ignorance. You learn, adapt, and correct immediately. That is the difference between a ruler and a child playing at power."

I let the weight of her words settle. The room felt smaller somehow, though it was the same dim sandstone chamber. Candlelight flickered across the table, casting shadows that seemed almost alive.

Mother continued, leaning closer, her voice a whisper now, carrying weight beyond her years. "You will also learn discretion. Sometimes it is better to let a noble believe they have won a debate, while quietly maneuvering to take the advantage yourself. Appear weak when necessary. Reveal strength only when the moment demands it. The court remembers appearances, but it rewards effectiveness."

Hollow's voice cut in once more, colder this time. "And always account for betrayal. Even those closest to you—friends, allies, attendants—may act in ways that endanger you. If you cannot anticipate it, you will be undone. Consider every smile a potential dagger, every compliment a potential trap."

Mother's hand rose, lightly touching his arm. "Enough, Hollow. Alexander, the point is not to terrify you. It is to arm you. The Scarlet Spear is more than a title. It is responsibility beyond your lands, beyond your troops, beyond your name. You carry the weight of judgment, justice, and survival. And, Alexander…" Her gaze sharpened, steady and unwavering, "you will do so not for glory, not for vanity, but because those who cannot defend themselves depend on you to wield power wisely and without hesitation. You will wield it even against those you love, if they stand against justice. Even me, if necessary."

I swallowed, the gravity of the lesson pressing down, heavier than any dueling weapon or battlefield victory. Hollow's eyes never left me, but they no longer felt threatening—they were an assessment, a promise of rigorous mentorship.

"And," Mother continued, softer now, "every decision, every observation, every action you take here will ripple outward. Nobles talk. Spies listen. Allies watch. You must ensure your every move strengthens your position without leaving cracks for those who wish you harm. That is the dual nature of your new station—visible in the light, hidden in the shadows."

I nodded again, this time more firmly. "I understand. And you… both… will guide me?"

Mother's eyes softened, but the steel behind them remained. "Yes. I will guide you, correct you, and, if necessary, intervene. Hollow will execute the operations that cannot be handled from this room. Together, we will ensure that the Scarlet Spear is not merely a title, but a force to be reckoned with."

Hollow's gruff nod was the final punctuation, and Mother's faint smile offered reassurance. The lesson, however, had only begun.

The dim candlelight seemed to pulse in rhythm with the weight of their words. And I knew, sitting there between Hollow and Mother, that my life—and my understanding of power—would never be the same again.

The meeting stretched on, the conversation slowly shifting into tactics, covert networks, and intelligence gathering. Hollow outlined the safehouses, messenger networks, and codewords, while Mother explained how to track loyalties, read political currents, and anticipate both overt and subtle threats. Every word was laced with nuance, every suggestion carried the weight of potential life or death.

By the time I rose to leave, the first light of dawn was filtering through the sandstone window. I had learned more about governance, survival, and deception in those hours than I had in my entire life prior to becoming the Scarlet Spear. And, most importantly, I knew that Hollow and Mother would be my eyes and ears in a world where every shadow held a knife, every compliment concealed an ulterior motive, and every ally could be a future adversary.

[You Have Acquired the Skills: Espionage. Etiquette. Diplomacy. Statesmanship. Authority. And Beguilement.]

I blinked. It had been…a long while since I'd seen a skill increase notification. Not since the last chaotic expedition into Danatallion's Halls had my abilities grown so directly, so deliberately.

"I blocked you from acquiring any," Gin's form shimmered into existence nearby, his usual playful smile leading the way.

"First of all—creepy," I said, waving a hand at him. "Second…why?" My voice carried a mix of exasperation and wariness; Gin had a way of popping up when least convenient, and in forms that unsettled me more than I'd like to admit.

His eyes darkened, the brightness of his usual countenance dimming into something colder, sharper. "I needed you to focus on the moment, Alexander." His jovial tone was gone, replaced by an intensity that made the air feel thick. "Listen to me very carefully. I am the Archon of Calamity, the Duke of Destruction. And in thirty-one days…if you do not master what they are going to teach you, the catastrophe of Emeria will happen again."

The words hit like a blade. Emeria. The memory of that devastation—the chaos, the screams, the ash—flashed behind my eyes, making my stomach churn. "Wait…again?" My voice cracked, betraying the weight of the implication. "You mean the whole world? Or just…another city?"

"Everything," Gin said simply, with no elaboration. The playfulness was gone; even his form seemed to absorb the shadows of the room. "The first time was contained, narrowly. But the lessons you are acquiring—the skills you now possess—they are not mere courtly tools. They are the weapons, the shields, the instruments that will decide whether calamity spreads unchecked…or whether you hold it at bay."

I swallowed, the gravity of the situation settling like a lead weight. Espionage, etiquette, diplomacy, statesmanship, authority, beguilement. They weren't just abstract concepts anymore—they were lifelines, each one a pillar I had to master in thirty-one days or risk repeating a catastrophe that could rival Emeria.

"Gin…you're saying all of that hinges on me mastering these skills?" My voice was quiet, edged with disbelief.

"Yes," he said. He took a step closer, and for a fleeting moment, I caught the shadow of the Duke of Destruction in his eyes. "This isn't a drill. You've already survived battles, outmaneuvered political enemies, and outwitted the brightest minds in the Alliance. But this…this is different. This is not about survival, Alexander. It is about preventing annihilation. Every diplomatic error, every lapse in judgment, every misstep in influence…they compound, and the outcome is the catastrophe of Emeria multiplied across the continent."

I ran a hand through my hair, feeling the tension coil tighter. "Thirty-one days…that's it?"

Gin's form shimmered, the faint glint of his wings flickering as he leaned in, almost conspiratorially. "Thirty-one days. Every day counts. Every conversation, every observation, every decision you make will be a lesson. Some lessons will sting. Some may even break you. But each one is essential. Fail, and the world suffers. Succeed, and…you give it a chance. Nothing more, nothing less."

I exhaled sharply, the weight of the responsibility pressing down like the walls of a tomb. "So…this isn't about politics anymore. Or dances. Or duels. This is…survival, on a scale I don't even want to imagine."

Gin nodded. "Exactly. And that is why I blocked your skill growth until now. You needed focus, clarity, and purpose. Every skill you gain from here forward is a tool forged for one mission: to prevent catastrophe. And yes, Alexander…you already possess them. But possession alone is meaningless without mastery."

I looked at the list again, the words burning themselves into my consciousness: Espionage. Etiquette. Diplomacy. Statesmanship. Authority. Beguilement.

"I understand," I said finally, my voice steadier than I felt. "Thirty-one days. I'll learn. I'll master it. I…won't let it happen again."

Gin's lips curved into the faintest semblance of his usual smile, though the intensity never left his gaze. "Good. Then we begin. Time, Alexander, does not wait. And neither do the forces you will face."

The room darkened slightly, shadows stretching across the walls as if acknowledging the gravity of the task ahead. I took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the skills settle on my shoulders. For the first time in a long while, I realized that this wasn't just about being Star-Writer, or Prince of Alizade, or bearer of the Scarlet Spear. This was about standing between the world and a calamity that could consume it all.

And for thirty-one days…everything depended on me.

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