I bowed deeply once more, keeping my posture controlled and measured. Mistakes could not be afforded here.

"Do forgive this one's mistake, Your Grace," I said, my voice even. "I shall ask for your forgiveness."

Lillianne's scarred lips twisted into something that was not quite a smile, but neither was it a sneer. Something between amusement and exasperation.

"Granted and given freely."

Her tone shifted, taking on a sharper, more resonant edge. This was no longer a casual exchange between ruler and subject—this was a declaration.

She turned her attention to the gathered court, her hoarse voice carrying effortlessly across the room.

"Does this satisfy your curiosities, my oh-so-gracious court?" Her eyes moved like a blade across the assembly. "You tested him with Crullo—he bested House Vermillion's prized knight. You sought to disgrace him, and instead, he humiliated one of your own. He was then accepted by the Scarlet Spear, and now he is poised to become a member of the Crimson Table. What more do you vultures demand?"

Silence.

No one dared answer.

Lillianne's fingers curled along the obsidian armrest of the Seat of Sorrows. Her knuckles turned pale, a rare display of open frustration.

"We are years away from war," she continued, her voice low but charged with meaning. "And we all know the catalyst."

She gestured toward me without turning her head. I felt the weight of their collective gazes settle on me like a storm cloud.

"Let me confirm the rumors, since speculation has turned this court into a cesspool of half-truths." Her voice was scathing now. "Yes—he wields Star Mana, and he has not even reached his second shell. Yes—he has the ability to create skillcubes; this has been Gloss-backed and verified by the Archduke himself. And yes—he is the first Triple S-grade Arte since the Time Twister. All of this is fact."

Murmurs rippled through the chamber like a rolling tide.

Star Mana before his second shell. The ability to create skillcubes. A Triple S-grade Arte.

Even those who had previously scoffed now looked at me with something new in their eyes—unease, fear, calculation.

Lillianne's piercing gaze cut through the noise.

"And yet," she continued, her tone dripping with scorn, "you wish to vilify him. Not for his own actions, not for any crime committed, but simply because of the politics of his allies."

There was nothing subtle about the accusation.

Slowly, deliberately, she rose from the Seat of Sorrows.

The act alone was enough to send a ripple of instinctual dread through the court.

Lillianne was not a ruler who relied on ceremony or indulgence—she was a warrior first. The sheer presence of her standing, the shift in weight, the subtle change in posture—it was enough to silence the murmurs completely.

"Constant himself was the cause of the Great Lost Republican War," she said, her words as sharp as a blade's edge. "Constant himself spurred those Other-born savages into nearly destroying the peace we bled for."

She took a step forward, and the gathered nobles stepped back.

Her eyes burned with something far more dangerous than anger—judgment.

"And since then, what have we done?" she demanded. "We have clung to old grudges. We have vilified the Technocracy over a single violation of agreement. We have severed ties over a trade dispute, over some perceived insult, because once again, you—the court—took offense."

She exhaled sharply, shaking her head.

"You decided that we needed a rival, so that we could justify our own expansion. You decided that it was more convenient to fuel enmity than to seek progress."

Her tone lowered, but somehow, it carried even more weight.

"And now, when the Free Cities have chosen to grant one of their Walkers a demesne, allowing us the majority claim, how do you react?"

She swept her arm out, gesturing toward me once more.

"The first Triple S-grade Walker in generations stands before you, and the first thing you do; again is vilify him."

She let the words hang in the air, the weight of them pressing down on the court like an executioner's axe.

"Why?"

No answer.

No one dared answer.

She leaned forward slightly, her next words spoken like a curse.

"This boy is seventeen."

Her voice was cold. Final.

"He has no knowledge of the political chains that are already binding him. He has no understanding of the cage that this offer has become.

And most of all—he has no way to refuse."

Lillianne's voice rang through the throne room like a tolling bell, each word imbued with the weight of absolute authority.

"I, the high Queen, Reqdenyet 'enen, make this proclamation known. The Walker, known as Alexander Duarte, is to be granted the title of Prince. From this moment forth, he shall be granted the right to rule over the Everis Hills."

A hush fell over the chamber.

For a moment, no one spoke. Then, a voice—loud, indignant, and brimming with barely restrained fury—rose above the silence.

"I object, my lady!"

A large, rotund man stepped forward from the gathered nobles, his heavy boots thudding against the marble. He was a monument of excess, dressed in rich browns and reds, adorned with thick copper jewelry that clinked with every step. His face was flushed with outrage, his small, piggish eyes burning with resentment.

"The Everis Hills are lands ruled by my family—the Karhiles—for generations! You cannot simply grant them away to some commoner!"

A murmur rippled through the court. Some watched in amusement, others in anticipation, waiting to see how the High Queen would respond to such a bold challenge.

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Lillianne, however, did not look amused.

She tilted her head slightly, as if weighing the words before she discarded them as unworthy.

"Oh? Wilstead." She said his name like an afterthought, as if addressing a servant who had failed her for the last time.

She took a step forward, descending from the Seat of Sorrows, the light from the stained-glass windows casting her scarred form in a halo of fractured color.

"Your family was granted the Everis Hills with a purpose," she said, her voice measured. "To develop it from sand and grass into something of note. Something of worth. And yet…"

She raised her hand.

"Seberis."

From the far side of the room, a man dressed in a green suit stepped forward. His posture was rigid, his expression neutral. He moved with the precision of a man who knew his role well.

With a practiced motion, he reached into his coat and withdrew a sealed document. Then, placing his left hand over his heart and extending his right arm in a formal gesture of deference, he presented it to the Queen.

Lillianne took the document without hesitation.

The silence stretched as she carefully unstitched the seal, her fingers moving with the deliberate patience of an executioner readying the axe.

She unfolded the parchment. Then, in a clear, ringing voice, she began to read.

"One hundred and sixty years ago, I granted your father the Everis Hills."

The weight of history pressed down on the room, her voice cutting through the air with the finality of a blade.

"At the time, the total tax revenue from those lands was fourteen waning silver coins. This was due, primarily, to the mining and panning of sanded areas."

Her eyes flicked up, locking onto Wilstead like a predator sighting its prey.

"Now, the current tax revenue from the Everis Hills is… fourteen waning silver coins."

A ripple of unease passed through the nobles.

Not a single coin of growth.

No progress. No development.

Lillianne continued, her tone sharpening.

"This does not even account for the inflation over the last century and a half, which would mean the revenue today is worth even less. And what of the people? One hundred and sixty years ago, the population of Everis Hills was fifty-five."

She took another step forward.

"Today? That number is fifteen. The only inhabitants are your own household and your personal servants. That is all that remains."

Wilstead's face darkened, sweat beading along his brow.

"L-Lady Reqdenyet—" he stammered, but Lillianne cut him off with a single raised hand.

"Land is not meant to be hoarded."

Her words rang like a hammer against steel.

"Land is a duty. A responsibility. It is not a treasure to be hoarded for the benefit of a single family. We, the nobility, exist as a wall for the common people—to protect, to uplift, to ensure that prosperity is not just for the privileged few, but for all."

Her voice dropped lower, colder.

"Do you wish for me to examine your other holdings, Wilstead?"

His breath hitched.

The room grew tense.

She took another step forward, her presence suffocating.

"Or will you retract your objection?"

The nobles watched, waiting. Some eager, others barely concealing their smirks.

Wilstead clenched his fists. His lips trembled, but no words came.

Lillianne tilted her head slightly.

"Or better yet…" Her voice was quiet, but no less lethal.

"Challenge me in the Weeping."

The entire room seemed to still.

Wilstead's eyes widened. His face turned a sickly pale.

Lillianne's scarred fingers curled at her sides, the silent promise of violence in the movement.

"Have you grown spineless as well as lazy?"

The words landed like a blade to the gut.

Quickly, I looked at what the Weeping is. My Gloss quickly told me.

Challenge her in the Weeping? A duel within the Seat of Sorrows? No noble would dare. To fight the High Queen within this hall, surrounded by the weeping statues of the fallen? It was tantamount to accepting death.

Wilstead's breathing turned shallow. He knew he was being backed into a corner.

Retract his objection, or fight a battle he could not win.

His lips pressed into a thin line. His eyes darted around the court, searching for anyone—anyone at all—who would stand with him.

But no one moved.

His allies, his so-called supporters, had suddenly found interest in their own sleeves, their boots, the distant walls.

No one would save him.

No one would dare.

Slowly, with great reluctance, he swallowed his pride.

He bowed.

"…I withdraw my objection, Your Grace."

A flicker of satisfaction passed through Lillianne's gaze.

"Wise."

With that, she turned back toward me, her eyes assessing.

Then, in front of the entire court, she spoke once more.

"Alexander Duarte. From this day forth, the Everis Hills are yours to govern."

And just like that—my fate was sealed.

***

The Queen led us into a private chamber, a stark contrast to the grand throne room we had just left. The room was quiet, almost intimate, its walls lined with deep red tapestries and dimly lit sconces. It was only us—myself, my companions, the Queen, and Seberis.

The moment the doors closed, her entire demeanor shifted.

Gone was the war-hardened valkyrie, the unyielding wall of authority that had stood firm against her court. In her place was a woman who seemed—if only for a moment—exhausted.

She exhaled heavily and waved a hand as if dismissing some unseen weight.

"Alright, let's get this out of the way." Her tone was lighter now, tinged with exasperation. "No, you really can't refuse." She didn't soften the words. There was no apology in them, just fact. "Although, my spies tell me you've picked a courtesy name. Correct?"

"That is correct," I said with a formal nod.

She immediately shook her head, cutting off any further formality before it could take root.

"Nope. None of that." She waved her hand as if swatting the gesture away. "One, this meeting is too short for pleasantries. Two, this is not a formal discussion—it's one of pleasure, not business."

She tilted her head toward the throne room, jabbing a thumb in its direction.

"When you're out there, by all means—show those nobles that you know their customs. That's why it was so amusing that you got so close to my courtesy name." Her lips twitched into a smirk. "It shocked quite a few of them, you know. Bastian is no easy tongue, even for those born to it." She let out a tired sigh. "There are many reasons we conduct our affairs in Continental Common. Ease of use is just one of them."

She leaned back against the edge of a dark wooden table, arms crossing over her chest. Her expression turned more serious.

"Alexander, I apologize for what you've been put through." Her voice carried something deeper now—understanding, perhaps even regret. "I've read your file. Your mother clearly coddled you, hoping her youngest would grow up to be a child of peace. You were curious. Adventurous. You ran headfirst from one event to the next, driven by a hunger for more."

I frowned slightly at that, but before I could protest, she continued.

"This fate is common among Bibliokinetics in Dominus Demeterra's domain."

I blinked. "Wait… what?"

She shook her head, as if I had just asked something obvious.

"You're not the first, Alexander. Nor will you be the last. The Lady of Earthen Laws loathes your ability," she said, her tone matter-of-fact. "A Dominus's first ascended shell influences all fully evolved Artes within their domain."

That… was an implication I hadn't considered before.

Then she smiled.

But it was not a smile of warmth.

It was the smile of a Queen who carried the weight of her throne.

It was a smile that knew grief. That knew mourning.

"Alexander," she said, her voice quiet but unshakable, "you are almost certain to evolve an ability that writes laws over wherever you walk. You will be a judge. You will be a jury."

Her eyes flickered toward Ten.

"And you have already been an executioner."

A cold weight settled in my chest.

"The reason I granted you a princedom was not just for political convenience, or to throw you into the deep end of statecraft." She paused. "It was to help you learn. To steer you away from the mistakes of my own aunt."

For the first time, she looked directly into my eyes.

There was no veil. No mask of monarchy.

Her eyes were wet with unshed tears.

"Alexander," she whispered, "I will teach you how not to be a tyrant."

Her fingers curled into her palm.

"I swear it."

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