The golden light of the sun poured across the stone steps of the royal palace, gilding each stair in warm shimmer as Lady Venara descended. Her carriage—gilded and polished to the last rivet—waited below, wheels still and proud beneath the Goldmere standard. Behind her, Elowen followed quietly. Beside her, Vermon kept pace, matching her stride with youthful discipline.
Venara's smile lingered, poised and practiced. But Elowen, sharp as ever, felt it immediately. It was the same smile she wore through every council, every gathering. Yet... not quite.
There was something else veiled beneath it—a quiet storm of thoughts. A tangle of pride, fury, concern, perhaps even a sting of fear. Few could tell. Elowen could. She had served Venara long enough to read the subtle weight of every lift in her brow, every pause in her breath.
The chamber's door had closed behind them earlier, sealing away all sounds from the High Council. Magic warded the room from eavesdroppers—an enchantment used far too often for Elowen's liking. Whatever Queen Selene and Lord Eleazar spoke of now, no one would know.
The sun beamed down as they moved, and the countless steps seemed to stretch endlessly. The architecture of the royal complex rose behind them: towers, domes, and halls adorned with ancient sigils—testaments to generations of power and ambition. A palace not built for humility.
Just as they reached the base, a voice cut through the golden air.
"Lady Venara! Brilliant as always, you were."
Lord Faron stood there, flanked by two of his own guards—blind and unmoving as stone. He smiled like a performer on cue.
Venara answered smoothly, "Well, words are said in place of actions not done. My lord, it seems you did your part brilliantly beforehand."
Faron gave a courteous nod. "A duty of a servant to the crown. Nothing more."
Then his gaze shifted.
"And it seems Lord Vermon made a dazzling first appearance. The fate of House Goldmere appears well-guarded."
Venara's smile sharpened. "Didn't I tell you, my lord? A dragon always finds a way to grow higher."
"So it seems," Faron replied, a gleam in his eye. "But a dragon's greed has long been the subject of tales and worries. Gold might become so dazzling as to make one blind."
"Gold is but a staircase for growth," she returned, tone unwavering. "There must be a place to head toward before stepping upon a bridge."
Faron's voice dropped lower. "Indeed. Your father had a goal. My father had a goal. And they both shared a common one. We agreed to follow in their footsteps, didn't we?"
Venara didn't respond.
He pressed on. "So... shouldn't we honor their wishes?"
Elowen tensed. She recognized what this was—Faron invoking the marriage pact once decided by Avenir and Alveth, fathers of Venara and Faron respectively. A political tie made in the name of unity.
Vermon's expression twitched, his head angled.
Elowen remained outwardly silent, but inwardly sharpened.
Then it happened—Venara's smile vanished.
Rare. So rare Elowen blinked.
Faron, surprised, raised an eyebrow. "Oh my... what an unexpected scene. I never thought I'd get to see the real Venie."
Venara's eyes met his. No softness. No lilt.
"Faron," she said, and the sound of her voice was steel. "We're no longer children. My house is of higher standing than yours. There is nothing for me in this marriage... or investment."
A beat.
"Especially when the matters of House Goldmere are more important than... someone like you."
Faron's smile wilted, color fading from his face.
Silence thickened. Even his guards—blind as they were—seemed to sense it.
So did Elowen. The air itself grew heavy, shaded.
Then Venara broke the silence with a smile—back again, effortless and poised.
"And when the time comes for me to leave my seat to Vermon, I'd be too old. You wouldn't want an old woman as a wife, would you, my lord?"
It was all pretend. All mask. The smile a curtain hiding the dagger.
Faron's face remained somber. "Venie..."
He turned. And before walking away, said, "Age is not an issue for me. I could wait. And you know, better than anyone else... I can wait forever."
He left. The blind guards followed.
Venara snapped her fingers. "Let's move."
She, Elowen, and Vermon entered the carriage. Around them, a hundred mounted soldiers of Goldmere formed a living shield.
The gentle sway of the carriage lulled the silence like a lullaby, but Venara was having none of it. She crossed one leg over the other, lounging in her silks, and broke the still air with her usual cheer.
"So... lil' bro," she said, her tone deliberately light, teasing. "How was it? The council. You surprised me, going against all odds. When did you become so knowledgeable on all these issues?"
Vermon flinched slightly at the attention, rubbing the back of his neck. "Auh... I thought I was going to die," he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. "But... I used to study matters of market and politics... as a hobby. In times of leisure."
Elowen smiled faintly. The young master of House Goldmere. She remembered all those hours he had spent in his room—poring over tomes, leafing through journals, staring into ink-stained archives. Less time spent on the sword, more on magic. A man locked away in self-isolation, but always seeking the past and present through the written word.
"Well, that was impressive. I give you that," Venara replied, nodding. "And since you're somewhat capable, how did you find the other nobles?"
Vermon blinked, then grew quiet. His gaze wandered the carriage window, as if the answers were hiding in the reflections. Then he spoke, slowly at first, then with growing clarity.
"I think you already know much about them, big sis. But... Masquien Hollowmere. He calculates before he speaks. A snake... wearing the disguise of a clean, caring politician. He spent a lot of time arguing against certain programs—not for principle, but to protect his beneficiaries. I remembered their motto: 'From within, it withers.'"
Venara and Elowen exchanged a glance. Both of them smiled slightly. The young lord had grown. The dragon may have already been bathed in fire.
When Vermon spoke of these matters, his demeanor shifted—his nervous stammers fading into something sharper. His eyes lit with the thrill of clarity. Confidence. He wore it like borrowed armor, ill-fitted but real.
Elowen's thoughts stirred. When had he grown this much? No... he had always been this way. For someone who drowned in books, who preferred the solitude of thought, this strength had always been there. But confidence—that had to be earned. It had to be lived. And today, he had stood among the council of lions and roared. Wrong or right, he added fire to the table.
An introvert. Isolated. Zero social skills, in daily life. And yet, when the discussion turned formal, when the topic aligned with something Vermon loved... it awakened something.
Fire.
"Go on," Venara said softly.
"Marnes..." Vermon began again, leaning forward slightly. "He appeared weak. Fragile. No... he made himself look like that. But the details, the numbers he presented—they were carefully chosen. Constructed. Managing the Colosseum system isn't something a weak man could do. Millions of fighters. Tens of millions in crowds. Training halls, equipment logistics, construction timelines, hygiene maintenance. Interconnected with other ministries. A whole world beneath the surface."
His voice grew distant, reverent.
"Colosseum officers are probably always busy. The Colosseum is the heart of this land. Of this nation."
A pause, and then:
"Marnes is amazing. An amazing man. And the Keeper of the Colosseum... I've only heard tales. Don't know if they're true. They say he's... a thousand years old. Probably an exaggeration."
Venara's lips quirked. "Well... I haven't seen him either. I believe he only appears at High Council once a year. But I took my father's seat years ago. He's been out of sight for fifteen. Not... fond of the Queen, that one."
The moment the title left her lips, a shadow passed over Vermon's face. His head dipped. His eyes lost their light.
"Queen..." he muttered.
Elowen noticed first. Venara followed. Both twitched, watching the sudden shift.
"That presence... it was not natural," he said.
The air chilled.
"Being in that chamber... I felt like I was dying just from the pressure of the nobles' presence. But they didn't stare at me. I was small to their eyes. But when she entered... I felt it. Saw it. She looked into my soul. From time to time, our eyes met. I lowered my head. It didn't help."
He trembled slightly.
"She's a monster among monsters. Her wisdom—vast. She offered short-term, mid-term, and long-term solutions to every problem. She seemed open to others' input... but it all circled back to her. An illusion of openness."
He paused.
"She let matters flow, one ministry to the next. Masquien, Marnes—they're wise too, but they only cloaked matters with short-term solutions. She... she planned for growth. Real growth. Stable. To the future."
Another breath.
"And she didn't shout. Didn't proclaim her authority. She carried it. Through her presence."
He smiled faintly.
"Once I read—self-evident truths are not stated. They are absolute. And absolutes are accepted, not claimed."
He looked up.
"Even when Lord Bloom played the jester, questioning her, the Monastery, the Royalty... she handled it calmly. Gave praise and rewards where needed. But none of it was genuine. She controlled the discussion. The emotions."
His voice dropped again.
"When someone gained too much power or attention, she clipped their wings. Through plans disguised as public good. Hitting two birds? No... thousands. She let Masquien gut his own alliances. Replacing them with new ones loyal to her. A purge."
And then, his voice caught.
"She put pressure on me. Me! A threat, maybe. A reminder to you, big sis. Of your vulnerability. As Mistress of the Crimson Bough, as Lady of Goldmere. The Treasury is vital. And when you shined too bright... she shifted it to me. A gamble. To humiliate me, maybe... but no. No. I think she expected the outcome."
He looked lost in the memory.
"She smiled. Proud. Not condescending. Not like the other nobles. She gave me a moment. A real one. To speak. A gift. A control. Both. It still confuses me... but after a while, I no longer felt fear."
Venara's eyes widened.
"She felt," Vermon whispered, "like someone you could rely on. Someone you could serve."
His voice broke.
"That... was the scariest part."
Elowen was stunned. Vermon had ranted. He never did that. Today had been a day of rare scenes.
She looked out the carriage window, mind spinning. She had perceived it too. As a warrior—trained, tested—she had learned to read power. Not through aura alone, but instinct. Proximity. Breath.
In this world, true warriors knew. One could only perceive power when they had at least some power to compare it to. And all beings—magic or not—had auras.
The Queen's aura was deafening. A voice screaming: DEATH. DO NOT APPROACH.
Elowen's instincts writhed. And the two who stood beside her?
The Crimson Blade. The Storm Cloud.
Elowen clenched her jaw. Could she face the Crimson Blade? That long red-haired man with eyes like embers? Probably not.
The Storm Cloud—silent and tall, breath slow as glaciers. Could she defeat him?
No.
They were colosseum veterans. Warriors of a thousand victories. Marked by House Valehart. Royalty.
Could anyone stand against them? Maybe Lord Talen. That man had presence. Cunning, too. The Warlord of the Land.
She judged Talen to be at least their equal. Maybe more.
She felt helpless. Looked at Lady Venara. Then at young Lord Vermon.
Could she protect them, when the time came? Was she strong enough?
If she failed... if she was not enough...
She was no dragon. She had no wings.
But she had to rise.
Venara clapped her hands suddenly. The moment shattered. Elowen and Vermon blinked, dragged back to the present.
Venara smiled, warm and proud. "Well well! I'm glad seeing my lil' bro so warmed up. Rare to see you talk this much. See? It's better! Be more social!"
Vermon flushed, retreating into himself. "Ah... big sis..."
Venara leaned toward Elowen, her voice dropping.
"As discussed... make arrangements for him."
Elowen exhaled. "One last time, my lady... are you sure? He will bear a wound far graver than a scar."
Venara's voice softened. "It's okay. He's isolated. And now all this pressure... he needs a break."
"So... six of the best. I'll find the finest brothels in the kingdom. A surprise then."
Venara beamed. "Perfect!"
She said it louder than expected.
Vermon tilted his head. "Ah... again... discussing girl stuff?"
Venara winked. "You're getting the hang of it! Smart brother!"
Elowen sighed deeply. May the gods have mercy on the young Lord.