Location: Armathane – Private Solar of the Duchess
Time: Day 50 After Arrival
The Summons
The summons came without pageantry.
Just after midday, a steward in violet-trimmed robes stepped into Alec's guest chamber — not knocking, not waiting — and delivered the message in a voice as flat as parchment.
"Her Grace, Duchess Vaelora of Midgard, will see you now."
No explanation. No details. No mention of time to prepare.
Alec closed his leather-bound journal with two fingers, brushing graphite dust from the corner of the page. He stood, adjusted the cuffs of his plain tunic — and nodded once.
"Lead."
The Approach
The palace halls curled like a coiled mind. Wide enough for pairs to walk side by side, yet lined with silence. Torches burned cleanly in iron sconces, their flames trimmed by some unseen method to never smoke.
And the tapestries…
Not stories of myth or divine judgment.
No saints. No dragons. No wars won by miracles.
Instead: schematics. City plans. Crop rotation cycles. Aqueduct diagrams. One tapestry displayed a network of roads linking coastal towns like arteries through a body. Another showed a siege — not the blood, but the geometry of it.
And there, near the final stairwell — a tapestry of Vaelora herself.
Not on a throne.
But standing over a war-table. Hands braced on maps. Eyes focused. No crown on her brow. No ornament.
Just command.
The Private Solar
They climbed two winding spiral staircases, passed through a guarded arch, and arrived at a tall stained-glass door shaped like a rising sun. Each pane was fire-hued — red, amber, gold — and the light that passed through it turned the stone floor into a mosaic of slow flame.
The steward knocked once. Opened the door.
"Enter," came the voice from within.
Alec stepped into the solar.
The air was still.
And Vaelora was waiting.
Vaelora
She sat at a crescent-shaped desk of pale stone — no papers cluttered it, no wine goblets or ink stains. Just a single closed ledger, a burning brazier behind her, and two chairs: one occupied. One not.
She wore an ivory robe edged with deep obsidian stitching, its collar high and sleeved fitted. Her golden hair was twisted into a crownless knot, wound with wire and thread. Her eyes — light hazel ringed in gray — watched him with the scrutiny of someone not deciding if you were dangerous, but deciding what kind.
She didn't rise.
Didn't greet.
Didn't offer him a seat.
But she did speak.
"So. This is the man who rearranged a village like a chessboard."
Alec remained silent a moment longer than necessary. He let the silence test her first.
He scanned the room: high windows to the north, away from the city; a fireplace flanked by two empty armor stands; shelves organized not by color or title, but discipline — law, engineering, history, governance.
This wasn't for show.
It was a command post.
A mental fortress.
"And that would make you," Alec said finally, "the woman who decides which pieces are worth preserving."
Her lips twitched — not quite a smile, more a response.
"You answer without deference. Good."
"I wasn't raised for deference."
"Then what were you raised for?"
"To survive. To solve. And to remember."
That gave her pause.
Then she rose.
Not tall — but anchored. As if the floor needed her permission to shift.
"Describe Midgard to me."
"Pardon?"
"You crossed it. Watched it. I assume you took notes. Now I want your analysis. As it is. Not as you think I want to hear."
Alec didn't blink.
"Your roads are fractured. Your outer provinces operate on exhaustion and fear. Grain yields are a generation behind your calendar. Infrastructure is stagnant, especially in the western valleys. Patrols are lean and loyal, but they're wearing through old steel and unmaintained horses. Your people obey you."
He let that settle before finishing.
"But they do not love you."
Vaelora's brow arched.
"Interesting."
"But," Alec said, "you already knew that."
She circled behind him slowly, arms folded.
"You insulted my rule, my strategy, and my economy in nine sentences. Most men don't do that with a sword in their hand."
"I was only answering your question."
"And do you believe I'm unaware of these things?"
"No. I think you're the only one here who is."
"Careful, Alec," she murmured. "Flattery is still flattery, even when disguised as insight."
"It wasn't flattery. It was a warning."
That made her stop behind him. For the first time, her expression shifted. Not anger. Not fear.
Calculation.
The Offer of Wine
She walked to a side table, poured two glasses of pale green wine from a flask shaped like a falling leaf. She handed him one without ceremony.
"Do you drink?"
"Only when I'm being measured."
"You're always being measured."
They clinked glasses. No toast.
Alec drank.
Not poisoned.
Sharp. Dry. Clever, even.
Like her.
The Conversation Sharpens
She returned to her desk and finally gestured to the seat opposite.
He sat.
"You have no crest. No lineage. No property. No tax record. No faith registration. No guild claims. No recorded apprenticeship. And yet you bring water to the dry and clarity to the confused."
"I'm not from here."
"From where, then?"
"You wouldn't believe me."
"Try me."
"From a place where metal flies without wings. Where fire powers carriages. Where light carries voices through the air. Where men talk across oceans. Where the gods are ideas, not rulers."
She didn't laugh.
She didn't blink.
"And now you're here. In my lands. With no allegiance. But great ambition."
"No," Alec said. "With great capability. The ambition came later."
"You chose Branhal?"
"No. I survived Branhal. Then I chose to change it."
"Why?"
"Because it needed changing."
"That's not reason enough."
"It is for me."
The Test
Vaelora moved to a scroll rack, pulled a map, unrolled it across the table.
It showed the southern edge of her duchy. Coastal plains. River deltas. Three fishing towns. One — Grendale — was marked in red wax.
"Alec, we have a problem."
She pointed.
"Tides have eroded the cliff. The wharf is gone. Crops ruined by brine. The town survives, barely, on dried fish and petitions. They've asked for help."
"And you haven't sent any?"
"Not until now."
"Why?"
"Because they weren't worth the expense."
"And now?"
"Now, you are."
Alec leaned forward, eyes tracing the water flow, elevation lines, shipping lanes.
"You want me to fix it."
"You may bring up to ten workers. You'll be given coin, not soldiers. And I want a report. Not excuses."
"And if I succeed?"
"A title. Land. A seat at the edge of my table. You won't be whispered about. You'll be heard."
"And if I fail?"
"You will leave Midgard. Without echo. And the world will forget you tried."
She stepped closer.
"Do you accept?"
Alec stood.
"On one condition."
"Which is?"
"You don't measure me by what I restore — but by what I create."
Vaelora extended her hand.
"Then create."
They shook once.
Aftermath
He left the solar in silence, escorted by a single steward this time. No guards. No torches. Just the long walk back.
The corridors had not changed.
But the shadows felt deeper.
Vaelora was not a queen who ruled through fear.
She ruled through certainty.
And now she had placed a wager on him — not because she trusted him.
But because she didn't have to.
She had weighed his threat against her need.
And for now, she believed she could afford the risk.
She might be wrong.
But she might also be exactly the ally Alec needed.
If — and only if — he played the game better than the one who built the board.