Meriel
Meriel's chamber was quiet. Light came through a narrow window, cutting the room in two: one half bathed in pale brightness, the other submerged in shadow. On the desk lay a few things—a dagger in its sheath, a folded map, a cup of water, and some overturned letters.
Meriel sat behind the desk. His hands were clasped. His back was rigid. He looked at the desk's surface. Not at anything specific. He looked at the empty space between the objects.
William was not seated. He stood. Despite his weak leg. He paced back and forth in the same spot—back and forth. His cane made a muffled sound on the stone. Each step, he pressed down on the cane with weight, his body swaying slightly, then straightening. He walked slowly. But the steps did not stop. The rhythm filled the room.
Meriel did not raise his head. He said in a low voice: "If that is true, if Robert and his men is not in Thornholl, what will we do? Will we attack Valkryn?"
William did not answer. He continued pacing. Three steps. Turn. Three steps. Turn. The cane gleamed whenever it crossed the light.
Then he stopped. He settled in his place. He looked at Meriel.
"I didn't think he would do something like that. But he made a suicidal choice. Abandoned his own people. And expects us to follow. No. That is what he wants."
Meriel looked at William and said, "Why do I think he did that? Was it a stupid decision from him?"
William, with his hand on his chin. "I wouldn't stupid. Perhaps it was a bold move to run away like that. Still I can't know what he was thinking when he made that decision."
"Running has always been his way. But we can beat him there. Even with Valkryn.They cannot match our armies."
"Perhaps we are stronger. But we are not stronger than Valkryn's walls.If they hold the city, they hold the battle. And we are pieces. Doomed before we move." Said William.
"Then what?"
William resumed pacing. Step. Step. Turn.
"If Robert leaves his kingdom — we take it. We fill it with our soldiers. Why not? Once we hold his walls — he becomes the dead piece. We take the advantage. Before he can."
"So we fight as planned."
"Yes. But not from where you stand. If you wait for my signal where you are — Robert will be behind you. Do you think he has no scouts?"
"So we attack?"
"You wait. Somewhere else. Safer."
William stopped. He had reached the window. Light fell on the mask of his face. He continued: "A place. where you cannot see our signal. But we will deliver it somehow. The rest stays the same. I take the kingdom. If the plan holds — I take it. And when you enter Thornholl's walls — the war is done. we will stand against three kingdoms: sea and land. We will be covered: mud and blood. but we will be victorious."
"When you say — far from expectations — what do you mean?"
"A place his scouts would never look. The least likely place for a battle. We mark every army on the map. War is close. We make sure of it."
"And the ships?"
"It is the thing that holds us back for now."
Meriel fell silent. He turned the water cup slowly between his hands. Then he said: " You have never fought a war before. Where did you get all this confidence?"
"We are far from the battlefield. So I speak with confidence and study possibilities. easy. It does not require confidence," said William. "But once the battle begins... I will be afraid. But from another perspective, fear is what will make me winner."
His voice was calm. The cane had stopped making sound. He stood motionless.
Meriel did not reply. He returned the cup to the desk. He kept looking at the folded map. Something in his eyes had grown more distant.
Sereine
In the open royal gardens, the scent of lye and soapy ash wafted through the air. The massive stone washbasins were arranged in a long row—their surfaces worn smooth, their edges chipped. Steam rose from them to meet the cool evening breeze. From afar, beyond the high walls, the clang of swords echoed from the training grounds.
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At the edge of the largest basin stood Sereine. She was bent over a long silk garment, wringing it with both hands. Her hands were freshly cracked—red from water and soap. Her face revealed nothing. But her eyes moved slowly. They captured everything.
At the opposite basin stood two women. Eileen—a new maid at the palace. She looked old, yet she did her job. Her eyes moved too much. They read the garden before they read the cloth. And Mary—young, weary. She rubbed the fabric with a desperate, slow motion, as if her hands moved against her will.
Eileen leaned toward Mary. Her voice was low.
"Look at this garment, Mary." Her hand lifted the heavy velvet from the water—dark, dripping. "Heavy velvet. Dyed with enough money to feed an entire village for a year." She dropped it back—the water splashed. "And now—we wash wine stains from it. And tomorrow—we will wash blood stains from it."
Mary sighed. The breath left her chest heavily. She rubbed the fabric slowly.
"Men see glory in war. That serves them. But we do not taste victory. Only pain." She paused. Her hands stopped. "They think songs make names immortal. Songs are written by the living. The dead have silence. And dust."
Sereine's hands paused on the silk. Just for a moment. Her eyes slid to the left—slow, deliberate—and settled on Mary's profile. Then they returned to the basin.
Eileen stopped rubbing. She turned toward Mary—her whole body shifting.
"Glory belongs only to heirs and kings. As for the men—our men—they are merely fuel for the kings' iron." Her hand struck the water—once, sharp. "Men are fools. Stirred by drums. Blinded by banners. And they pay their lives for land from which they will own nothing but the grave."
Sereine resumed wringing. Her hands moved mechanically—twist, release, twist. Her face remained blank. But her ears were open.
Eileen straightened. Her hands gripped the basin's edge.
"The price of war is always paid with the blood of the poor. But the bill—the bill is left to the women."
Mary looked at her wet hands. She opened and closed them slowly. She said nothing.
Sereine's eyes narrowed—just a fraction. The silk garment turned in her hands.
Eileen drew closer. Her voice dropped to a whisper.
"There is nothing to protect you, Mary. Or any of us. Only we have each other." Her hand rose and rested on Mary's shoulder. "In this world—whoever has no plan—life will have no plans for them either."
Sereine's hands stopped. Her head tilted—just slightly. A fraction of a degree. Listening.
"There is something that will serve you." Eileen pulled back. "I have no husband. You do. Only women with children benefit from compensation if their man dies in war. If widowhood is certain—make the coin certain too."
Mary had stopped rubbing. Her hands were immersed in the water—frozen.
Sereine's gaze slid to the right again. This time it lingered longer. Her fingers tightened on the silk.
"The kingdom does not care for the woman. It cares only for the future she carries in her womb." Eileen's lip curled. "A childless widow in this time is nothing but a delayed corpse."
Mary stepped back. Water dripped from her hands.
"Do you think I do not want a child? My husband wants to go to war badly. But I know—he only wants to escape."
Sereine resumed wringing. The rhythm was steady. Her face was marble. But her eyes—cold, patient—moved from Mary to Eileen, then back to the silk in her hands.
Eileen smiled—a faint, poisonous smile.
"Men think they lead the world with their strength. While they are too weak to realize what is being plotted against them in the shadows." She leaned closer. "If your husband is unable to protect you with his strength—then make him protect you with his weakness."
"What do you mean?"
Sereine's hands paused again. The silk dripped. Her head remained bowed. But her eyes—still, unblinking—fixed on the space between the two women.
Eileen leaned over the washbasin. Her voice dropped.
"There is an old herbalist living near the port. Selling an extract they call 'Twilight's Haze.' Just a few drops in his stew or wine—and he will feel nothing. Except that the light will slowly withdraw from his eyes. Until he becomes completely blind."
Sereine's fingers moved again—slowly, deliberately. She lifted the silk from the water. She did not shake it. She did not wring it. She simply held it—watching the water run down her wrists.
"A blind man is not sent to war. For kings do not need swords that cannot see the target. This way—you ensure he stays alive beside you. And when he goes blind—you will be the light of his darkness."
Mary placed her hand over her mouth.
"Blind him?! The man who has been good to me?"
Sereine hung the silk on the line. Her movements were calm—measured. She smoothed the fabric with her palm. Once. Twice. Her eyes did not look at the women. But her ears missed nothing.
"Yes. So that he may live!" Eileen's voice was ruthless. "And when he becomes blind—take another man in the darkness of night. A strong man who will give you the child you need. Your blind husband will not see the difference. And will not suspect your swelling belly. But will attribute the child to himself—and thank the gods."
"This is how you protect yourself from the disgrace of orphanhood. And if the effect wears off and your husband decides to go to war—at least you will have a child. And will receive the kingdom's gold."
"In this world, Mary—you are either the hunter, or the prey." Eileen paused. "In the past, I was a hunter. But a woman hunter—alone among lords and kings—with no weapon for the hunt... I became the prey."
Mary trembled.
"I have never asked you about your past. You seem to know things."
Sereine hung the second garment. She smoothed it with her palm. Once. Twice. Her eyes moved to the horizon—to the sun bleeding red across the sky.
Eileen said, "In my youth—I was a member of the previous king's council in Izzadar. I made many decisions. And this decree I told you about—is the result of a decision I made to protect women. But with time—and with my assumption that war only consumes men—I too fell."
"And I realized that war does not break men. It breaks decision-makers. And it just so happens that most decision-makers are men." Eileen drew closer to Mary. "Make a decision, Mary. Do not leave that to your husband."
Mary's hands trembled violently. The piece of cloth fell from her fingers—it floated on the warm water.
Sereine turned from the line. Her steps were slow—deliberate. She walked past the two women without looking at them. Her face was blank. Her eyes stared straight ahead.
But as she passed behind Eileen—just for a moment—her gaze slid sideways. Cold. Calculating. It rested on Eileen's back for a single heartbeat. Then it moved on.
She reached the next basin. She bent over it. She resumed her work. Her hands moved mechanically—wash, rinse, wring.
A rare coin had been poured into her ears. A conspiracy born in the palace gardens. A secret she could sell tomorrow to the highest bidder. Or save for a dark day when the great heads clash.
The sun dipped below the wall. The red light faded. And Sereine worked on—silent, patient, and utterly still.