They passed through the lower levels with surgical precision, until one of Dren's scouts signaled.
Behind it, they found a study. And a chest. Locked, enchanted—but nothing his gloves couldn't bypass.
Inside: scrolls. Dozens of them. Some signed with false seals, others written in cipher. One in particular bore a symbol he recognized immediately.
A sunburst, marred by a crimson X.
He held up the scroll, whistled low. "This is it."
They were gone before the second patrol even passed the main road.
Dawn – Queen's Private Study
Valeris spread the scrolls across the desk, eyes scanning the cipher as Asher translated beside her. His mind was sharp, trained in techniques far older than this world's politics.
"It's a ledger," he said, pointing. "Assassins paid through four intermediaries. Money came from the southern vaults—House Caen's vaults. Look."
Valeris smiled slowly. "Lord Caedan. Arrogant snake didn't even bother to clean the trail."
"Should we send him a message?" Asher asked.
She shook her head. "Not yet. Let him think we don't know. Meanwhile, we make his allies sweat."
She picked up another scroll, then looked to Asher.
"Send someone to the Virelle estate next. If Caedan acted, he didn't act alone."
Asher nodded, eyes gleaming. "Time to pull the roots out."
She sat back, thoughtful now. "They want a queen they can manipulate. A weak figurehead. But they forgot the golden rule of this game."
Asher raised a brow. "Which one?"
Her smile turned sharp. "Never try to dethrone the player who built the board."
Three Days Later — Court of Mimir
The throne room was a masterpiece of brutal elegance: high vaulted ceilings of black glass, veined with silver, and towering statues of Mimir's first rulers carved into the walls. Light filtered through thin slits like cold spears, casting the chamber in shifting shades of grey and white.
Today, it was filled.
Nobles in their finest stood in stiff rows along the black marble floors, whispers curling around them like smoke. The heads of the great houses were present, dressed in colors that announced their lineage and ambition. Courtiers, advisors, lesser lords—all here, summoned by the Queen's unexpected request for an "open court."
At the far end, seated upon the black throne gilded with sunstone, was Valeris.
Or rather, Queen Melina Mimir.
Her gown was deep crimson again—echoing blood and sovereignty—with a mantle of thin silver filigree tracing dragon-wing patterns across her shoulders. Her crown was modest but sharp, a circlet of dark iron set with a single ruby at the brow.
And she looked every inch a monarch.
At her side, standing just half a step back, was Asher. In polished blackened steel armor, the knight of her choosing, her sworn blade in all but name.
The herald struck his staff three times on the ground.
"All rise for Her Grace, Queen Melina, Sovereign of the Sunspire Throne."
Some more deeply than others.
House Caen barely dipped their heads.
Valeris noted it. So did Asher.
The queen's voice rang out, clear and sharp:
"Today we honor the blood of Mimir—and we demand answers for the stains upon it."
Before any could object, she raised a hand—and the guards stepped aside to reveal a prisoner dragged into the room.
A merchant. Low-blooded. Shaking with fear.
Asher knew the man's name: Serin Vole. A broker. A money-runner. This chapter is updated by Novel~Fire. (n)et
Serin dropped to his knees, pleading before the court could even comprehend the scene.
"Mercy, my Queen! I—I was but a servant! I carried the gold where they told me! I swear it!"
Valeris regarded him like a hawk regarding a mouse. "Speak, Serin. Speak truly, or speak never again."
The man sobbed into the stone floor. "House Caen!" he cried. "It was House Caen who hired the blades! Lord Caedan ordered it! They—they said it was necessary! That the Queen's blood had grown… corrupt..."
Gasps filled the court.
All attention snapped to where Lord Caedan stood among his household.
The old noble wore black and gold, his beard meticulously groomed, his hand resting on the pommel of a jeweled dagger. His face was carved into a sneer so sharp it could cut.
"How dare you!" he barked. "Your Grace, surely you do not believe the sniveling lies of a common smuggler over the honor of an ancient House?"
Valeris rose slowly from her throne.
The movement was simple—but it held weight, the room bowing under it as surely as if gravity itself had shifted.
"I believe," she said softly, "in evidence."
She flicked her hand—and Asher stepped forward, tossing a sealed scroll case at Caedan's feet.
The noble stared at it, refusing to move.
"Go on," Valeris said, her voice like silk sheathed over steel. "Open it."
A page picked it up and broke the seal instead.
Inside: the ledgers. The ciphered letters. The broken trail of gold leading straight to House Caen's vaults.
The court held its breath.
Lord Caedan's face twisted—but not with shame. No, he smiled. A slow, bitter smile.
"You think this will save you?" he said, his voice low but carrying. "You think the old blood will sit quietly while you tear down what we built?"
"I do not care what the old blood thinks," Valeris answered, descending the throne steps one by one. "This city belongs to its future. Not its rot."
She stopped a few feet from him.
"You have confessed your guilt through your cowardice. I offer no trial. Only mercy—or judgment."
Murmurs exploded into shouts now—nobles arguing, protesting, some calling for due process.
Valeris raised her voice, sharp and cutting through the din:
"House Caen is hereby stripped of all holdings within Mimir. Its lands forfeit. Its title revoked. Lord Caedan—"
She pointed, not to the man, but to the guards now moving toward him.
"—is charged with high treason and the attempted murder of his rightful queen. Take him to the Black Cells."
Some fell silent in horror.
Some—those wise enough to adapt—bowed deeper.
Lord Caedan did not resist as the guards seized him. His eyes burned with hate, but he smiled a smile that promised war to come.
As he was dragged away, he spat one last venomous sentence:
"You will not last the year, pretender."
Valeris watched him go without blinking.
Only after the doors slammed shut behind him did she turn back to the court.
"Let there be no mistake," she said, her voice like iron wrapped in velvet. "The Sunspire Throne will not be stolen by knives in the night."
And for the first time since she had returned to this city, the court of Mimir truly understood:
The Queen had come home.
And she had come for blood.