The council chamber of Thornheim's royal palace was a study in controlled opulence.
Long tables of polished oak gleamed under the light of crystal chandeliers, their surfaces scattered with maps, ledgers, and half-empty goblets of wine.
Tapestries depicting the kingdom's victories over barbarians and rebels hung on the walls, their colors still vibrant, their threads still tight. Unlike Mousche, Thornheim had not been touched by War's flames. Not yet at least. (Foreshadowing✨✨)
Seated around the table were the seven dukes of Thornheim, each representing a major province, each with his own agenda, his own ambitions, his own hunger. At the head of the table, on a slightly elevated chair, sat King Aldric Thornheim the Fourth, a man in his late fifties with silver-streaked hair and eyes the color of old iron. He was not a tall man, nor a particularly imposing one, but he had a presence that made the dukes measure their words carefully. His fingers, long and pale, drummed against the table as he listened to the latest report.
"The situation in Mousche is worse than we thought," said Duke Valerius of the Eastern Marches, a lean man with a sharp nose and sharper eyes. He was the kiss-ass, the sycophant, the one who always angled for the king's favor. His voice was smooth, polished, like a stone worn down by years of careful use. "Eighty percent of their territory has been reduced to glass and ash. Their capital is in ruins. Their army is gone. Their elite knights were slaughtered by this... this War creature."
Duke Gregor of the Northern Highlands, a bear of a man with a wild red beard and meaty fists, snorted. "Good riddance. Mousche has been a thorn in our side for decades. They undercut our grain prices, poached our traders, and now they come crawling for help?" He shook his head. "Let them burn."
"We cannot be so hasty," said Duke Alistair of the Western Provinces, a slender man with delicate hands and a perpetual smirk. He was the power-hungry one, always maneuvering, always calculating. His eyes moved around the table like a shark circling prey. "Mousche may be weakened, but they still control the mountain passes. If we cut ties with them, they could close those passes out of spite. Our trade with the southern kingdoms would be choked off."
"Alistair makes a valid point," said Duke Percival of the Southern Valleys, a portly man with rosy cheeks and a jovial demeanor that belied his ruthless business sense. He was the merchant duke, the one who cared about coin above all else. "The mountain passes are worth more than any grudge. We should offer Mousche favorable terms while they're weak. Lock in exclusive trading rights. Buy up their assets at a discount. Expand our influence into their territory while they're too busy picking up the pieces."
Duke Ashford Snooven Hound of Greystone sat at the far end of the table, his expression unreadable. He was the oldest of the dukes, his face weathered by decades of rule, his gray hair cropped short. Unlike the others, he did not fidget or posture. He simply listened, his hands folded on the table, his eyes moving from speaker to speaker.
"I agree with Percival," said Duke Aldous of the Central Plains, a thin man with a nervous twitch and a high-pitched voice. "We should exploit this disaster for all it's worth. Mousche will be desperate. Desperate people make desperate deals. We could secure trade advantages that would last for generations."
King Aldric raised a hand, and the room fell silent. "Enough. I hear your opinions. Here is mine." He leaned forward, his iron-gray eyes sweeping across the table. "We will not abandon our trade alliances with Mousche. They are weakened, yes, but they are not dead. And a dead kingdom cannot trade. A dead kingdom cannot pay debts. We will send aid, modest aid, enough to keep them on life support. And in return, we will demand preferential treatment at every checkpoint, every toll, every port. Percival, you will draft the terms. Alistair, you will negotiate them. And Valerius, you will accompany the delegation to ensure the king of Mousche understands that this is generosity, not charity."
Valerius practically glowed with pleasure at being chosen. "Of course, Your Majesty. I will ensure that the king of Mousche knows exactly how much we have sacrificed for his kingdom."
The other dukes murmured their agreement, though Alistair's smirk suggested he was already thinking of ways to twist the negotiations to his own advantage.
Duke Ashford spoke for the first time. "What of the disappeared knights? Zedrik and Alrick. The kingdom is buzzing with rumors. Some say they were assassinated. Others say they fled. A few even whisper that they were taken by the same War that destroyed Mousche."
The king waved a dismissive hand. "Zedrik and Alrick were useful idiots. Good for public relations, nothing more. They smiled for the crowds, gave speeches about honor and duty, and kept the commoners entertained. But they were also volatile. Unpredictable. Zedrik had a reputation that would have caught up with him eventually. And Alrick..." He shook his head. "Alrick was a liability. If someone disposed of them, they did us a favor. We have fewer loose ends to worry about."
Duke Valerius nodded eagerly. "His Majesty speaks with his usual wisdom. Those two were more trouble than they were worth. I say we let sleeping dogs lie. The last thing we need is an investigation that digs up their dirty laundry. The commoners love a scandal, and the nobles love to exploit one."
Duke Alistair leaned back in his chair, his smirk widening. "I heard that Alrick had a particular... taste. Necrophilia, they say. Imagine if that had come to light. The embarrassment would have been tremendous. Whoever killed him might have done us a favor."
The other dukes muttered their agreement. Even Duke Gregor, who had seemed indifferent, nodded slowly.
King Aldric tapped the table, redirecting the conversation. "Enough about dead knights. Next topic. The goblin sighting at the gala."
Duke Valerius perked up. "Ah, yes. A goblin, Your Majesty. Wearing armor. Walking through the halls as if he owned the place. Several nobles complained. One lady fainted."
"Was anyone killed?" the king asked.
Duke Aldous consulted a piece of parchment. "No, Your Majesty. No injuries. No thefts. The goblin simply... left. Through a door that led to a corridor that, according to the castle architects, does not exist."
The king waved his hand again. "Then it's not my damn problem. If a goblin wants to attend a gala and no one dies, I don't care. Next."
Duke Percival cleared his throat. "I'm afraid the next topic is more pressing, Your Majesty. Our mines in the Crimson Hills have dried up. Completely. We have teams searching for new veins, but so far, nothing. Without those mines, our iron exports will drop by forty percent. Our steel production will follow. And without steel, our armories cannot be replenished."
The king's expression tightened. "What of the forests? The timber reserves?"
"Plentiful," said Duke Alistair, "but we cannot expand into the eastern forests. The goblin villages have been encroaching on our logging routes. Every time we send a team to clear a new section, they are ambushed. We have lost seventeen men in the past month alone."
Duke Gregor slammed his fist on the table. "Then we clear out the goblins! Send in the army. Burn their villages. Kill their leaders. It's not complicated."
"The army is already stretched thin, Gregor," Duke Ashford said quietly. "Patrolling the borders. Guarding the trade routes. Putting down bandits in the south. We cannot afford a full-scale campaign against the goblins, not without leaving ourselves vulnerable elsewhere."
King Aldric stroked his chin, thinking. "Ashford. Your lands border the eastern forests. Your army is well-trained, well-equipped. You have experience with these creatures. What do you suggest?"
Duke Ashford stood slowly, his joints popping. He walked to the map spread across the table and traced a line along the edge of the forest.
"I suggest I take my personal army and deal with the goblins myself. A targeted campaign. Not a full-scale war, but a series of strikes designed to push them back, destroy their leadership, and secure the logging routes."
The king raised an eyebrow. "And what will this cost me?"
Ashford met his gaze. "I don't get paid in gold, Your Majesty. You know that. I want land. Three hundred and forty square kilometers of the eastern forest, annexed to Greystone. The territory I clear will become mine."
A murmur ran through the room. Three hundred and forty square kilometers was not a small request. It would make Greystone the largest duchy in Thornheim, surpassing even the king's personal holdings.
King Aldric was silent for a long moment. Then he waved his hand. "Fine. It's done. You get your land, Ashford. Provided you actually do your job and clear those goblins out."
Ashford bowed, his expression unchanged. "I will not disappoint you, Your Majesty."
He turned and walked toward the door, his long coat swishing behind him.
The moment the door closed, the whispers began.
"Three hundred and forty square kilometers," Duke Valerius hissed, his sycophantic mask slipping. "The nerve of that man. He thinks he can just walk in and demand land like that?"
Duke Alistair smirked. "He's been angling for this for years. Playing the loyal servant while quietly building his power base. Now he's made his move."
Duke Gregor snorted. "He's old. His son is missing, probably dead. He has no heir. What does he want with more land? To bury himself in it?"
"Maybe he's planning to adopt," Duke Aldous suggested with a nervous laugh. "Find some distant cousin to carry on the name."
Duke Percival shook his head. "It doesn't matter why he wants it. What matters is that the king gave it to him. Without debate. Without consulting us. That sets a dangerous precedent."
Duke Alistair's eyes gleamed. "Perhaps we should have a private conversation with His Majesty. Remind him that the other dukes have needs as well. Territorial needs. Expansion needs."
Valerius nodded eagerly. "Yes, yes. We should all benefit from the kingdom's growth. Not just Ashford."
The other dukes murmured their agreement, their greed bubbling to the surface like oil on water. Duke Alistair watched them, calculating, already planning his next move.
Duke Gregor slammed his fist on the table one more time. "I still say we should have let Mousche burn. Now we're sending them aid, giving Ashford free land, and worrying about goblins. This council has gone soft."
"Soft?" Duke Percival laughed. "You're the one who wanted to send the army into the forest and leave our borders undefended. If anyone's gone soft, it's you, Gregor."
Gregor's face reddened. "Take that back, you fat merchant."
"Gentlemen, please," Duke Valerius interjected, his voice oily. "We are all on the same side here. Let's not let petty squabbles divide us when there is so much opportunity to be had."
The argument continued, voices rising, accusations flying. But the king had already withdrawn into his own thoughts, his fingers drumming on the table, his eyes on the door through which Ashford had departed.
He had given the old duke what he wanted. Now he would wait and see if Ashford delivered. And if he didn't...
Well, there were always other dukes.