Aureline's headache began before breakfast.
It started as a dull pressure behind her right eye—the kind that came not from illness, but from anticipation. The kind born of knowing that by noon, someone powerful would say something profoundly stupid, and she would be expected to smile while preventing it from becoming catastrophic.
She was not disappointed.
By the time the first councilor arrived, Aureline had already reviewed three contradictory petitions, two "urgent" requests for emergency funding, and one very bold letter from a minor noble suggesting that recent events proved the city needed stronger spiritual oversight.
She folded that one neatly and set it aside.
Later.
Much later.
The council chamber filled slowly, like a wound reopening.
Nobles arrived with carefully rehearsed concern. Guild representatives followed, carrying ledgers like shields. A few figures Aureline recognized as opportunists hovered at the edges—people who smelled instability and hoped to carve something out of it before the walls stopped shaking.
"Your Grace," Councilor Hethryn began, hands clasped, voice smooth, "the people are frightened. They need reassurance. Stability."
"They have both," Aureline replied calmly. "The streets are calm. Supplies are uninterrupted. Faith has stabilized."
"Yes, but perception—"
"—is being managed," she cut in gently. "By my office. Daily."
Hethryn smiled tightly. "Of course. But perhaps a public declaration from the noble houses—"
"—would reassure you," Aureline finished. "Not the people."
A murmur rippled through the room.
She let it.
"You're all here," Aureline continued, folding her hands, "because recent events disrupted the balance of power. Not because the city is in danger."
Several nobles bristled.
One didn't bother hiding it.
"This is precisely the time when leadership must be shared," Lord Carvain said sharply. "Centralized authority invites abuse."
Aureline met his gaze. "Funny. You didn't object to centralized authority when it favored you."
The room went quiet.
She hadn't raised her voice.
She didn't need to.
---
The headache intensified around midmorning.
Aureline listened to proposals framed as safeguards that would conveniently grant certain families more influence over security forces. She listened to religious delegates insist that the Church merely needed time to reform—preferably without oversight.
She listened.
She denied.
She redirected.
And she took notes.
Always notes.
By noon, her aide leaned close and murmured, "Three more meetings scheduled. Two unannounced guests. And… Varros sent flowers."
Aureline closed her eyes for exactly three seconds.
"Did he include a note?"
"Yes."
She sighed. "Burn it."
The aide hesitated. "Without reading?"
"Especially without reading."
---
By afternoon, the headache had sharpened into something precise.
The kind that accompanied the awareness that someone was maneuvering around her—not against her directly, but through everyone else.
She saw it in the way certain nobles spoke too confidently. In how guild officials referenced support they hadn't possessed last week. In the sudden boldness of people who usually waited for permission before breathing.
Varros was not attacking her.
He was removing alternatives.
"Clever," Aureline muttered, rubbing her temple.
She did not enjoy being impressed.
---
Late in the day, when the chamber finally emptied, Aureline remained seated, staring at the city map etched into the table.
So many lines.
So many leverage points.
So many people convinced they were indispensable.
She thought of Seris.
Of the offer she had made—and the refusal.
Aureline exhaled slowly.
"I suppose I should be offended," she murmured to the empty room. "But I find I'm… relieved."
Integrity was inconvenient.
But rare.
And rare things were valuable.
---
That evening, as dusk settled and the city lights flickered on, Aureline stood at her window, cup of untouched tea cooling beside her.
The city was quieter now.
Too quiet.
Not peaceful.
Watchful.
She felt the pressure of it—of nobles jockeying, of institutions licking their wounds, of power rearranging itself in the dark while everyone pretended they were restoring order.
Aureline straightened.
"No," she said softly. "Not yet."
She reached for her seal, pressing it into fresh wax with deliberate care.
If Varros intended to play chess, she would not flip the board.
She would let him make moves.
And then—
She smiled faintly.
—she would remind him that the city was hers to govern, not to collect.
The headache remained.
But Aureline had ruled long enough to know:
Pain was not weakness.
It was information.
And she intended to use it.
---