By the time night fell over Valkoron, Lord Tiberin Dorrick, the King's Hand, sat slumped in his chair within the council chamber, eyes half-closed, listening to the echo of his own heartbeat. The council had dispersed not long ago, yet the ghosts of their voices clung to the walls.
A single candle burned on the table before him, its flame unsteady under the draft sneaking through the window crevice.
The room still smelled of argument ... sweat, ink, and pride.
He rubbed his temples, muttering, "By the gods, if they bickered one more time, I'd have leapt through the window myself."
He ran a hand through his greying hair and exhaled. "how can a room full of learned men be so stupid?"
A voice came from the doorway. "Rough meeting, my lord?"
Tiberin didn't need to look. "If you're here to ask whether the council behaved, Jareth, the answer is no."
The steward chuckled lightly and stepped in, carrying a stack of parchment and two cups of steaming mead. "You look like a man who's wrestled thunder itself, my lord."
Tiberin gave a humorless laugh. "Thunder would've been easier. At least it listens when it strikes."
"They're saying Valkoron has never had a cursed queen before. The old lords are calling it an omen."
Tiberin groaned. "An omen, they said. Next thing you know, they'll demand a priest to exorcise the throne."
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the polished oak table. The candlelight caught the deep lines of exhaustion beneath his eyes.
"The King told me to inform them of the coronation. That was all. And what did they do? Start another round of useless debate."
Jareth placed the parchments down. "They fear what the people might think. The curse..."
He snorted, waving a dismissive hand. "As if any of them have ever known what the people truly think."
"The curse," Tiberin continued, "is none of their concern. The King made his choice. Whether she's cursed, blessed, or forged of moonlight itself, she'll sit on that throne because he wills it."
The steward hesitated. "Still… some of them spoke boldly. Minister Voran said Valkoron's people will not kneel to a queen who bears the mark of witchcraft."
Tiberin's expression hardened. "Then Minister Voran can kneel to the King instead. Or not kneel at all. I'd be happy to arrange the execution that follows."
Jareth's eyes widened slightly before realizing the Hand was half-serious, half-tired. "Shall I record that as an official order?"
Tiberin gave a humorless laugh. "No. Not yet."
Jareth hesitated. "Do you think the people will revolt?"
"They'll gossip, they'll stare, they'll whisper in their cups," Tiberin said, lifting the mead and taking a long swallow. "But revolt? No. They love their King too much, and fear him even more."
The steward gave a half-smile. "So you told the council that?"
"I told them this," Tiberin replied, sitting upright, his voice sharp now. "'The King has spoken. The matter is closed. Anyone who objects can take it up with him directly ... if they have the courage.'"
He leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes glinting under the candlelight. "And not one of them spoke after that. Not one."
Jareth chuckled softly. "They're all bark and no bite, as usual."
Tiberin sighed, rubbing his temples. "You'd be surprised how far bark can travel when it carries the scent of fear. Half those men will run to the clergy before dawn, praying for divine intervention to stop this coronation."
Jareth hesitated, lowering his voice. "Do you think it's wise, my lord? To crown her?"
For a moment, Tiberin didn't answer. He stared at the flame flickering before him, his features hard but thoughtful. "Wise? I don't know. But I've learned one thing from serving Valerian Stormborne for twenty years ....he never does anything without purpose."
He stood, walking to the tall window that overlooked the Stormkeep courtyard. Torches burned in lines below, the guards moving like shadows. Beyond the walls, he could see faint light in the Queen's wing.
"She's in there, you know," Tiberin murmured. "The girl everyone's whispering about. Alone, in a castle that barely welcomes her."
Jareth followed his gaze. "Do you believe the rumors, my lord? That she was once beautiful beyond compare before the curse?"
The King's Hand sighed. "I believe what I saw today ... a woman who bowed her head to no one. Cursed or not, she'll do fine as queen."
He turned back to the table, sweeping a hand over the mess of papers ... letters from ministers, formal protests, demands for reconsideration. "Still, it's going to be a storm before the coronation."
"A storm?" Jareth asked.
"Aye," Tiberin said with a faint smile. "And not the kind our lord commands."
*****
The council had been chaos. The memory still burned fresh:
Lord Fenric pounding the table, shouting, "The people will not accept her! The curse is a stain upon Valkoron's name!"
Lady Mara, the Minister of Faith, rising to her feet and hissing, "It is blasphemy to crown a woman marked by the gods' wrath!"
And through it all, Tiberin had stood at the head of the chamber, his voice sharp and steady.
"The King has spoken. The coronation proceeds in two days. Anyone with objections may bring them before him personally .... if they dare."
Silence had followed. No one dared.
*****
Now, as the candle burned lower, Tiberin let out a weary breath. "Vireon preserve us. The King chooses the strangest paths."
Jareth smiled faintly. "Perhaps that's why he's King."
Tiberin snorted. "Or cursed by his own wisdom. Either way, I'll make sure the ceremony runs smoothly. The last thing we need is another scandal before dawn."
He walked back to the table, gathering the scattered parchments .... petitions, objections, and letters demanding the King's reconsideration. He picked one up and read aloud mockingly,
"It is an ill omen for the crown to be worn by one marked by dark sorcery."
Then, with deliberate care, he tossed it into the fire.
The parchment curled, blackened, and vanished.
"Here's my answer," he muttered.
Jareth arched a brow. "And the rest?"
"Burn them too. If they wish to challenge the King's will, let them come to the throne room and say it to his face."
The steward nodded slowly. "I'll see it done, my lord."
He gathered the papers, sealing the official notice with red wax bearing the Storm Lord's sigil .... the mark of lightning.
"Send copies to every minister by morning," he instructed. "And make certain the cathedral bells are prepared. We'll have a queen, whether the council likes it or not."
Jareth bowed. "As you command, my lord."
As the steward left, Tiberin lingered by the window once more, his gaze drawn toward the faint glow in the Queen's wing.
"She doesn't even know," he muttered softly. "Not the storm she's about to step into. The storm waiting for her when the crown touches her head."
Tiberin lingered a moment longer, the flicker of the dying fire painting his face in shades of gold and shadow.
Then he whispered, as though to the storm beyond the walls,
"Gods help her. Because no one else will."