The palace corridor was quiet after Halmer left—too quiet, the kind of silence that follows when a man has just handed over his soul in exchange for survival.
The scratch of his quill still drifted faintly from the side chamber, a small, persistent sound like bones settling in a grave.
Ruth stood near the doorway, arms crossed, armor catching the low torchlight in faint silver glints along the etched vines.
She had watched the entire exchange from the threshold—seen Halmer's shoulders fold, heard the wet click of his throat when he broke, felt the air change when Veron turned away satisfied.
Veron stepped into the corridor, coat swaying once as he moved.
He looked at her with calm, steady eyes.
"Ruth," he said, voice quiet and even.
"Join me for tea this evening. There's a small room off the upper gallery. No guards. No protocol. Just tea."
She blinked once.
The request was so ordinary it felt like a trap.
"Why?" she asked.
He tilted his head the smallest degree.
"Because you look like you haven't sat down in days without steel on your shoulders. And because I'd like to talk."
She studied him for a long moment.
Then nodded once, curt.
"Fine. Evening."
He gave a small nod and walked past her toward the stairs without another word.
The upper gallery room was small, almost austere: one window overlooking the barren hills, a low table of dark wood scarred from years of neglect, two chairs with faded cushions that smelled faintly of dust and old lavender, a clay teapot steaming faintly with the sharp, herbal bite of local leaves, two cups chipped at the edges but clean.
No servants.
No ceremony.
Just the soft hiss of the fire in the hearth, flames casting flickering shadows that danced across the stone walls like restless ghosts, and the distant scratch of Halmer's quill still drifting up from below like a faint heartbeat refusing to stop.
Ruth entered first—habit, always check the room—armor clinking faintly as she moved, the etched vines on her plates catching the orange glow and throwing it back in subtle glints.
She had removed her helmet earlier, dark hair falling loose around her shoulders in waves that softened the hard lines of her face, but the steel plates remained, weighing on her like the duty she couldn't shed.
She looked like a knight who had forgotten how to take the armor off, even when no battle was coming.
Veron was already seated, coat draped over the back of his chair, red glove resting on the table beside an empty cup.
He poured for her first—slow, careful, the hot liquid streaming into the cup with a quiet trickle, steam curling between them like a veil drawn across unspoken words.
She sat opposite, posture straight, cup in both hands, the warmth seeping through her gloves.
Did not drink yet.
"You wanted to talk," she said.
"So talk."
He leaned back slightly, fingers resting lightly on the rim of his own cup.
"The capital," he said.
"Tell me about it. Not the banners and marble—the part you carry when no one's watching."
She stared at him over the steam, the herbal scent sharp in her nose, grounding her against the pull of his question.
"It's loud," she said finally.
"Marble halls that echo with promises no one keeps. Courtiers who smile while they sharpen knives. The Crown wants order, but all they do is rearrange the pieces so the same people stay on top. I trained there. Fought there. Carried orders I hated. Left because I was good at it—and because staying would have meant becoming one of them."
He listened without interrupting.
Just quiet attention.
"And you?" she asked, voice tighter than she meant.
"Why did you leave?"
He looked into his cup for a moment.
"The heir and the third son saw me as a threat. Too unwilling to bend. They choked me out politically—exile dressed as duty. But I chose Val Harm because it's invisible. A place to rebuild without eyes on me. The game didn't end in the capital. I'm playing it here, on my terms."
She almost laughed—bitter, short.
"So you came to a forgotten edge to start over."
He met her eyes.
"This place has no illusions left to shatter. The people endure without pretense. That's a foundation worth building on."
Silence stretched between them.
The fire popped once, sending a spark skittering across the hearthstones.
She finally drank—tea bitter, hot, grounding, the herbal notes lingering on her tongue like a reminder of the domain's sparse soil.
"You speak to the maids like they're people," she said quietly.
"But you tore Halmer apart without blinking."
He set his cup down.
"If Halmer had the strength to say no—to face the mirror and stand by his choices—I would have respected him. But he didn't. He folded because he'd spent years pretending, lying to survive, trading dignity for scraps of power. I exposed that. The maids don't pretend. One of them—the one with the broom—her knees and thighs were bruised. She's selling herself for extra coin, scraping by in this rot. But she endures it without excuses. I respect that. Endurance builds something real."
Ruth looked at him—really looked.
His vision cut clean: dismantle the pretenders, honor the ones who faced reality without breaking. It connected his exile to this backwater—forced out for refusing the capital's games, now rebuilding in a domain where endurance was the only currency. Deeper than cruelty, it was a blueprint for power stripped bare.
She set her cup down.
"I should go. You have a speech tomorrow morning."
He nodded once.
"Sleep well, Ruth."
She stood.
Armor clinked softly as she moved to the door.
"Veron," she said, pausing without turning.
"Don't make me regret this."
He did not answer immediately.
When he did, his voice was quiet, steady.
"I won't ask you to choose sides.
I'll only ask you to see."
She left without replying.
The door closed behind her with a soft click.
Veron remained seated for a long moment, staring into the fire.
Then he rose, coat draped over his arm, and walked to the small bedchamber adjoining the gallery.
He did not undress.
He simply lay down—still in coat, still gloved on one hand—and closed his eyes.
Tomorrow he would speak to his subjects.
Tonight he would sleep.
Because even those who rebuild empires need rest before the foundations are laid.
The corridor fell into a deeper hush after Ruth's footsteps faded, the palace settling into the night like a body exhaling its last breath.
Veron lay on the narrow bed, the mattress thin and lumpy under his coat, the room lit only by a single candle flickering on the side table, casting long shadows that danced across the cracked plaster walls.
The air was cool, carrying the faint musty scent of unused chambers, mixed with the lingering herbal note from the tea.
His breathing slowed, eyes closed, but sleep did not come immediately—his mind turned over the day's pieces like a puzzle half-assembled, each conversation a move in a game no one else yet understood.
Then came the knock.
Soft.
Tentative.
Not the sharp rap of a guard or the insistent thud of urgency.
Something more hesitant, like a question whispered in the dark.
Veron opened his eyes.
Sat up without haste, the bed creaking faintly under his weight.
"Come in."
The door opened slowly, hinges sighing in protest.
The maid with the broom slipped inside—young, no more than twenty, her gray linen dress stained with the day's dust, hair tied back in a loose knot that did little to hide the exhaustion in her features.
She carried no broom now, just a small lantern that cast a warm, trembling glow across her face, highlighting the faint bruises on her cheeks and the darker marks peeking from under her hem—knees and thighs mottled with the telltale signs of nights spent earning extra coin on her back or knees.
She closed the door behind her, standing with her back to it, eyes downcast but not entirely submissive.
"My lord," she said, voice barely above a whisper, the words carrying the rough accent of Val Harm's lower folk.
"I… thought you might need company tonight. To… please you. For your grace."
The intention hung in the air, clear without crudeness—her body offered as currency, a desperate bid for favor in a place where favor meant food on the table or a lighter load the next day.
Veron regarded her from the bed, expression unchanging—calm, attentive, without judgment or desire.
He stood slowly, coat falling into place as though it had never been rumpled.
"What's your name?" he asked, voice quiet, steady, the same tone he had used earlier in the corridor.
She blinked, caught off guard.
No demand.
No dismissal.
Just a question, as though her name mattered more than her offer.
"Elara, my lord."
"Elara," he repeated, the word simple, without flourish.
He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a small pouch of coins—more than she would earn in a month of scrubbing floors or selling nights—and placed it on the side table.
"Take this. Not for tonight. For enduring a place that asks too much and gives too little."
She stared at the pouch, then at him, confusion flickering across her face.
"But… I came to—"
"I know why you came," he interrupted gently, but with the firmness of someone stating a fact.
"And I refuse. Not because you don't deserve grace, but because grace shouldn't come at that price. You endure enough already—sweeping corridors no one sees, keeping this place from falling apart while others pretend it isn't crumbling. That's worth more than what you're offering."
Elara's hands twisted in her dress, the lantern light trembling with her grip.
"My lord… the bruises… you saw them earlier. It's how I get by. Extra coin for the family. If I can please you—"
He shook his head once.
"Those bruises tell me you're stronger than this place deserves. But strength like yours shouldn't bend to survive. It should build. Keep an eye on the other maids for me—watch who endures, who pretends, who breaks under the weight. Tell me what you see. That's how you earn my grace—not on your knees."
She hesitated, eyes searching his face for the trap, for the cruelty hidden behind the calm.
But there was none—just clear vision, a philosophy that saw people as they were: the pretenders to dismantle, the endurers to elevate.
She took the pouch, fingers brushing the table as though afraid it would vanish.
"Thank you, my lord."
"Veron," he corrected quietly.
"And thank you for staying when others leave."
She nodded once, lantern light catching the faint shine in her eyes—gratitude, or relief, or something deeper.
Then she slipped out, door closing softly behind her.
Veron stood for a moment in the quiet room, the candle flame steady now.
He returned to the bed, lay down without removing his coat or glove, and closed his eyes.
Sleep came quickly.
Tomorrow's speech waited.
And the rebuilding had already begun—one step at a time.