Laer was asleep behind the screen, and Beatrice laid out scrolls in rows like battle maps. Chronicle quarterly reports from the past year on one side, fresh temple summaries on the other.
– Masses, meals for the poor, roof repairs... – she read aloud the same entries over and over until she could hear only the dry crackle of parchment.
After an hour, the first inconsistency emerged:
The handwriting of the official scribes was even, but something in that perfection caught her eye.
The same monastery appeared twice in two different provinces. And in both records – a request for "urgent restoration after a raid," although, to her own knowledge, there had been no destruction. The old report read: "Repair of the western wing of St. Mirona's cloister: 3,400 marks." The new one said "repeated repair of the same wing: 3,600 marks," even though the tiles at St. Mirona had been replaced just six months ago, and their price hadn't changed.
A knock at the door, and the first roll of "interim calculations," sent by the chancellor at Beatrice's demand, landed on her desk. The synod's seal was untouched. The papers appeared immaculate: neat columns of numbers, bold signatures of abbots, tidy red marks from the temple's treasurer.
Beatrice opened the main ledger, scanned the expenses on grain and oil for the almshouses, and… froze. The line "Wheat intake from the Southern Counties" read – 24,000 measures.
But she clearly remembered the morning report from the palace quartermaster: due to late frosts, the southern harvest had been cut almost in half, and the royal granaries recorded 12,400 measures. A miracle, or fraud, flickered coldly through her mind. She marked the discrepancy with a tiny cross in the margins and moved on to the next sheet.
Document after document painted one picture: numbers inflated, receipts stamped with foreign seals, sums aligned only on the final page, where the bold signature of the temple's chief treasurer stood – a man loyal to Marianna.
Beatrice put down her quill, straightened up. In the mirror opposite, tired shadows under her eyes reflected, but her gaze was sharp as honed steel.
– So, not with threats, but with paper, – she said quietly to herself. – Very well.
Beatrice slowly, carefully leafed through the pages again. Checked the seals. They were genuine. On paper, everything was perfect.
But the truth lay beneath the skin of these lines:
Falsification.
Provocation.
An attempt to drive a wedge between the crown and the army through lies.
She packed the documents into a leather folder.
Stood up.
The next day, Beatrice ordered the Council to convene – no warnings, no prior audiences.
When temple emissaries and highborn lords entered the hall expecting to see the same obedient queen, they found Beatrice standing behind the podium, the folder open in her hands. She silently laid out the papers on the carved table and, pointing to each record, asked:
– Tell me, who is responsible for these scrolls?
The silence was long, viscous.
When no one dared to answer, Beatrice filled the pause herself:
– Falsification of state reports is a crime. A crime against the crown. And since you insist, a crime against faith. And, as you well know, it is punished not merely by loss of office but by exile from court. And from church.
Her voice was cold, even – like a blade's edge sliding across a throat.
– If this is the result of negligence, the guilty will be found and punished. If it is someone's will – the guilty will fall along with their patrons.
Her gaze lingered on the elders. On those who just yesterday tried to corner her. Not one dared raise their eyes.
Beatrice gathered the papers, like a sword returned to its sheath.
– Council is adjourned.
And without looking back, she left the chamber. The faint rustle of her gown remained the only sound in the empty space.
That evening, as shadows thickened over the palace, Marianna paced her chambers like a predator in a cage.
– How dare she! – burst from her lips, a sharp whisper full of rage. – How dare she expose the temple and the entire council as a den of swindlers?!
She clenched the parchment containing the copy of the scrolls brought to her by a courtier. The paper crumpled in her gloved hands.
Regnald lounged in a chair, leg over the armrest. He lazily swirled a wine glass, watching his mother's fury with idle interest.
– Well, credit where it's due, – he drawled, – the girl played it well. Even I didn't expect her to catch the trick.
Marianna turned sharply to him.
– Don't you dare call her "girl," – she hissed. – She's a viper. First silent, unnoticed, and now… – She crushed the wine glass in her hand, the crack of glass cutting the air. – Now she thinks she can rule.
Regnald smirked lazily.
– Isn't it amusing? We spent months molding a queen without will… and here she is.
Marianna tossed the shards aside.
– She's challenged not just us, – she said quietly, hoarsely, almost reverently to her own fury. – She's challenged the entire power structure. And if we let her go further, she'll sever our roots one by one.
Regnald drained his wine and rose slowly.
– Well then, mother, time to change tactics.
If she's learned to play chess... we'll just flip the board.
He leaned toward his mother and whispered:
– Let the next mistake be not her triumph... but her sentence.
Marianna, breathing heavily, nodded.
In the palace halls, the air trembled like before a storm.
Torchbearers scattered aside, guards aligned along the walls – Theodor had returned.
He held no ceremony: entered the city quietly, accompanied by only a few knights. His travel cloak still on his shoulders, his boots marked by Ravel's muddy roads.
Theodor walked the corridors, bypassing the audience chamber, bypassing the chancellery.
He went where the heart beat strongest – to the chambers of the little prince.
The door stood slightly ajar. He paused on the threshold. The room was quiet, smelling of fresh cloth and herbs.
On the rug, by a low bench, sat Beatrice. Laer half-asleep in her lap, wrapped in a soft blanket. Gazing at the cracked wall above the fireplace, Beatrice seemed to sink through layers of time, seeing neither the present nor hearing the curtains rustle.
Her fingers slowly traced the edge of the plaid. The motion repeated endlessly, like a forgotten prayer.
He took a few steps forward, removing his gloves.
Beatrice didn't notice him at first.
Only when he came close did her eyes, slowly, reluctantly, focus on him.
– Your Majesty, – he said quietly, bowing his head in a half-bow.
She lifted her gaze to him, slowly, unhurriedly, with a weary regality that was both defiant and detached.
– You've arrived at last, – she said evenly. – We were beginning to think Ravel had claimed you forever.
Theodor smiled faintly.
– The local lords did try to keep me, – he replied. – But, alas, I had to remind them who holds the sword here.
– And the King, no doubt, brings good news.
Theodor inclined his head.
– Negotiations in Ravel are complete. The lords reaffirmed their loyalty. Supplies will resume by early autumn.
He stepped closer.
– And here, – he continued, – victories were won in my absence… no less significant.
Beatrice raised an eyebrow.
– Victories? – her voice was velvet, but thin sarcasm rang through. – What grand words for petty squabbles among advisors and temple elders.
Theodor held her gaze.
– Call it what you will. But you showed reason. Resolve. And a wisdom that surprised even the palace's oldest sharks.
Beatrice slowly ran her hand over Laer's hair.
– So I surprised even You, Your Majesty? – her smile was thin, sharp. – What joy – to finally be worthy of someone's surprise. Have I finally justified Your choice, Your Majesty? – she added with a hint of venom. – Or were my previous efforts so… negligible?
– Your previous efforts were... loyal, but different. Then, you served as a devoted subject. – He paused. – Now, you act as an equal.
Beatrice narrowed her eyes, watching him too closely.
– And you're pleased with that? – she asked evenly, but a flicker of pain slipped through. – That my obedience gave way to defiance?
Theodor exhaled briefly through his nose.
– I am pleased to see beside me a woman who can take a blow without losing herself. One who can stand tall even when I am not there.
For a moment, Beatrice lowered her eyes. Her fingers still clenched the edge of the blanket. When she spoke again, her voice held a heavy, almost tender bitterness:
– How curious. Back when I was quietly fading at court, obeying every command, stifling every spark, I earned only polite approval. And now, when I've become something unfit to wrap in silken courtesy, you choose to find me worthy?
Theodor straightened slowly, looking down at her, without arrogance.
– Back then, you were… – he spoke carefully, almost with regret, – like a rose frozen in amber. Beautiful. Lifeless. And terribly fragile.
– And now? – Beatrice's voice quivered on half a syllable.
– Now you're alive. – He smiled faintly, almost sadly. – And terribly dangerous. And that is your true greatness.
She gave a short, almost joyless laugh.
– So, to earn your admiration, I had to die ten times... and resurrect again and again, breaking the bones of my former self?
Beatrice tilted her head slightly, not raising her eyes. Her lips barely moved. The words came out so softly they seemed to dissolve in the air before reaching anyone's ear.
Theodor, standing just two steps from her, squinted slightly.
He saw her lips move, heard the breath – but not the meaning.
– What did you say? – he asked calmly.
Beatrice looked up, and in her eyes was a glint of steel.
No shame. No intention to repeat herself.
– Nothing worthy of Your attention, Your Majesty, – she replied evenly, with a slight nod, politely dodging the command.
Theodor lingered on her longer than he should have. Something in her tone, in her face, was not what he remembered. Not the soft obedience he'd once grown used to. Not the grateful silence.
He stepped back, giving her space. His cloak whispered against the floor.
– In that case, – he said quietly, – I won't insist. – He bowed, reserved but lower than custom required. – I'm glad you are here, – he said softly. – And that we still have time… to fix many things.
Theodor hesitated a moment.
He had already looked away from Beatrice, ready to leave, when his eyes fell on the small bundle in her arms. On sleeping Laer.
The king knelt on one knee – slowly, carefully, as if afraid to disturb the quiet.
With a warm, steady hand, he smoothed the boy's fluffy hair – a single, light motion, barely tangible. His fingers lingered for a moment.
Then he leaned closer and, so that no one could hear, whispered almost inaudibly:
– Sleep peacefully, my prince.
Laer smiled slightly in his sleep.
Beatrice watched in silence, expressionless, but somewhere deep beneath her skin something twisted – too sharply to call it indifference.
Theodor rose slowly, nodded to Beatrice in farewell – silently – and left.
The door closed behind him softly, almost soundlessly.
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