The morning was overcast. The sky above the palace lay like a gray cloth, and the sharp dampness of autumn was already present in the cool air.
Beatrice stood by the mirror, letting Lynette fasten the strict veil to her hair. The outfit was chosen without excess: deep blue velvet, neatly embroidered patterns on the sleeves, a heavy brooch at the throat. Everything was meant to say: this is not a throne's adornment, but its support.
Today was not just another meeting — for the first time, she was to attend the Council of the Crown, among those who until now had seen her as nothing more than a formality at the throne.
In past months she had already met with emissaries, resolved minor court matters — but this was different. Today her words, her behavior would be judged by the elders who had ruled the state for decades. Every word would be weighed, every movement read.
Lynette silently tied the last lace on the dress and stepped back.
– You look magnificent, Your Majesty, – she said quietly.
Beatrice nodded distractedly. Her mind was not on the dress.
The corridors were noisy: servants rushing in all directions, officers exchanging short phrases, the scent of wet cloaks and fresh parchment lingering in the air.
She walked to the Council slowly, allowing herself to gather her thoughts with every step.
At the turn to the Small Gallery, her path was blocked by two figures.
The first was familiar: Dowager Queen Marianna, in an elegant gray dress, with an icy gaze and flawless posture.
Beside her stood a man Beatrice had never seen before. Tall, stately, with a silky smile and eyes too observant, too measuring.
Regnald.
She guessed it without words.
And was surprised at herself. How had it happened that in five, almost six months, she hadn't once encountered him at receptions, in the gardens, or even in the crowded palace corridors?
The question remained inside, not touching her face or her gaze.
Beatrice stopped, holding a short pause. A slight nod — not a bow, but a mark of respect, enough not to give rise to gossip.
– Your Majesty, – Marianna said with polite coldness. – What an honor to see you at court again. I hope your health has recovered enough for participation in such important matters?
There was something in her voice that could be mistaken for concern — if one didn't hear the clear pressure beneath it. Beatrice inclined her head, maintaining perfect courtesy.
– Thank you for your concern, madam. I feel well enough to fulfill my duties.
The answer was cold, but not rude. And by the slight tension in Marianna's lips, Beatrice knew she had struck true.
Meanwhile, Regnald continued to examine her without the slightest hesitation.
The kind of gaze that didn't breach decorum, but couldn't go unnoticed.
– A pleasure to see such lively spirit, Your Majesty, – Regnald spoke for the first time. His voice was smooth, ingratiating, carefully measured.
– A pleasure to see "new" faces at court, milord. – Beatrice gave a slight smile in return. Exactly as protocol required. Where did you even crawl out from, and where have you been hiding?
Regnald smiled back a little wider than protocol demanded. For a split second, a strange shadow flickered in his eyes — not anger, no, but a subtle resentment, as if he felt the blow came from a place where he had expected submission.
He bowed his head slightly lower than necessary and held the bow for a moment, as if acknowledging her sharpness, but not accepting her authority.
– I hope Your Majesty will be as gracious to us… "newcomers" as to the old, faithful servants of the Crown, – he replied with a light, almost playful tone.
Beatrice smiled politely again, as if she hadn't noticed the hidden barb.
Not a single muscle twitched on her face. Only deep inside did she mark: Regnald had not missed. He had felt her strike. And he would remember.
And in that small exchange of courteous words, the first note of a future war had already sounded.
When she finally passed them and entered the long gallery leading to the Council Hall, her breathing grew a little heavier. No, she didn't let herself tremble. And she didn't let herself turn back.
The throne hall for council meetings looked different from those for ceremonial receptions. No bulky banners, no gleaming trophies — just heavy carved chairs along a long table, the dim light of wrought chandeliers, and the echoing chill of stone walls.
Beatrice entered quietly. No one really looked at her. Lords whispered in low voices, exchanging glances over her head. The treasurer methodically leafed through papers. The senior advisor impassively checked seals on scrolls. Everything was as if she didn't exist at all.
She walked to her seat slowly, back straight, with that flawless grace forged not by title, but by years of pain and silent endurance. When she took her seat, no one interrupted their conversations. Only Theodor, sitting at the head of the table, gave her a short nod — no smile, no words.
At the start of the session, they discussed minor matters: reviewing tariffs on wool deliveries, repairing roads for the autumn fair, expanding a warehouse at the port. Theodor listened silently, occasionally marking something on the margins of parchment. Beatrice sat calmly, hands folded on her lap, observing the faces across the table. Treasurer Morgan — sharp eyes darting across the hall, Marshal de Levan — heavy, distrustful, Lord Vilden — silent, as if weighing every word on scales of profit. And almost every glance slid past her, like past furniture.
Among those present she immediately noticed Marianna. The dowager queen sat slightly apart, in the shadow of a heavy columned portal, but her icy gaze was fixed straight on Beatrice. Beside her, sprawling comfortably, sat Regnald. His smile was relaxed, almost lazy, but it carried a dangerous attentiveness.
The passive resistance was subtle but tangible. She wasn't insulted, not openly ignored. They simply acted as if she wasn't there.
When they started discussing the allocation of additional taxes for temples and construction of public baths, Beatrice heard familiar names. The same ones that had come up last month in her secret reports about understated levies. She knew it was a trap. Theodor remained silent, as if offering her a choice: stay silent, keep peace — or risk everything and rise.
A second stretched into eternity.
Beatrice stood.
A whisper passed through the rows — barely audible, but felt in every shift of movement.
– Your Majesty? – the chancellor asked quietly, raising a brow.
Beatrice stood calmly, not smoothing her dress, not betraying a single sign of nervousness. Her voice was firm — without hysteria, without excessive coldness:
– Before the Council approves the tax revisions, – she said evenly, – I ask that full reports be presented for the past three seasons for all districts participating in the project. With verification from independent magistrates.
Silence thickened in the room.
Theodor tilted his head slightly, not intervening.
The treasurer hesitated for a moment, as if not believing the command came from her. Marshal de Levan frowned. Somewhere in the corner papers rustled.
– That will take time, Your Majesty, – the chancellor said with strained courtesy. – The reports are not always complete…
Beatrice smiled lightly — without threat, but also without a hint of concession.
– Better to spend time on review than on correcting mistakes later, – she replied calmly. – Or does someone prefer a different approach?
Silence hung in the room.
Then into the quiet slipped a calm, silky voice:
– Your Majesty, – said Marianna with a light smile, – surely concern for order is commendable. But such a review truly will delay vital work for months. Does not our people deserve swift help?
Several lords nodded in agreement.
Beatrice met Marianna's gaze steadily.
– The people deserve justice before they deserve charity, – she replied. – You cannot build upon theft.
A barely audible ripple of whispers ran through the hall.
Regnald, lazily reclining in his chair, intervened with feigned nonchalance:
– Of course, no one would argue with a desire for truth. But perhaps we should trust the experience of senior officials, rather than hinder their work with endless reviews?
He smiled like a benevolent adviser, but there was poison beneath the words: Beatrice — supposedly young, inexperienced, wasting time where all had already been decided.
Beatrice waited a brief pause.
– The question, milord, – she said quietly, – is whether we should trust those who are used to working without witnesses.
The silence became almost tangible.
The senior advisor coughed into his fist. Theodor said nothing, only looked at her intently from behind the table. The treasurer tried to interject something about accounting difficulties — but stopped, catching her gaze. Beatrice sat back down, maintaining complete composure.
When Beatrice voiced the demand for a full audit of taxes, a heavy silence fell over the room. Marianna was the first to break it. Her voice was soft, almost tender:
– Your Majesty, as said, a meticulous audit requires time and resources. But we must also consider — autumn is ending, and winter does not wait. Delays may lead to shortages in the villages.
Regnald supported her in the tone of a concerned junior advisor:
– We only want to avoid extra suffering for the common folk. Every week of delay adds to their hardship.
Among the lords came cautious, muted nods. It seemed opinion was turning against Beatrice.
She didn't respond immediately. Let the words settle in the air.
– I do not propose to halt the works, – she said firmly. – I propose to make sure that the funds are truly reaching those who are waiting for them. Theft under the mask of mercy is still theft.
Marshal de Levan, sitting in the far corner, slowly shifted his gaze to the treasurer.
– Makes sense, – he muttered. – An audit won't kill the treasury. Far worse to pour gold into someone else's pockets.
Treasurer Morgan flushed.
– Even so, – the chancellor inserted, nervously shuffling papers, – such an audit casts doubt on the honor of officials appointed by His Majesty himself! This could be interpreted as distrust.
Beatrice met his gaze evenly.
– Honor that fears review is unworthy of trust.