In the modern world she used to live in, this was called building influence infrastructure. Not a team. Not an army.
But a quiet network of people whose existence was invisible to most.
She remembered how she used to manage a company branch, paying attention not only to reports and figures, but to who brought rumors faster, who first noticed customer dissatisfaction, who could quietly shift the outcome of a meeting with one well-placed remark.
Back then, she knew: real control is not built top-down. It's built from the bottom up. And here, in this ancient court, with its stone corridors and whispering conspirators, the principles were the same. Only the stakes were higher.
Beatrice turned from the window and began pacing slowly across the room, letting her thoughts flow freely. In the modern company, she had instructions, trainings, development plans. Here only intuition and cold logic. She had already grasped the main point: the highborn nobility either hated or despised her. Marianna and Regnald played a subtle game behind her back. Open support among the lords was still impossible, the grip of the old houses too strong.
So her bet had to be on the "grey mass" at court. Scribes. Minor judges. Archive keepers. Low-level stewards. There were many of them. They were invisible. But through them, the foundation could be changed.
If one scribe whispered the right piece of news, it would grow into a rumor. If one archivist delayed the needed scroll, the enemy would lose time. If one clerk inserted the right numbers into the right report, a decision would tilt in the needed direction.
You don't have to change the entire court all at once.
You only need to pull the right strings.
Beatrice stopped at the large table where parchments and accounts lay. She ran her fingers over the headings: dry figures, lists of taxes, repair reports, distribution of supplies. In the modern world, such documents would be the cause of shadow wars between corporations. Here, they decided the fates of towns and villages.
She smirked quietly to herself.
If the Council only knew how easily power can be lost in this world... And how simply it can be built.
Lynet, noticing her mood, silently brought a tray with hot herbal brew and soft cheese. Beatrice nodded in thanks, but didn't touch the food.
Everything was too clear.
Autumn would be the season of construction.
She had to build her core of influence before winter, or everything would crumble like dust underfoot.
The first step would be a reception for the lower officials. Not a ball, not a formal gathering of the nobility—no.
Just a modest lunch under the pretense of gratitude for service.
It would be among them that she'd begin gathering allies. Not demanding oaths. Not buying loyalty. But making it clear: beside her, they would find protection. Opportunities. Visibility. And perhaps, in time, real power.
By nightfall she was alone.
Outside the window, autumn rain spread across the stones. Beatrice allowed herself a few minutes to sit still in the armchair, listening to the raindrops tapping against the cornice. Somewhere, in another life, another time, she had sat like this after a hard day at the office, going over numbers, deals, conversations in her head.
Only back then, the stakes were different: not life.
Not honor. Not blood on stone floors.
And yet, the rules of the game remained the same.
And this world, no matter how ancient it pretended to be—
would learn to fear her.
The next morning, Beatrice rose earlier than usual.
Dense predawn fog still clung to the windows, and moisture slid along the stone floors of the corridors. She ate breakfast on the go, giving Lynet her instructions.
No pomp. No formal ceremonies. Just a modest lunch—quiet, almost familial. And it had to look like a gesture of gratitude, nothing more.
Beatrice ordered the table to be set in the Winter Hall, a small chamber with low arches and windows opening into the garden. It was spacious enough to seat two dozen guests, but not so grand as to frighten them.
She personally discussed the meal selection. Nothing extravagant: simple meat, fresh fruit, soft bread, cheese. Light wine, diluted with water, so the talk wouldn't dissolve into idle feasting.
She insisted everyone sit without strict placement, just as it happened naturally. So that no distance would be felt between the queen and her guests.
When Lynet gently reminded her that such free orders might draw disapproval from the elder lords, Beatrice only smiled softly:
– Change always frightens those afraid of losing their place.
The servants whispered. Some senior ladies of the court turned up their noses. A cautious, curious buzz already floated through the palace:
"What is the Queen planning?"
"Why such a strange luncheon all of a sudden?"
"What kind of new whim is this?"
Which was exactly as it should be.
By noon, the Winter Hall was ready.
Tables covered in clean linen cloths. Small jugs of autumn flowers. Simple wooden cups and plain clay plates without gold trimming. The warmth of burning fireplaces filled the hall with soft light.
The first to arrive was one of the junior judges, nervous, fiddling with the hem of his dark doublet. Behind him, two scribes.
Then, the archive manager, a quiet old man with wrinkled fingers and cautious eyes.
Beatrice greeted each one. Calmly, respectfully, without arrogance.
And with every greeting, the guests' tension eased.
When all were gathered, she stood—not demanding silence—and said:
– Today, there are no speeches. No decrees. Today we simply eat together. I want to know those who make the world around me stronger—even if their work isn't always visible.
And she sat first, sipping her wine.
After that, the conversations began on their own.
Someone spoke of difficulties storing papers in the damp archives. Someone else about strange inconsistencies in the grain deliveries. Another about missing tax scrolls.
It all sounded casual, almost like light complaints... but Beatrice listened carefully. Very carefully.
Through the pattern of these conversations, she began to see what she hadn't noticed before: a web of mutual obligations, hidden tensions, quiet grievances.
And among the guests, she already took mental notes:
That one - clever, but afraid.
That woman - cautious, but loyal.
This one - ambitious at all costs.
A small lunch spun a web of connections faster than many grand receptions.
As the meal drew to a close, Beatrice slowly stood again:
– I thank you for your service. I ask only one thing: do not be afraid to tell me the truth. Even if it is unpleasant. Even if it is inconvenient.
And she looked into the eyes of each of them. Unhurriedly, gently—but unavoidably.
As if to say: there is no place here for false loyalty. Truth is what matters.
When the guests left the hall, Beatrice stood by the window and saw how their faces changed.
Some walked away troubled. Others with quiet hope. A few with a faint respect that can't be commanded.
Behind her, Lynet whispered:
– Their talk will spread through the palace by evening, Your Majesty.
Beatrice nodded.
– That is exactly what I'm counting on.
The next day, the palace seemed somehow changed.
Outwardly, everything was the same: the same stone corridors, the same heavy doors, the same rustle of skirts on mosaic floors.
But something new hung in the air—elusive, like before a storm. A light chill under the skin. Cautious glances over the shoulder.
Beatrice sensed it almost at once as she stepped out of her chambers with Lynet.
The servants bowed just as low, but tension showed in their movements. Scribes hurried to lower their eyes when passing. The guards at the doors stood straighter than usual.
Beatrice walked slowly, calmly, betraying nothing. But she marked every detail to herself.
There was a strange tautness in the air—as if overnight, a new, unseen storm had risen inside these stone walls.
At the turn to the Small Gallery, she slowed.
– What happened? – she asked quietly. – Why is the palace buzzing?
Lynet hesitated for a fraction of a second, then gently lowered her hands and replied:
– Rumors are spreading, Your Majesty. Among the servants and junior scribes. – She lowered her voice, stepping closer. – They say the audits you demand aren't for order... but to cover your own embezzlements. That some of your new people have already "lost" important documents.
Beatrice's expression didn't change. Only her fingers slowly clenched into a tight knot.
– Who's spreading it? – she asked just as quietly.
– No one knows for sure, – Lynet whispered. – But in the lords' wing, the talk is coming from Marianna's servants. And a few scribes loyal to the old houses.
Beatrice closed her eyes for a moment. It was predictable. And yet unpleasant. In the modern world, such attacks were handled with press releases, official statements, sometimes legal threats. Here, it was subtler. To refute a rumor was to acknowledge it.
And in this court, acknowledgment was often the same as defeat.