Aleister Ribera, the Prince of Ribera, tapped the arm of his chair impatiently. The man before him—one of his elite special-ops soldiers—kneeled with his head bowed, his breathing ragged.
“You mean to tell me,” said Aleister, “that not only did you fail, you returned to me without completing your task?”
“It was the Mage, my Lord,” said the soldier, not daring to look up. “Marsden’s subordinates are… she was a monster, my Lord. Her and the assassin.”
An assassin? So that boy, an obvious soft touch, had assassins under his command? As surprising as that was, Aleister couldn’t afford to dwell on it.
“Guards,” he said, summoning 2 men in steel breastplates, carrying spears, “take him to the dungeon.”
He remained silent as they dragged him away, but his features drooped in sorrow. He knew what came next. Failure was not an option, and those who failed him would die for it.
“What next, my lord?” asked Count Bran. The Count was a doughy gentleman in his middle years, wearing pink silks embroidered with sequins. Proper masculine colours for a noble’s attire.
Unfortunately, his head was just as empty as Larm’s Treasury.
“It must be war, of course.” Marchioness Alkara was a short woman, and it showed in her bearing—perpetually angry, she raged at whichever god seemed most appropriate in any given moment.
This time, though, she was right.
Aleister had been careful when plotting his rise to power. He’d remained under Theo II’s radar—which was remarkably easy to do when the man was more interested in playing Bardra and drinking wine—and slowly built his resources.
At first, he’d sequestered the bare minimum required for his plan, playing along with Theo’s delusions of authority. But then he had given way for his son, Theo III, whose remarkable lack of oversight had eclipsed even his father’s. There had been no need to hide, at that point.
The idiot wasn’t even looking.
That family, whose progenitor had saddled them with a distasteful service such as the Arbiter, didn’t deserve their dominion. Aleister knew it, his nobles knew it, and the people knew it, too. So he’d raised his army and built his strength, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
Then the Arbiter had ruined it all.
When Theo had Ingrid killed, he shouldn’t have stopped there. He should have wiped out her entire family, and anyone who even slightly resembled them, just to be sure. But he hadn’t, and it had been his end.
Of course, that meant Aleister had needed to adjust. With the throne empty and many nobles clamouring for escape, he’d opened his arms and accepted them all. Their support and, more importantly, their armies would help him march and take the empty throne.
But then she’d gone and summoned that brat from another world.
Aleister had thought nothing of him, at first. He was nothing more than a child, wet behind the ears without the resolve to do what was necessary.
Oh, the fires that had raged in Aleister’s gut, knowing that such a peasant had been handed the crown. After decades of effort and subterfuge, Aleister was expected to bend the knee to this boy?
Ludicrous.
He wanted to give him a chance, though; a chance to recognise the rightful ruler of Larheim. In actuality, he wanted him hung, drawn, and quartered, but how could he appease his citizens if he so easily slaughtered a helpless, ignorant boy? Aleister wasn’t stupid.
He knew that if the people rose as one, they’d overwhelm his troops. That was why he controlled information. That control gave him power beyond the boy’s, and made their duel a mismatch.
But that had been naive of him. Underestimating Oliver Marsden had led him to complacency, and now he’d lost his initiative. Marsden was likely scheming his revenge for the failed sabotage, and Aleister could only wonder what he would do.
“The boy does nothing but build things,” said Aleister. “Spending money the kingdom doesn’t have, wastefully crowing to the citizens about things like ‘hope’ and ‘dreams’, but does he have the stomach for war?”
“Of course not!” Marchioness Alkara stomped her foot, seething. “He makes a mockery of all that is noble of our once-great kingdom! I beg of you, as our rightful King, please show him his place.”
“He will know it,” said Aleister, smirking. Whether it required escalation or not, he had tens more tricks up his sleeve, enough that his only problem was choosing which one to unleash next.
However, the time for subtlety was done. The boy clearly wasn’t getting the message—he thought he could win.
“If I may offer a suggestion?” Baron Silas Verard stepped forward, straight-backed and regal. The others bowed as he did. He was a tall, well-built fellow, his shoulders wider than a good woman’s hips, with a fuzzy beard and dark blue hair.
A worthwhile subordinate, even if he had some… interesting ideas. Most of the time, he did as he was told, though, and had been influential in Aleister gathering as much wealth as he had.
A shame about that boy of his, but nobody was perfect.
“Speak,” said Aleister, waving dismissively.
“The secession has become official,” said Baron Verard, “but it occurs to me that all we’ve offered the new King is ultimatums and threats.”
“He is no King!” cried Marchioness Alkara.
“Quiet!” Aleister’s authoritative tone rang through his throne room, silencing everybody. Though he agreed with her, it wasn’t her place to disagree with a Baron.
If his wife, Scarlet, were here, she would have had the Marchioness whipped, probably. She might have even done it herself.
“Perhaps we could try negotiating,” continued Verard, unperturbed. “A trade agreement could be beneficial to both parties, and having—at the very least—Larm and Kalvin as bulwarks against the western nations would be tremendously advantageous.”
Aleister paused. It was a good point, better than it had any right to be. Having enemies on all sides, even if he was friendly with Antira’s General Galdaff at the moment, would be exhausting.
But in that case, wouldn’t he have to recognise the boy as a legitimate ruler? Unthinkable. All the sweat and scheming, decades of work just to consider that whelp an equal?
No. Larheim in its entirety—all its riches, wonders, and people—belonged to Aleister. If they wouldn’t give him what was owed, he’d take it.
“Negotiate?” he said. “Has your boy rubbed off on you, Baron? You view him as my equal? Were I in his position, I would have marched on Zarua the moment I came to power.”
“We should be glad, then,” said Verard, raising an eyebrow, “that Oliver Marsden is not you.”
Sneering, Aleister tensed. “I see. And speaking of your boy, have you any idea where he’s gone? I haven’t seen him for quite some time, now.”
They both knew the answer, but Baron Verard’s answer would determine his loyalties, and therefore his fate.
“Vox be damned if I know.” Stroking his beard, Verard jutted his chin. “Likely somewhere bringing shame to his family, no doubt.”
Of course he was. That was all he ever did, according to the Baron, but Aleister wasn’t fooled. As much as he complained, the father had a soft spot for the son. He’d indulged his childhood whims, and even petitioned Aleister himself to take him on as an advisor.
A good advisor he’d been, too, once he learned his place.
But Aleister didn’t imagine for one second it had anything to do with the boy. No, it was to keep an eye on him. Baron Verard was indeed a wily one, to have deceived him this long.
But now, the pieces were falling into place. The most trusted member of his court was a traitor, who wished to consort with the enemy and bring about his downfall.
That wouldn’t be forgiven.
“My agreement is with Marchioness Alkara,” said Aleister.
Verard shook his head. “My lord, I ask you to reconsider—”
“You dare shake your head at me?!” He snapped to his feet, spit flying from his teeth as he snarled. “Do you know whose presence you stand in? I am Prince, and you—”
“No you aren’t,” replied Verard, chuckling. “Your principality is a joke, as are you. You always have been. You’ve allowed me to take good care of my people until now, so I suffered you. But no longer. You should be aware that my troops have orders to march out and present a treaty to the Crown—”
“It’s funny that you should mention that.” A sick grin twisted Aleister’s features, his heart bouncing. This was always his favourite part.
In truth, he’d long suspected Baron Verard’s lack of loyalty. He’d wished to all 8 Pillars it not be true, but there they were.
“Haven’t you wondered where my wife is? Your soldiers should be being wiped out as we speak.”
The colour drained from Verard’s face, and his body went limp, like a sokrom tree drenched by the rain.
He allowed satisfaction to bubble from his chest down to his belly, and sat back down. Then, he summoned the guards with a wag of his finger, directing them to apprehend the traitor.
As he understood, ‘King’ Oliver gave great speeches of whimsical, idealistic things, which meant he simply wanted the people to love him. To think that he cared. His subordinates had been far too strong for his spec-ops, but they hadn’t killed them.
Oliver didn’t want to see people die.
With that care, that distaste for the natural end to life, Aleister knew exactly which trick to pull out next.
Oh, he’d declare war, all right.
And he was going to hit the pretend King right where it hurt.
