The air in the royal dungeon was heavy—damp with age, tainted by fear. Stone walls loomed high and wet, lit only by the guttering flames of torchlight. The Queen's crimson standard hung behind her, motionless but watchful, as if it too awaited judgment.
Before her, bound in chains, knelt the Prime Minister, Minister Aldric of Foreign Affairs, and Minister Reynard of Finance. Their ceremonial robes were crumpled and stained with sweat. Once proud emblems of state shimmered weakly on their shoulders—symbols now reduced to mockery.
The brazier was brought forward.
Sparks danced into the air as metal pokers hissed, glowing a vengeful orange. The court physician was present to ensure they did not die before the truth could be pried from them. Khloe sat unmoving on the stone dais, her crown catching the flickering torchlight like a dagger's glint. Olivia stood beside her, silent and straight-backed, a warrior cloaked in dignity despite the bruises still lining her neck.
"Begin," Khloe commanded, her voice as cold and sure as a steel blade.
The first guard stepped forward.
Prime Minister lips trembled. "Please—Your Majesty. I served your father. I guided you and tutor you, when you were but a child—"
"And that is why I am so disappointed, you guided the late kings to their doom, but not me." Khloe said, without blinking.
Prime minister closed his mouth. His eyes flicked toward the hot iron now raised before him.
And then—
BOOM.
The walls trembled slightly as a low rumble echoed from above. A moment later, came the unmistakable noise of many voices shouting in unison. Angry, sharp, rising.
Khloe's head lifted.
The echoes grew louder.
Steel boots clattered against stone as a breathless soldier burst into the chamber. "Your Majesty! A mob has gathered at the eastern gate. Hundreds—no, more. They carry banners. They're calling for justice."
Khloe's brows furrowed. "Justice for whom?"
The soldier hesitated. "The ministers."
A stunned silence followed his words, broken only by the sputter of torchlight.
"They want their release?"
The soldier swallowed hard. "Yes, Your Majesty. They say you've imprisoned the people's protectors. They demand you listen."
Olivia clenched her fists.
Then—before the Queen could speak—the other ministers dropped to their knees, heads bowed low. As if on cue, as though the sudden noise had given them permission to perform the act they never would have dared a moment before.
"Your Majesty, hear us," Minister of war cried, his voice trembling. "The people beg for mercy. Surely their voices matter. Surely their cries reach your throne."
Khloe's eyes narrowed. "Their voices matter. But you do not speak for them."
The Prime Minister spoke next, raspy and desperate. "Your Majesty, if you execute us now, the people will turn. Civil unrest could sweep the kingdom. You are young, wise—but new to the throne. Do not begin your reign with the blood of servants on your hands."
"You mean traitors," Olivia muttered beside her.
"Enough," Khloe said, lifting a hand to silence them all.
She closed her eyes for a moment. The truth was, she had anticipated this. She had known these men were not beloved only by the court—they were clever, calculating, and had spent decades cultivating loyalty among the elite and the common folk alike. Their influence ran deep.
Still, Khloe had hoped for justice.
Now, justice had to take a different form.
She stood slowly. Her voice was firm. "Return them to the cells. Do not touch them further."
The guards hesitated.
Khloe raised her voice. "Do as I command."
One by one, the ministers were dragged away. Their shoulders seemed to relax slightly as they left the chamber—not from freedom, but from a delay of torment.
Khloe descended from the dais, every step echoing like thunder.
"Send the royal chorus," she said to Olivia. "Let them speak to the mob. I want them to know this investigation continues—but their protectors shall remain alive, in cells, not dungeons."
Olivia bowed.
Within the hour, golden-robed members of the royal chorus—trained speakers and poets of the crown—stepped onto the palace balcony and began to address the restless sea of citizens gathered outside the eastern gate.
"Your Queen hears you," one announced, voice magnified by spell and echo. "She has delayed judgment—not abandoned it. The accused will be watched. Their crimes investigated. Truth, not vengeance, will rule her court."
But the people were not satisfied.
"We want them free!" someone shouted.
"They protected us!" cried another.
A chant began to rise: "Release them! Release them! Release them!"
Khloe watched from behind the silk-curtained window of her war room. She saw the sea of angry faces, the clenched fists, the burning torches. And she felt something inside her twist—not in fear, but frustration. These were her people. And they were blinded by decades of lies.
Olivia stepped into the chamber.
"They won't stop," She said simply. "You've spared the ministers, but the mob wants them walking free."
Khloe closed her eyes. "If I release them fully, I look weak."
Olivia nodded grimly. "But if you hold them, this unrest could grow."
She turned away from the window. "Then I will give them something in between."
She stood tall. "I will release them to house arrest. Their estates shall be turned into prisons of comfort—but prisons nonetheless. They will not move without guards watching. Their letters shall be intercepted. Their movements controlled."
Olivia's lips curled into something close to a smirk. "That might just keep both sides quiet. For now."
That same night, Khloe stood once again before her court—this time with the ministers beside her, flanked by armed guards.
"The people have spoken," she announced to the watching crowd. "And a ruler who does not listen to her people is no ruler at all. Let none doubt that I hear you."
A ripple of uncertainty ran through the audience.
"But understand this—mercy is not forgetfulness. These men shall be returned to their estates, under full watch of the Crown. They shall live, but not move without approval. They shall sleep, but under guard."
Her eyes scanned the crowd.
"And the investigation will continue."
The Prime Minister bowed low, his face unreadable. Reynard looked grateful. Aldric kept his eyes fixed on the marble floor.
Khloe turned to leave the hall.
Olivia followed, keeping pace just behind her. Once inside the private corridor, she spoke quietly, "You've given them room to breathe. Are you not afraid they'll use it to slip away?"
Khloe turned to her. Her eyes, though young, were steeled with fire. "Let them try. The very walls of their estates now listen for me. And if they so much as whisper treason—I'll know."
They walked in silence for a moment more.
Then Khloe added, her voice softer, "Besides, this buys us time. Time to gather proof. Time to win the people's hearts. Time… to unravel every hidden thread they've spun for the past forty years."
Olivia nodded.
And in the moonlight streaming through the stained-glass windows, Queen Khloe—barely sixteen, newly crowned, already blooded by betrayal and grief—stood not as a girl struggling to lead, but as a ruler learning to wield power without losing herself to it.