"And what of Tackeros?" Benjamin pressed, his voice rising. "You sit here debating over crumbs while the wolf at our doorstep grows stronger. The kingdom of Tackeros has been swallowing realms for years." Now he looked around.
"Do you think they will hesitate to come for us once Fooleria falls? We need to gather forces now—fortify our defenses and prepare for the inevitable."
Mumbles broke out among the council. Several men exchanged uneasy glances, their earlier confidence faltering.
"Tackeros is no ordinary threat," one general muttered. "Their soldiers are relentless, their strategy unmatched. We cannot defeat them with brute force alone."
"Then what do you suggest?" another snapped. "Surrender? Diplomacy won't save us when they come marching on our gates."
"We cannot afford to appear weak," Benjamin said sharply. "This is not just about Fooleria or Tackeros—it's about Wyfn-Garde's survival. If we do not show strength now, we will invite ruin."
King Gideon finally stood, his imposing presence silencing the room. "Enough."
All eyes turned to him as he spoke, his tone measured but resolute. "This council will not waste time quarreling over futures we cannot yet predict. The focus must remain on the present. Fooleria is all but defeated, but the war is not over. Let our men return home victorious before we concern ourselves with the next battle."
"But, Your Majesty—"
The king raised a hand, cutting off the protest. "I have spoken. This discussion will resume once our soldiers return. Until then, do not let fear of Tackeros cloud your judgment."
With that, Gideon stepped away from the table, his robes sweeping behind him as he exited the hall. The heavy door creaked shut behind him, leaving the council in uneasy silence.
Some men frowned, their expressions dark with worry, while others laughed nervously, raising goblets of wine to ease their nerves.
"Let the king have his peace," one nobleman said, taking a long drink. "But we all know Tackeros won't wait for us to recover."
Others remained silent, their thoughts hidden behind tight-lipped expressions. The fire crackled in the hearth, casting long shadows on the walls, as the council broke into smaller groups to murmur amongst themselves.
Prince Benjamin sat back in his chair, his jaw clenched. He reached for his goblet but didn't drink. His mind raced, already planning his next move.
Wyfn-Garde had won this battle, but Benjamin knew the war was far from over.
~~~{────────
Morning
Salviana Chambers, Wyfkeep Castle.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~}~~~
The first rays of sunlight streamed through the tall, arched windows of Salviana's chambers, painting the room in soft hues of gold.
Salviana stood at the mirror, her fiery red hair catching the light as she smoothed down her morning gown.
She felt better this morning with a slight ache on her neck from sleeping all night on a chair, deapite cushion.
Her eyes were alight with anticipation as she turned to find Jean, her lady-in-waiting, organizing a stack of books near the corner.
"Jean," Salviana began, her voice carrying an unusual excitement.
Jean looked up, quirking an eyebrow. "Your Grace?"
"I've decided we're going to the marketplace today," Salviana announced, folding her arms with a determined smile.
Jean froze mid-motion, her hands clutching a leather-bound volume. "The marketplace?" she repeated, clearly baffled. "For what?"
"For everything I'll need to start embroidery." Salviana tilted her head, almost daring Jean to question her plan.
Jean blinked, setting the book down slowly. "You could write a list and send the maids. Or have them find the supplies and bring them back."
"Yes, I know," Salviana admitted, waving her hand dismissively. "But I'm looking for any excuse to go out."
Jean narrowed her eyes skeptically. "You want to roam through a bustling marketplace? With commoners? To shop for embroidery supplies?"
Salviana chuckled, already moving toward the wardrobe. "Exactly. Now, fetch your things. We're going."
Jean hesitated but eventually sighed, her lips curving into a reluctant smile. "You really are something, Your Grace."
After a flurry of preparation, Salviana and Jean stepped into the royal carriage. The coachman, a kind-faced older man with a silver beard, tipped his hat respectfully. "Good morning, Your Grace. Off to the marketplace?"
"Yes…" she trailed off not knowing his name.
"Manni, your grace," he gave her his name with a warm smile.
"We're going to the marketplace, Manni," Salviana replied, her voice warm. "Thank you for taking us."
"Always a pleasure," Manni said, urging the horses forward. The carriage rolled smoothly out of the palace gates and into the cobbled streets of the capital.
As they passed familiar landmarks, Salviana gazed out of the window, her expression thoughtful.
The last time she had ventured to the marketplace had been with Alaric.
The memory of his steady presence by her side brought a pang of longing, but she pushed it aside, focusing instead on the adventure ahead.
Jean, seated across from her, studied Salviana curiously. "You're unusually chipper this morning."
"I'm just excited," Salviana said, smiling faintly. "It feels nice to do something… different for a change."
She missed art, her husband and being normal.
Jean who has always been reckless smirked. "Shopping for embroidery supplies is normal?"
"It is if you're me," Salviana shot back, both women sharing a quiet laugh.
The marketplace was alive with vibrant colors, the air thick with the mingling scents of fresh bread, spices, and blooming flowers.
Merchants called out their wares, children darted through the crowds, and the hum of lively conversation filled the streets.
As the royal carriage pulled to a stop, heads turned toward Salviana and Jean, the crowd parting instinctively as they stepped out.
Salviana straightened her cloak, her fiery red hair catching the morning light. "Jean, stay close. Let's make the most of this."
Jean followed, scanning the bustling market with a mix of skepticism and curiosity. "This feels more like a royal procession than a casual outing."
Salviana laughed softly. "Let them stare. I'm here for embroidery supplies, not to make a scene."
The flower shopkeeper from the other day, a stout woman with a kind face, waved eagerly at Salviana as they passed. "Your Grace! A good morning to you!"
Salviana smiled warmly and returned the greeting. "Good morning! How are you?"
"I'm lovely your grace, I hope his grace returns safely," the flower shopkeeper wished.