Amilia stood in front of her mirror, the heavy oak dresser beneath it scattered with letters, broken wax seals. Her reflection stared back at her, poised but tense, crownless, yet carrying its burden all the same.

  Behind her stood Parcel Belmont, the brother of the late King Paric II, clad in his formal dark robes bearing the Belmont crest—an eagle cradling a sword. Though his age had crept into his features, his presence still commanded a room. Just not, it seemed, this room.

  “You cannot be serious,” Parcel said, his voice strained. “Please, Your Highness, you must reconsider.”

  But even he knew he was powerless. As Arch-Sovereign named by the king himself, Amilia’s authority, though contested, was legal. And now that Paric is dead, and is now irreversible.

  “Uncle… I’m not sure what you expect me to do. Frederick has already landed in Portland. He won’t return—not for you, not for anyone.” Amilia didn’t turn to face him. She adjusted a clasp on her shoulder, her tone composed but unyielding.

  Parcel’s jaw tightened. “Your Highness, I understand the situation. But most of the nobility do not. Especially the House of Gatsby.”

  “The Gatsby’s matriarch, Mandragora, is already pushing to have you, place her son Leon as Chief Advisor on the Royal Council.”

  “I’m well aware,” Amilia said, her reflection betraying a flicker of disdain. “I can’t have them turn against me… But will not have that arrogant bastard-child of the Gatsby line whispering in my ear.” Her hands clenched slowly into fists at her front.

  Parcel shifted, exhaling through his nose. “You’ll face serious pushback, Your Highness. That’s all I can say.” He folded his hands behind his back and assumed a more formal posture, the kind worn like armour in courtrooms and council chambers.

  Amilia’s gaze hardened as she finally turned to face him. “Your job, Uncle, is to keep the rest of House Belmont in check. From what I’m hearing… you’ve failed.”

  Parcel’s composure cracked for just a second before he recovered. “The nobility are afraid, Amilia. They believe a woman on the throne will hesitate to crush the radicals rising across Thatradore. If you want to rekindle favour among the four Houses, you’ll need to prove you’re a leader they can’t dismiss.”

  He stepped closer, voice lower now, more pointed. “Even if it means going against them. You have to show them that you’re not your mother’s daughter, or your father’s weak link.” He paused. “Show them who they need to follow,” Parcel said, his tone low but deliberate, “Make them listen to you, and not the radicals.”

  Amilia smiled faintly. “And how do you propose I do that?”

  “It will depend,” Parcel said, his voice dropping low. “You’ll need the support of at least one of the three great houses. House Belmont—that one’s obvious. But the others…”

  He trailed off, his expression tightening with thought. “House Gatsby, And House Arlikhino. Those are the ones you need to impress.”

  Amilia remained silent as he continued, but kept nodding as Parcel talked.

  “I’ll do what I can to ensure House Belmont’s loyalty, but it’s imperative you secure the backing of at least one of the two. Without that, your position is far too exposed, and easily contested.”

  “If you can, the odds of an aristocratic-backed rebellion or coup become far less likely. At least, one with any real chance of succeeding.”

  Amilia gave a dry, humourless chuckle. “That doesn’t exactly inspire much hope…” she said. “But I understand.”

  She turned away from him, moving toward the tall windows of her chamber. Beyond the glass, the palace courtyard stretched in solemn silence beneath the early light. Her eyes scanned the familiar space.

  “So,” Amilia began once more, “how would I go about gaining the support of…” Amilia paused as she thought. “...House Gatsby?”

  Parcel lifted a hand to his mouth and cleared his throat, straightening a little. “As I mentioned earlier, their head-of-house, Mandragora, is eager to see her eldest son appointed to the Royal Advisory Council. She’s been pushing for it quite openly. But if you were to extend that offer… I believe it would be an excellent first step toward earning their favour.”

  There was a note of cautious optimism in his voice now—subtle, but enough for Amilia to understand. “I see…” she said carefully. “Is there anything else I should know about their house?”

  Parcel gave a short nod, his eyes narrowing in thought. “Yes. House Gatsby is… particular. They are firm believers in what many refer to as Noble Ruling. As you know, it’s a doctrine that upholds the supremacy of noble bloodlines in governance. To them, the idea of commoners holding influence or political power, is outright heresy in their eyes. Things like democracy are also considered dangerous in their doctrine, and communism? Practically treason. I understand that this isn’t uncommon to hear from nobles, but the Gatsby’s are especially persistent when it comes to such topics.”

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  He let out a short breath. “Entertaining such ideas will inevitably spark unrest among them. Rebellion, if you push too far.”

  Amilia crossed her arms, her gaze hardening as she mulled it over. Parcel continued.

  “That said…” Parcel continued, his voice more measured now, “they are still the weakest of the three Great Houses—at least in terms of raw numbers. Their population is relatively small, and their noble bloodlines are tightly controlled.” He held up a finger, as if to emphasise a warning. “Their economic output is enormous. The silver veins that run beneath their mountains, and the coal that fuels much of Thatradore’s infrastructure, are all under their domain. Their mines have never known a day’s rest.”

  He paced slightly, thinking aloud. “Combine that with their military contributions—logistics, arms supply, private battalions, they’re nothing short of indispensable. And because of that, they’re also wealthy. Very wealthy. Possibly the richest of the Houses.”

  Parcel looked back at her with a hint of gravity in his expression. “I understand that sounds very intimidating, but House Belmont has a similarly sized military, and are just as influential,”

  “I see…” Amilia said, her voice even, measured. Despite the great deal of concern washing over her. “And what of House Arlikhino? What else should I be made aware of?”

  Parcel hesitated, his gaze drifting to the floor like the topic itself unnerved him. “Ah… yes,” he began slowly. “House Arlikhino. As you are very well aware, they are the military arm of Thatradore. Their domain is itself a war machine. Their regional capital houses the kingdom’s largest military foundries, weapons manufactories, tactical command centres… everything. The heart of our armed forces.”

  Amilia remained silent, letting the weight of that sink in.

  “They are more than soldiers,” Parcel continued. “They are strategists, planners, loyalists of the old guard. And they believe firmly in the unrestrained authority of the monarch. To them, the power of the throne is sacred.” He paused again, then looked to Amilia with a more sombre tone. “Which is why they grew disillusioned with your father… in his final years.”

  Amilia’s brow furrowed. “Why? He was ruthless. Hardly the type to try and go against them.”

  Parcel’s expression grew more conflicted. “It’s not that they disliked him. In fact, your father and the current head of House Arlikhino were on good terms for most of his reign. There was mutual respect. But as public decent continued to unravel in his later years—riots, dissent, the war with Krackov—your father began to make concessions. He offered greater autonomy to the nobility, allowing regional lords to handle matters previously under central control.”

  Amilia leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “That doesn’t sound like him…”

  “It wasn’t,” Parcel said. “At least, not the man they once followed. In doing so, he appeared weak—worse, he appeared compromised. To House Arlikhino, it wasn’t just a betrayal of the crown… it was a betrayal of House Belmont itself. A stain on the monarchy’s pride.”

  “Absolutely, if you were to promise them that, and follow through, then they wouldn’t dare contest your reign ever again,” Parcel snapped back. “However, that’s not an option… Stability among the commoners is still hanging by a thread. Radical hideouts are being discovered every few hours, sometimes even within the capital itself. Any disruption to the current administrative authority of the nobility will inevitably tip the scales in the radicals’ favour.”

  “And what is it they are demanding?” Amilia asked, her tone more curious than concerned.

  Parcel let out a short, almost amused laugh, though there was no real humour behind it. “You could ask a thousand different commoners and get a thousand different answers,” he said. “Unfortunately, we have no reliable way to identify a central grievance. But the most prevailing theory is that it’s the steady decline in living standards over the past two decades.”

  Amilia blinked, startled by the admission. “You mean to tell me you have no idea what the people are even angry about?” she said, mock disbelief tinting her voice as she leaned back slightly, as though scrutinising him more closely.

  Her expression shifted—slowly—from one of unintentional mockery to something far more calculated. Thoughtful. Dangerous.

  Parcel’s eyes narrowed. He stiffened slightly, sensing something. “Frederick warned me about that look on your face…” he muttered, like he’d just glimpsed a storm on the horizon.

  “It’s nothing,” Amilia replied, far too quickly and unconvincingly.

  “Please, Amilia…” Parcel said, voice softening. “Don’t underestimate the weight you’ll bear. After your coronation in two months, the crown becomes yours in full. You’ll be Queen, and believe me, I already feel the strain—managing everything the king would have, in his absence. It’s not easy.”

  “So you won’t try to convince me to hand over the crown?” Amilia asked, her eyes still fixed on him.

  He let out a breath through his nose. “Doing so would be pointless,” he said plainly. “I trust your brother when he says you’re ‘unpredictable’… and ‘stubborn beyond compare’.”

  “That part of me never changed…” Amilia said, more to herself than to him. She turned away, walking slowly to the window. The late sun cast a soft orange glow across the stone floor. From the balcony, she watched as Royal Guards passed through the courtyard in quiet patrol. Her expression unreadable.

  Parcel cleared his throat once more and gave her a slight bow before quietly making his way out of the chamber.