King Helmut and Rembrandt entered the great hall. The morning sun was streaming through the windows; fire was crackled in the hearth.

  Helmut, wearing his royal robes and crown, noticed Jorvan and Valgarr seated at the head of the table—his table, in his palace. A servant led Helmut to the middle of it. Another set down his breakfast.

  Porridge. Plain, lumpy porridge in a wooden bowl. A single slice of heavy rye bread with lashings of butter beside it. A cup of water.

  Jorvan spread butter on a flaky pastry, surrounded by platters of scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, sliced fruit glistening with honey, preserves in delicate crystal dishes.

  Beside Jorvan, Valgarr ate with serene precision, white robes pristine as he selected berries from a silver bowl.

  In the corner, Rembrandt stood with his arms folded, looking as miserable as Helmut felt. The artist's fingers twitched occasionally—muscle memory from years of sculpting custard and marzipan—but there was nothing here to work with. No kitchen access. No ingredients. No purpose.

  Helmut cleared his throat. "Excuse me—" He gestured to the servant. "I'd like eggs, please. Scrambled. With cheese. And some of that bacon. And those pastries—are those the ones with the cream filling? I'll take three."

  The servant's eyes flicked nervously to Jorvan, then back to Helmut. He said nothing.

  "Did you hear me?" Helmut's voice rose slightly. "I want proper breakfast. Eggs. Bacon. Pastries."

  The servant remained frozen, eyes fixed on the floor.

  Helmut turned to Jorvan. "Jorvan, can you believe this? The servants won't even—tell him I want proper breakfast! We're both kings here, surely we should—"

  "The palace is on a budget, Helmut." Jorvan didn't look up from his pastry. Took another bite. Chewed thoughtfully. "Can't waste resources on... excess."

  He gestured vaguely at the platters surrounding him—the eggs, the bacon, the fruit, the preserves—without a trace of irony.

  "I'm the King!" Helmut gestured at his crown. "I should be able to choose my own breakfast!"

  "Are you?" Jorvan finally looked at him. Not unkindly. Almost... pitying. "You couldn't hold onto that crown last time. Your own people threw you out, remember? Starving in the streets while you built marzipan castles."

  Helmut's face reddened. "That was—circumstances were—"

  "Circumstances." Jorvan returned to his breakfast. "Right. Well, circumstances are different now. I'm here helping. Temporarily. Until you learn how to actually rule." He selected a particularly golden pastry. "Maybe start with managing your breakfast expectations. Work your way up to kingdom management."

  Valgarr made a soft sound that might have been agreement. Sipped his tea. Said nothing.

  Helmut stared at his porridge. At the crown on his head. At Jorvan eating his food at his table in his palace.

  "I know how ruling works! I was king for—"

  "For how long before they kicked you out?" Jorvan leaned back in his chair. "Remind me. Was it a month? Two months before they were begging for anyone else?"

  Silence.

  Rembrandt shifted uncomfortably in the corner. Even he could feel the humiliation radiating from the king.

  "The crown looks good on you, though." Jorvan's smile was almost kind. Almost. "Very regal. Very... symbolic." He took another bite of eggs. "Now eat your porridge before it gets cold. We have a busy day ahead."

  Helmut looked down at the bowl. The gray, lumpy, peasant food that was apparently all he deserved.

  He was wearing the crown of Eldmere.

  He was sitting in his own palace.

  At his own table.

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  And he had never felt more powerless in his life.

  The servant quietly refilled Jorvan's cup with fresh juice and retreated without a word.

  Helmut picked up his spoon. The porridge was already cold.

  ***

  The cellar air was cool and damp, carrying that particular underground smell of stone and standing water. Lamplight flickered across Valgarr's temporary chambers, casting shadows on the brick walls.

  Jorvan paced between the desk and the far wall, still energized from breakfast. Valgarr sat behind his desk, fingers steepled. Theron stood near the door, notebook in hand.

  "So." Jorvan stopped pacing, turned to face them. "How long until we have everything signed and official?"

  "Signed? Everything needs to be drafted first. And of course, on Benjamin's... cooperation." Valgarr said. "Which he won't give willingly, he made that clear yesterday."

  Jorvan waved a hand dismissively. "So we make him cooperate. You said you had ways—"

  "I do." Valgarr's pale eyes glinted in the lamplight. "But there's a complication. Eldmere law requires both signatures for any transfer of sovereign authority. Not the king's signature. Not the advisor's signature. Both."

  Jorvan stopped. "Both?"

  "Both." Valgarr leaned back slightly. "It's an old law."

  "So we need Helmut AND Benjamin?" Jorvan's face twisted. "But how did the cockatrice become king without two signatures?"

  "It was illegal," Valgarr said simply.

  Jorvan stopped. "So you're saying—"

  "We're doing things the right way," Valgarr agreed. "Properly. Legally. Unlike the bird's little... revolution. But only if we can get Benjamin's signature. Helmut will sign whatever we put in front of him. He has no interest in actually ruling—he just wants the crown and the comfort that comes with it.”

  Theron made a note. "What documents specifically?"

  "Transfer of authority," Valgarr said, counting on his fingers. "Annexation agreements. Trade monopolies. And—" he paused, "—reorganization of Eldmere's religious order under Garanwyn's faith authority. Under my direct authority."

  In the drain beneath the floor, water rippled almost imperceptibly.

  "The faith is the key," Valgarr continued. “Once the faith answers to me,” he said, “the city will follow.” His smile was cold. "The infrastructure is already in place. We simply need to... redirect it."

  Jorvan nodded slowly. "And Benjamin won't sign that willingly."

  "No."

  "So you'll—what? Force him?"

  “Benjamin won’t sign,” Valgarr said. “Not willingly. But willingness is negotiable.” Valgarr paused, then added in a voice like silk. "But not yet. Theron needs time to prepare the documents properly. Everything must be legally sound. No loopholes. No technicalities someone could exploit later."

  Theron looked up from his notes. “I’ll require a few weeks to study Eldmere’s documents. The language must be precise.”

  "Weeks?" Jorvan's voice rose. "That's—"

  "Necessary," Valgarr cut in. “We do this cleanly. Once ink dries, it must never bleed.”

  The water in the drain rippled again. Listening.

  Jorvan resumed pacing. "Fine. FINE. I’ll give you four weeks. But then—"

  "Then I handle Benjamin." Valgarr's smile widened slightly. "The advisor will sign everything we require."

  “Your highness, four weeks may be inadequate, but I’ll do my best to get it completed in such a short timeframe.” Theron added when he saw Jorvan’s eyes narrow.

  "And Helmut?" Jorvan asked.

  "Will do as he's told." Valgarr waved a hand dismissively.

  Theron made another note. "Should I include provisions for Helmut's continued residence after the annexation? Some form of stipend or—"

  "Let him think he's still king," Jorvan said. "Give him a title. 'Protector of Eldmere' or some nonsense. Something that sounds important but means nothing. He can keep living in the palace. Keep wearing that ridiculous crown. As long as I'm actually in charge."

  "Puppet king," Valgarr murmured. "How poetic."

  "How practical," Jorvan corrected. "The people see their king. Happy. Well-fed. Content with Garanwyn's 'assistance.' Meanwhile, actual decisions get made by people who know what they're doing."

  Beneath the floor, in the cool darkness of the drain, five eels hung motionless in the water, listening.

  The water rippled as they began to move, slipping silently through the underground channels toward the harbor.

  Above, Theron closed his notebook. "I'll begin immediately, Your highness. I should have the first of the draft documents by the end of the week for your review."

  "Good. Excellent." Jorvan straightened his robe. "See? This is how you take a kingdom. Legally. Properly. The BEST way." He headed toward the door, then paused. "What about that situation? The ceremony incident?"

  "I'm investigating," Theron said smoothly. "Following several leads."

  "I want the guilty parties found and dealt with. Publicly."

  "Of course, Your highness."

  Jorvan left, footsteps echoing up the cellar stairs.

  Valgarr remained seated, studying Theron with those pale, cold eyes. "You've found something."

  It wasn't a question.

  Theron met his gaze evenly. "I'm gathering information."

  "And when will you share this... information?"

  "When I have verified facts, Your Holiness. Not before."

  A long silence. Valgarr's fingers drummed once on the desk. "Mmm." Valgarr's cold smile. "See that you are. I'd hate for your thoroughness to become... problematic."

  "Of course, Your Holiness."

  Theron bowed and left.

  Valgarr sat alone in the lamplight, surrounded by documents and shadows.

  Four weeks.

  Everything was proceeding exactly as planned.