Chapter 12: The Queen Without a Throne

  After parting ways with Rokkan, Veyr of the Hollow Pads moved swiftly through the narrow torchlit corridors and ascended the spiral steps toward the pinnacle of Umbrafel Tower.

  He made no sound as he walked—his paws trained in the ways of silence, his presence forgotten by the very air he passed through.

  At the end of the long hall, a blackened door stood slightly ajar.

  He entered.

  The chamber within was dim—illuminated only by a single hanging lantern, its flame barely flickering. The walls were lined with scrolls and faded maps, yet the room felt more like a mausoleum than a war chamber.

  And at its heart, seated upon a low dais of shadow and woven silk, was Maeril of the Soft Step. Leader of House Umbrafel.

  She did not rise to greet him.

  She never did.

  Her eyes—half-lidded and unreadable—flicked once toward him as Veyr knelt without a word.

  “Rokkan has just left the Tower. We now hold leverage over Clawscar through him,” Veyr said, his gaze lowered to the floor before the she-cat who led him.

  “The potential threat lies with the heir of Sein’ei. There will be no further complication if we eliminate him before he grows beyond our reach,” he continued, his voice steady.

  His report was answered only by the faint tap of her finger against the arm of her seat.

  Maeril, who had been watching her fingers drum lightly against the chair, lifted her gaze toward the darker side of the chamber near the doorway.

  “Is it true?”

  Then, from the shadows, a voice emerged—one that had not been invited, yet had always been there.

  “It is, Master.”

  A figure stepped out from the darkness.

  A tom of solid build, his entire body concealed beneath layered cloth and a fitted mask. His movements were controlled—measured. He walked to the right side of Veyr, who remained kneeling, and lowered himself to his knees beside him.

  Maeril’s gaze shifted—Veyr to her right, the masked figure to her left.

  “Veyr… allow me to introduce you…”

  The mysterious tom reached up, pulling back the hood of his cloak.

  “Nesk.”

  As Maeril spoke the name, thunder cracked violently outside the Tower. A flash of lightning reflected across Veyr’s face as he stared, stunned, at the figure beside him.

  “H–How? Wasn’t he a feral cat we—”

  He did not finish. His fur bristled. His body trembled.

  When he glanced upward—A golden eye, marked by a vertical black slit at its center, fixed upon him.

  It was not rage. It was judgment.

  Instinct screamed.

  Bam! Veyr slammed his forehead against the stone floor.

  “Forgive me, Master, for the insolence I have committed!” Blood ran from his brow, staining the stone beneath him. His heart pounded violently in his chest—each beat heavy, undeniable.

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  Seconds passed.

  “Araise…” Maeril’s voice was soft.

  Cold enough to suffocate.

  Veyr lifted his head immediately and rose to his knees before standing upright once more. When he dared to look to his side, Nesk was already standing calmly beside him.

  Veyr followed, standing straight—then bowing his head in proper deference before his Master.

  Maeril spoke again, her voice unhurried. “He has served me longer than you, Veyr.”

  She gestured lazily toward Nesk at her left. “If you are my right hand—the one that moves through courts and councils—

  then Nesk is my left. The one that slips through sewers, alleys, and locked rooms.”

  Her gaze shifted briefly to Nesk. “His madness?”

  A faint pause.

  “A mask. A veil to keep even his allies uncertain.”

  The lantern flame trembled.

  “But here,” she continued, her tone flattening into something colder, “there are no masks.”

  Her eyes moved between them.

  “You are both my assets.”

  The word was deliberate. Not heirs. Not favorites. Assets.

  And in that single word lay the truth of House Umbrafel. No one was irreplaceable. Not even loyalty.

  Veyr’s gaze slid briefly toward Nesk, whose face remained concealed beneath the dark mask.

  Since when? I have served for twenty years. Longer than most who breathe in this Tower… and he has served longer than I? The thought churned—but only for a heartbeat.

  He placed his palm against the left side of his chest and bowed his head.

  “Please enlighten me… the next step, Master.”

  Maeril of the Soft Step did not answer immediately.

  She raised a single claw. It extended toward the great map of Vel’farra stretched across the far wall—its borders inked in faded precision, its clans marked by crests and curling lines of territorial claim.

  Her claw hovered. Then rested.

  “We continue the plan.” Her eyes never left the map.

  “This kingdom… this realm with no king—it will be mine.”

  “As you wish, Master,” they answered in unison.

  Veyr lifted his head slightly, blood still trailing from his brow.

  “Then… shall we send someone to eliminate him?” he asked. “While he is wounded.”

  Maeril’s gaze shifted to Nesk. “What do you think?”

  Nesk bowed. “As I reported—I observed him in the Maw Pits. He defeated Krann and Muzz. But he was severely injured. He poses no immediate threat to our design.”

  “Bu—but—” Veyr interjected, unable to restrain himself. “If not now… with our plot against Clawscar already in motion—”

  His hands hovered in the air, framing the logic.

  “Would it not be wiser to brand him an outcast? Have him punished publicly? Two birds with one stone.”

  The lanternlight danced between them.

  Tap.Tap.Tap. Maeril’s claw struck the table in steady rhythm.

  Silence thickened.

  Then—

  “We proceed with Plan B.”

  Veyr’s eyes widened. “Why? If we can strike twice with a single blade—”

  He stopped.

  Maeril was smiling. Not wide. Not warm.

  Understanding dawned slowly in Veyr’s expression.

  “…Ah.” The sound escaped him in a low hiss of realization.

  “Forgive my short-sightedness, Master,” Veyr said, lowering his head.

  “You are not aiming for two birds with one stone.” Two fingers rose. A faint smile curved his lips.

  “But three.” A third finger lifted.

  Maeril’s cloak shifted as her right hand swept outward in a silent command. Both Veyr and Nesk immediately dropped to their knees.

  “Proceed with caution,” Maeril ordered. “And not a single mistake.”

  “Yes, Master,” they answered in unison.

  She lowered her hand. Without another glance, she turned and walked toward the narrow window slit overlooking Vel’farra’s capital, now drowning beneath heavy rain. Veyr and Nesk rose and withdrew from the chamber without a sound.

  Maeril stood alone. Rain streaked the stone beyond the glass. Her fist slowly tightened.

  “This plan,” she murmured, “has lived in shadow for many years.”

  “And only now—now—can it breathe…because the fangs of the Sein’ei are gone. And the Council has rotted.”

  Her tone shifted. Softer. Sharper. Mocking.

  “Enzan…” She spoke the name like silk concealing a blade.

  “Are you watching, old ghost?”

  “See what I will do to this kingdom. To your family. To your legacy.”

  A pause.

  “To your son.”

  She smiled. Not with joy. But with the satisfaction of a final move placed upon a board long thought abandoned.

  Outside, thunder rolled again.

  This time—It did not sound distant.