He taps the shoulder of the man next to him. They both look. Then they look up, scanning the windows of the palace until they spot me on the balcony.
The young guardsman doesn’t wave. He doesn’t shout. He simply places his hand over his heart, over the embroidery that reads “Warmth provided by the Fey Embassy. A Gift from Princess Víl?,” and bows his head.
It is a silent salute. A pledge.
One by one, as the men discover the inscription, the gesture repeats. A hand to the heart. A nod.
Within twenty minutes, the courtyard has transformed. The gray, shivering rabble is gone. In its place is a regiment dressed in rich, warm Royal Blue, standing tall and proud.
“He owns the crown,” Iwan says softly, watching the silent transformation. “But you own the men.”
Just then, the shutters on the floor above us bang open. I cannot see him, but I can hear the window latch clatter. Oskar has woken up.
He looks down. He expects to see his miserable, freezing army. Instead, he sees five hundred men dressed in high-quality wool, looking warmer and better equipped than they have in his entire reign.
I wait for the shout. I wait for the order to strip them.
It never comes.
Oskar slams the shutters closed.
I turn to Iwan, a cold smile touching my lips. “He knows,” I say. “He knows that if he orders them to take those cloaks off now, they will hate him. He is trapped by his own neglect.”
“And Kenric?” Iwan asks.
“Kenric is safe,” I reply, turning back into the warmth of my room. “Because if Oskar touches him now, he isn’t just arresting a Viscount. He is arresting the husband of the woman who just kept the entire royal guard from freezing to death.”
The Old Mint is a hive of activity when we arrive. The army of maids has done its work; the stone floors are scrubbed pale, the windows gleam, and the air smells of lemon and beeswax rather than rat droppings. I spot Baron, the scarred orange tom, sunning himself on a windowsill, looking fat and smug. He blinks at me slowly, acknowledging the change in management.
Haldor has his sixteen new recruits lined up in the courtyard. They stand at attention, but they look like what they are: a motley collection of mercenaries in mismatched leather and rusted mail. They are shivering slightly in the morning chill, eyeing my Nintoku honor guard with a mix of envy and apprehension.
“Captain Haldor,” I call out, stepping down from the carriage. “They stand well. But they look like bandits.”
Haldor salutes, a sharp, crisp motion. “They brought their own gear, My Lady. It is… serviceable.”
“It is unacceptable,” I correct him. “They are the Royal Fey Guard. They represent Ellisar’s court. They cannot look like they just rolled out of a tavern brawl. Wait here. ”
I descend into the vaults where I can be sure there are no prying eyes. This is the only place I can work magic. I flick my wrist and conjure up the uniforms as they should be. I conjure up a trunk and pack everything into it before calling for my honor guard to carry it up to the courtyard.
Open it,” I command.
Haldor lifts the lid. Inside are stacks of uniforms. They are not the gaudy, impractical silks of the court. They are deep hunter green, the color of the deep woods in Imelenora. The tunics are thick, double-woven wool, lined with a layer of Fey silk that acts better than chainmail against a slashing blade. The trousers are black leather, supple and oiled.
And on the chest of each tunic, embroidered in gold thread, is the sigil of the Fey Embassy: a stylized oak tree intertwined with a wild rose.
“Outfit your men, Captain,” I say. “There are boots in the bottom. Waterproof. Warm. And cloaks to match.”
The mercenaries break formation to grab the gear. I watch them touch the fabric, their rough hands smoothing over the high-quality wool.
Sigrid, the blonde woman with arms like tree roots, pulls on a tunic. She flexes her shoulders, testing the fit. “It moves,” she says, surprised. “It doesn’t bind.”
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“It is Fey tailoring,” I say smoothly. “It is designed for fighting, not parading. But do not mistake comfort for weakness. That silk lining will turn a knife.”
Haldor pulls on his captain’s cloak. It is pinned with a silver clasp in the shape of an oak leaf. He looks at me, and I smell the shift in his scent, from wary respect to solid, iron-clad loyalty.
“We will not shame this uniform, My Lady,” he vows.
“See that you don’t,” I reply. “Post guards at the gates. No one enters without an appointment. Specifically, no one from the Palace.”
I leave them to dress and head into the manor house. Melina leads me to the library, which has been scrubbed clean and furnished with a sturdy oak table and several chairs.
Sitting at the table, looking as if he expects to be executed at any moment, is a thin, balding man with ink-stained fingers. He clutches a satchel to his chest as if it contains his soul.
This is Gerhardt.
He jumps to his feet as I enter. “Your… Your Highness,” he stammers, bowing so low his forehead nearly touches the table.
“Sit, Gerhardt,” I say, taking the chair opposite him. I do not smile. I do not offer him tea. I need him to understand the gravity of his position.
He sits, trembling. He smells of old parchment, dry dust, and sour, curdled terror.
“Melina tells me you are a man of numbers,” I begin, lacing my fingers together on the table.
“I… I keep the books, yes. For Duke Nelis.”
“And she tells me the numbers scream at you.”
Gerhardt flinches. He looks at Melina, who stands by the door, nodding encouragingly.
“They do not add up, My Lady,” he whispers. “They never add up.”
“Show me,” I command.
Gerhardt opens his satchel with shaking hands. He pulls out three heavy ledgers. He opens the first one.
“This,” he points to a column of figures, “is the record of the King’s losses at the Gilded Wheel, the Duke’s primary gaming house. See here? On the third of last month. It lists a loss of five thousand ducats.”
“A heavy night,” I note.
“Impossible,” Gerhardt corrects. “The table limits are five hundred. Even if the King played all night and lost every hand, he could not lose five thousand. But the debt is recorded, signed by the Duke, and countersigned by…”
He hesitates.
“By whom, Gerhardt?”
“By the Exchequer,” he breathes. “Goarreit Nidjam.”
“So,” I say, my voice cold. “Nelis inflates the debt. Goarreit validates it as a legitimate Royal expense. The Treasury pays Nelis five thousand.”
“And Nelis kicks back two thousand to Goarreit,” Gerhardt explains, flipping to a different page in a smaller, black ledger. “Here. 'Consultation fees.' Paid to a shell company in Vupis that lists Goarreit’s nephew as the beneficiary.”
“And Basten Pleiter?”
“Basten provides the… liquidity,” Gerhardt says. “When the Treasury is 'low', because they have stolen it all, Basten lends the King money to pay the debts. At twenty percent interest. The interest payments alone are draining the tax revenue from the port of Varpua.”
I lean back. It is a perfect, parasitic circle. They steal the King’s money, then lend it back to him at interest, while blaming the cost of the army and the 'poor economy' for the shortfall.
“Can you prove this?” I ask. “If I put you in front of the King, can you explain this so clearly that even a man blinded by vanity can see he is being robbed?”
Gerhardt swallows. “If… if I do that, Duke Nelis will kill me. Or Duke Basten.”
“Duke Basten is in a dungeon,” I remind him. “And Duke Nelis is currently terrified of his own shadow because I own half his operation. If he moves against you, he moves against me.”
I lean forward, letting a fraction of my power bleed into the room, not magic, just the sheer, predatory weight of a Fey Princess.
“You are now the Royal Auditor for the Fey Bank, Gerhardt. You are under my protection. Haldor and his guards are outside. No one touches you. But I need these ledgers. I need every false entry, every kickback, every inflated expense.”
Gerhardt looks at the ledgers. Then he looks at me. He takes a deep breath, and for the first time, the scent of terror fades, replaced by the dry, crisp scent of a man who just wants the numbers to balance.
“There is more,” he says, his voice steadier. “The army supply contracts. Goarreit lists payments for high-quality wool and leather. But the soldiers wear rags.”
“I noticed,” I say dryly.
“The difference goes to Basten,” Gerhardt says. “He owns the textile mills that… fail to deliver.”
“Excellent,” I say, standing up. “Melina, get him a room in the secure wing. Gerhardt, you are going to write a report. A simple one. One page. ‘How the King’s Friends Stole His Kingdom.’ Use small words. I want Oskar to understand it before he finishes his morning wine.”
I walk to the window and look out at the courtyard, where my new guards are drilling in their green and gold.
“Soon,” I say quietly, “I am going to pay the Exchequer a visit. I think it is time he learned what happens when you steal from a household protected by the Fey.”
I leave the chaos of the bank renovation to Gerhardt and Melina. There is another pressing matter: security. The Old Mint is a fortress, yes, but it is surrounded by a cluster of leaning timber-framed houses and shops that overlook our walls. Anyone with a spyglass and a second-story window could watch my comings and goings.
Worse, they could see into the courtyard where my guards drill.
"We need a buffer zone," I tell Kenric as we walk down the narrow alley that runs along the back wall of the Mint. "I want to own every window that looks down on us."
Kenric nods, eyeing the buildings. "It will be expensive. Property in the city is tight."
"I have the coin," I remind him. "But I need you to be the face of this. If I go in there, they will see a foreign princess and triple the price, or refuse out of spite. They see you as a local Lord, a man of honor. They will trust you."
"And what are we going to do with a row of bakeries and tenements? Kenric asks."
"Housing," I say. "For the Guard. Haldor’s men are mercenaries. They have wives, children, and parents. If we give them safe, warm housing right next to their post, we buy their loyalty for a generation. A man fights harder when his family is sleeping ten yards behind him."
Kenric smiles. "You think of everything."
"I also need places to put… sensors," I add, lowering my voice. "Warding stones. If we own the perimeter, I can weave a web of magic that will alert me if anyone so much as sneezes with hostile intent within a block of the Embassy."
We stop in front of the first building. It is a bakery, the smell of yeast and burnt flour wafting from the open door. It shares a wall with the Mint’s outer compound.
"This one first," I say.
Oh ho ho. OH ho ho. What a delicious chapter that was.
Let us recap the highlights in true Ashenleaf fashion:
- The Royal Guard went from “cold, miserable potatoes” to “majestic blue murder?swans” in about twenty minutes flat. And all it took was Víl? doing the bare minimum of competence, something Oskar hasn’t managed once in his entire reign.
- Oskar opened a window, saw something competent happening, and immediately retreated like a spooked barn owl.
Classic Oskar. Ten out of ten. No notes. - Meanwhile, Víl? upgraded her own guards, who had previously looked like they’d lost a bar fight with a meat grinder. Now they’re terrifying, stylish, and warm—unlike Oskar’s leadership.
- Enter Gerhardt: a trembling bundle of ink, fear, and math trauma. Víl? adopted him like a terrified stray and immediately weaponized his accounting skills. Beautiful.
- We discovered the royal Treasury is basically a scam run by the Three Stooges of High Treason: Nelis, Goarreit, and Basten. Oskar? Still oblivious. Or drunk. Possibly both.
- And then—this is my favorite part—Víl? begins expanding her territory by buying adjacent buildings for housing and spy?proofing.
Meanwhile Oskar can’t even maintain his own windows.
In this chapter, Víl? doesn’t just outmaneuver her enemies. She rearranges their entire ecosystem while they watch helplessly from drafty palace windows.
Truly, this is the chapter where we learn the greatest truth of all:
Never pick a fight with a Fey Princess who has money, magic, and a grudge. Especially if your name is Oskar.
Would you have bought the buildings? Let me know in the comments...