There is more than one way to wage war, and I have always been very, very good at siege strategy.
Now, after his latest snit over the silver and his delay in ratifying Kenic's promotion, it's time to get these poor sodden soldiers some proper boots. For that, we must return to Dobile.
The Guild of Leatherworkers and Cobblers smells of tannin, dye, and the sharp, curing scent of urine used to treat the hides. It's a pungent smell, the honest smell of work being done. I find I prefer it to the perfumed nonsense of the palace.
Baldur the Guildmaster sees us come in, and his weathered face breaks into a knowing smile. He already knows why we're here. The Royal Guard boots were just the beginning.
"Back for more branding, are we?" he asks, wiping his hands on his trousers.
"Expanded branding," I correct, settling myself at the cutting table. Jan stands behind me, his ledger already open, calculating costs and timelines. "The royal guard was a message to Oskar. Now we expand that message to the men he actually depends on."
Baldur pulls up a stool. "The garrison soldiers."
"Exactly," I say. "I want boots for every garrison in Centis. Fort Meridian, Fort Theranos, Fort Grendel, the Harbor Master's barracks. A thousand pairs per location. Double-soled, waterproofed with beeswax and tallow, lined with sheepskin for the winter."
"That's five thousand pairs," Baldur says, doing the math. "Worse than the royal guard contract, actually. More people, more consistency required."
"Yes," I agree. "About the heel plates, I have changes to make. I want each garrison to have a unique design. The same iron work, the same quality, but each with its own garrison crest. When a man from Fort Meridian marches, his heel plate identifies him as part of that garrison. It creates pride. Identity."
I lean forward. "But the important part, the part that makes this mine, the plates are engraved to read 'A Gift from Princess Víl?' when stamped into mud or snow."
Baldur laughs, that barking sound I've heard before. "You're going to brand the kingdom's earth with your name, not just the king's palace."
"I'm going to brand their foundation with my name," I correct. "Every step a soldier takes away from his garrison, he's literally walking my gratitude into the ground. Every patrol through the city spreads my name in the streets. By spring, when the snows melt and the mud firms up, the entire infrastructure of Oskar's military will have marched my name into existence."
Jan makes a note. "We're looking at significant production numbers. You'll need to bring in labor from the other guild houses."
"Already planned," Baldur says. "I've got three cousin-guilds in the neighboring cities who can help with the leather work. We focus on the finishing and the heel work here. That's where the precision matters."
"Good," I say. "I want the heel plates cast by the same smith who did the royal guard boots. The engraving must be deep. Sharp. Legible even in shallow mud."
I pull a small wooden tablet from my bag. I've already designed the layouts for each garrison. They're variations on a theme. Each one has the specific garrison name, but all have the same core message: A Gift from Princess Víl?.
Baldur examines the designs, running his weathered finger over the raised lettering. "You want every soldier in Centis to know your name."
"I want every soldier in Centis to know who's actually taking care of them," I correct. "Oskar pays them late and poorly. I'm buying them boots that last a season, gloves that won't crack in the cold, and belts that won't snap. I'm ensuring they eat well at the Blue Bowl locations. I'm giving them futures through the cottage funds."
I lean back. "Oskar can command them to march. I'm going to own their feet."
"And the price?" Baldur asks, though he's grinning. He knows I'll pay what it costs.
Jan slides forward a contract, already drafted. "Two crowns per pair for materials and labor, with a five-crown bonus if you deliver on schedule. The Fey Bank covers all material sourcing. You focus on production."
Baldur skims the contract and nods. "Six months if we push. Four if we're careful and the materials arrive on time."
"Four months," I confirm. "I want them distributed to the garrisons before the spring campaigns begin. I want soldiers marching in Víl?-branded boots when Oskar tries to project power."
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As we work through the logistics, my mind is already several moves ahead. This isn't just about boots. It's about creating a physical, tangible infrastructure of loyalty that exists independent of royal command.
Oskar can order soldiers to war. But they'll do it in boots I bought them, eating food from places I established, saving money in accounts I control, marching to a rhythm I composed with every step.
By the time he realizes what's happened, his entire military will be walking on ground marked with my name.
"One more thing," I say as we finish. "I want copies of the heel plate designs. I need to commission them for the merchant guild guards, the harbor authorities, the customs houses, and the road tolls."
Baldur's eyes widen. "You're not just outfitting soldiers."
"I'm outfitting everyone who matters," I say. "Everyone who stands between a man and his coin. Everyone who controls access and movement. By summer, I want every authoritative position in Centis wearing boots that have my name on them."
Jan is already writing this down, calculating the scope. "That's... twenty thousand pairs. Minimum."
"Then we'd better get started," I say. "Jan, work with Baldur on the production schedule. I want weekly reports on progress."
As I stand to leave, Baldur catches my arm. His grip is gentle, but his voice is serious. "You know he's going to hate this."
"I'm counting on it," I reply. "Let him hate it. Let him see my name stamped ten thousand times in his courtyard. Let him watch his soldiers walk my gratitude into the very soil of his kingdom. By the time he's angry enough to act, it will be too late. The foundation will be set."
I pull my cloak around me. "Besides, Baldur, I've already outfitted the royal guard. Oskar sees that every single day. Every time a guard stands at his door, there's my name under his heel."
"And the royal guard know it," Baldur says slowly, understanding blooming. "They know you're the reason they have decent boots."
"Exactly," I confirm. "Personal loyalty is more powerful than orders. A man will die for a king. But a man will fight for the person who keeps his feet warm."
I pause at the door. "Oh, and Baldur? When Oskar comes to you, and he will, demanding you stop putting my name on military equipment, tell him you have a contract. A binding contract with the Fey Bank. Tell him that breaking it will cost him more gold than he's ever seen."
"And if he insists?"
"Then inform him that the Fey Court takes broken contracts very seriously," I say, my voice dropping to that particular tone that makes men remember they're dealing with something older and far more dangerous than a princess. "Tell him my king would be very interested to hear about any attempts at sabotage."
As we walk back through the streets toward the Embassy, Jan finally speaks. "You're going to own his military."
"Eventually," I agree. "But more importantly, his military is going to own me. They'll spend their lives walking on ground marked with my name. Their children will point at the heel prints and ask, 'Who is the Princess Víl??' Their wives will thank me for boots that don't give their husbands frostbite and cloaks that keep them warm. The soldiers will thank me because they won't have uniforms that are rags. They're well-fed, and they will have weapons that aren't blunted or rusty. By the time Oskar tries to move against me, his own soldiers will have decided where their loyalty lies."
I'll still need Oskar to wave his sword around and give rousing speeches since none of them will accept that from me, even though I've seen more combat than most of Oskar's army combined. They see me as tiny, female, and unthreatening. Kenric is at least competent and now that he's been training with Inaba, he's worth more than a few of these lackluster locals. I don't know whether rearranging the heirs to put Bastian on the throne will save Centis, but it's worth a try. It might be enough of a change to save Kenric. He's an Earl now, but I'd have to get him promoted to Duke before he'd be considered as regent while Bastian comes of age.
The manor at the mouth of Silver Peak is not a home. It is a stone throat, and Vellam has been swallowed.
The walls are damp. Not the genteel dampness of a wine cellar or a marble bath, this is the wet of a thing that has been dead for a long time and is only now beginning to rot. The plaster has peeled in grey, curling strips that hang from the ceiling like shed skin. The windows are narrow slits, barely wide enough for a man’s hand, and they face the mountain. There is no view. There is only rock.
Vellam sits on the edge of the cot, which is a plank of oak with a wool blanket that smells of mildew and the faint, sour tang of old sweat. He is still wearing his court coat. It is the last beautiful thing he owns, and the silk is already darkening with damp.
The Second-Wind will not let him sleep.
That is the cruelty of it. His body hums like a plucked wire, every nerve alight with a frantic, restless energy that makes his fingers twitch and his jaw clench. He wants to pace, but the room is eight feet by ten, and after the fourth circuit, he feels less like a man thinking and more like a rat in a drowning box.
He sits. He stands. He sits again. He presses his palms against his eyes until he sees sparks.
The candle gutters. He brought three. Two are already dead, drowned in their own wax by the damp draft that breathes through the stones. The third is a stub, barely an inch of tallow, and it flickers with the desperate urgency of a man waving for rescue from a sinking ship.
That is when the dark begins to move.
It starts in the corner. The corner where the plaster has peeled the worst, where the stone behind it is slick and black and glistening. A shadow detaches itself from the wall, not quickly, not with the violence of a predator, but slowly, like oil sliding down wet rock.
Vellam’s breath catches. He tells himself it is the candle. He tells himself that exhaustion and the vitality candy are conspiring to paint phantoms on his walls. He is, after all, a man of reason. A man of court. A man who has survived forty years of politics by knowing which shadows to trust and which to avoid.
But then the shadow speaks.
“Elsbet.”
The voice is not loud. It is barely a whisper, a dry scraping of sound like a fingernail drawn slowly across parchment. But it fills the room the way smoke fills a bottle, completely, inescapably, with nowhere for the air to go.
Vellam’s hand shoots to his collar, clutching the lace as though it were armor.
“Who’s there?”
Silence. Then another voice, from the opposite corner, higher and thinner, like a reed flute played with a cracked lip:
“Elsbet Vellam. Your wife. Do you remember her name, Overseer? You had to think, didn’t you?”
Today's notes brought to you by the infamous Fey bard, Ashenleaf Brightnote, Chronicler of Courtly Catastrophes.
OH THIS CHAPTER WAS A FEAST.
Let us savor it together, one exquisite course at a time:
This woman didn’t just buy footwear.
She bought an infrastructure of loyalty.
She is out here commissioning 20,000+ pairs of perfectly?fitted, double?soled, sheepskin?lined military and security boots — each with heel plates that stamp the words:
“A Gift from Princess Víl?.”
Into the ground.
Into the mud.
Into the snow.
Everywhere soldiers walk, she leaves her signature.
Oskar thinks proclamations inspire loyalty.
Víl? thinks:
“No. Feet.”
And honestly?
She’s right.
Meanwhile, Vellam is living his BEST worst life.
His “home” at Silver Peak is:
- Damp
- Rotting
- Haunted
- Smaller than his ego
- And full of Night?Walkers who apparently moonlight as guilt?powered tormentors
And oh, the sheer horror of these creatures whispering…
“ELS-BET.”
His dead wife’s name.
This is beyond torment —
this is custom?tailored misery.
Víl? didn’t kill him.
She turned him into a long?term art project of suffering.
Beautiful.
Inspirational.
A masterclass in non-lethal revenge.
Their partnership in this chapter is incredible:
- None of Oskar’s soldiers are fed
- None are paid well
- None have savings
- All are miserable
So Víl? simply fixes the entire system.
Not for Oskar.
Not for the kingdom.
But for the Fey Bank.
She builds:
- Garrison finance hubs
- Cottage funds
- Soldier pensions
- Controlled allowances
- Economic loyalty chains
- A shadow infrastructure Oskar’s peanut-sized attention span cannot even detect
This isn't a bank.
This is a financial coup, executed with:
- ledgers
- stew bowls
- and mother****ing boots
Oskar in this chapter?
- Throwing tantrums
- Delaying Kenric’s promotion
- Being offended by silver output
- And generally contributing NOTHING except bodily fluids and stress noises
He is the only king in history who could be defeated by paperwork.
Actually, scratch that.
He could be defeated by a clipboard.
Or a sternly?worded note.
Or a cold breeze.
She is creating:
- A loyal army
- A loyal workforce
- A loyal merchant class
- A loyal infrastructure
- And a parallel state that Oskar thinks is “helpful reform”
She is literally branding the entire kingdom’s soil with her name.
Every soldier will walk her signature into the earth.
And by the time Oskar realizes?
His entire military will shrug and go:
“She feeds us.
She clothes us.
She pays us.
You… uh… yell a lot.”
Game over.
The last lines?
Oh delicious.
The Night?Walkers whispering his dead wife’s name.
He deserves EVERY second.
Eat your heart out, Stephen.
(The king already did.)
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