Jorvan stormed into the throne room leaving faint brown imprints every time his left foot hit the floor; trailing evidence of exactly where he’d stepped. An entourage of guards followed behind him. Helmut was conspicuously absent.

  “WHERE’S BENJAMIN?” He bellowed.

  The odor hit his nostrils again. His face reddened.

  “GET ME NEW BOOTS. NOW.”

  Servants hurried out of the room as one servant hurried in with a basin of water.

  Jorvan shoved him aside. “Not HERE, you idiot—”

  He stopped. Inhaled. Then exploded. “WHAT WAS THAT?”

  Everyone froze. Except for Valgarr.

  “In the entire history… FILTH. Utter FILTH! MY ceremony. MY moment. In front of EVERYONE.” His fingers grabbed the nearest servant’s tunic and bunched the fabric in his fist. “It’s unacceptable. Ruined. I tell you. Ruined. HOW did filth get onto MY ceremonial runner? HOW?”

  “I—I don’t know, Your Highness—”

  Jorvan flung him aside harshly. He stumbled. “A disgrace. I tell you it’s a disgrace. Someone SAW it happen and did NOTHING.” His eyes looked around the room.

  He whirled on the guards.

  “What were YOU doing? Standing around? Did you not see anything? Pathetic. You are the absolute WORST guards ever. The absolute WORST!”

  “Your Highness, we were assigned to the—”

  “I don’t want EXCUSES. I want ACCOUNTABILITY. Actual heads. On spikes. This is a disaster. Everybody saw it.”

  Benjamin entered the room and stood near the wall, hands clasped. His expression, neutral.

  Jorvan’s gaze snapped to him.

  “And YOU; don’t just STAND there. This is YOUR city. YOUR servants. YOUR incompetence.”

  “Your Highness, I—”

  “Save it!” Jorvan kicked off his boot, hopping awkwardly. “I’m DONE. Done pretending Eldmere is capable of ruling itself. Done with the slow approach. This kingdom can’t even manage a ceremony without humiliation. That PROVES it.”

  The room went very still.

  “Eldmere needs leadership,” Jorvan went on, voice rising again. “Capable leadership. My leadership. Look what happens when I leave things to Eldmere.”

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

  “Your Highness,” Benjamin said carefully, “the arrangements we discussed were for temporary assistance during the transition. To restore stability.”

  “Assistance?” Jorvan laughed sharply. “There is no assistance. Not anymore. That—” he pointed at the ruined boot, “—proves Eldmere can’t govern itself. So we’re done pretending. I’m taking control. And you’re going to make it legal.”

  Benjamin met his gaze.

  Valgarr entered the room as if gliding. His white robes fluttered in the air his movement created.

  “I serve Eldmere, Your Highness,” he said evenly. “Not Garanwyn. The documents I’m preparing reflect the terms King Helmut agreed to. Temporary assistance. Nothing more.”

  “Those terms just CHANGED.”

  “They cannot change without King Helmut’s agreement,” Benjamin replied. “And mine, as his advisor. I have no authority to sign Eldmere over. Nor would I.” His voice remained calm and steady.

  The refusal settled into the room like poisoned air.

  The red hue on Jorvan’s face deepened. “You’re REFUSING.”

  “I’m stating the law, Your Highness.”

  Valgarr took in the scene at a glance; the soiled soft leather boot, the unsettled servants, Jorvan’s face mottled with rage; and Benjamin behaving as though Eldmere still had the power to protect him.

  “Administrator, it appears you’re mistaking King Jorvan’s words for a request. Unless I misunderstood.” Valgarr said calmly.

  He looked at Benjamin.

  “Administrator, you’re dismissed. Return to your duties.”

  Benjamin bowed stiffly and turned to leave.

  “This isn’t OVER,” Jorvan shouted after him. “You don’t just REFUSE me. We’ll see about that. Believe me.”

  Benjamin knew what refusal would cost him.

  The door closed behind him.

  Jorvan spun on Valgarr. “Did you hear that? He REFUSED.”

  “I heard,” Valgarr said. “And it changes nothing.”

  “What do you mean it changes NOTHING? He won’t obey orders. He won’t draft the documents—”

  “Then we’ll have them drafted elsewhere.” Valgarr moved to the window. “Theron is capable. He’s handled legalities before. The law is remarkably flexible when the outcome is already agreed upon.”

  “And then what?” Jorvan demanded. “Benjamin still won’t sign.”

  “He will.”

  Jorvan stared. “How.”

  Valgarr turned back to him. He smiled. Thin. Precise. It did not reach his eyes.

  “I’ll see to it personally.”

  Jorvan exhaled slowly, rage cooling into calculation.

  “Good,” he said. “Because I want this finished. And I want whoever did this, found.” He drew a finger across his throat. “Publicly. Everyone must understand what happens when I’m mocked.”

  “Of course,” Valgarr said. “Theron is already investigating. And this”—he gestured toward the door Benjamin had exited through—“was informative. Now we know exactly what we’re dealing with.”

  “And you can make him comply.”

  “I can.”

  Valgarr moved toward the door.

  “I’ll speak with Theron. Have the documents drafted immediately. And when the time comes…”

  He paused, pale eyes focussed on Jorvan. “…Benjamin will sign. Every one of them.”

  Jorvan stared down at the fouled boot, jaw tight.

  “This was supposed to be perfect,” he muttered. “The best.”

  Somewhere under the floor, five eels had heard the entire conversation.