Chapter 65: To Our Agreement
The heavy wooden doors of the royal study swung open, and Alistair stepped in, a leather-bound ledger in hand. He bowed toward the desk, where Niel sat in King Vance’s dark velvet robes, poring over a spread of regional maps.
"Your Majesty," Alistair began cautiously, settling near the desk. "Apologies for pressing this so early, but the Kelter decree needs addressing. The thirty percent tariff hike on our eastern supply lines takes effect in three days. How should the Treasury account for the adjustment?"
Niel didn’t glance up from the map, leaning back, chin resting on his knuckles. "We’re not paying it. Cancel every tariff adjustment. Halt all trade tax payments to Kelter, effective immediately."
Alistair nearly dropped his ledger. "Your Grace — cancel them entirely? Refusing their decree outright will read as open defiance! We’ve held trade treaties with them for over a decade!"
"And for over a decade, Dulthmune has bowed its head and fed their greed," Niel replied, calm, cold, unyielding. "They hike tariffs the moment their vault runs thin because they’ve counted on us being too cowardly to push back. That ends today. We stop bowing."
"Sire, please, reconsider!" Alistair’s voice climbed toward genuine panic. "Cutting their tax payments will provoke King Kelter directly — it could mean war!"
"Then let it," Niel said, turning Vance’s brown eyes to lock onto his advisor. "If Kelter wants a war over coin, we’ll give them one. And we’ll be ready for it."
Alistair swallowed hard, the sheer weight of authority radiating off the throne chilling him to the bone. The man before him bore no resemblance to the vain, indolent monarch he’d served for years.
Before he could protest further, Niel pulled a rolled parchment from the desk drawer, stamped fresh with the royal wax seal, and tossed it across the desk.
"Take this," Niel said. "Blueprints for an underground facility beneath the eastern wing. Construction starts immediately."
Alistair unrolled it partway, brow furrowing at the sprawling layout of tunnels, reinforced chambers, and heavy spatial shielding nodes. "An underground network? What’s the purpose of an excavation this size, Your Grace?"
"War brings the capital under threat," Niel said, the lie sliding out without a flicker of hesitation. "This becomes shelter for the royal family and key citizens during a siege. To keep spies from catching wind of our defenses, keep the contracts strictly private. Independent engineers, split labor crews, records locked down. No leaks."
In truth, the complex would be far more than a shelter — it would become the Sinners’ permanent, impenetrable stronghold, carved straight into Dulthmune’s heart.
Alistair studied the blueprints, then Niel, thoroughly convinced by the king’s sudden, ruthless foresight. He clutched the parchment to his chest and bowed low. "Your wisdom is absolute, Your Majesty. I’ll see to the arrangements in complete secrecy."
"Good. Dismissed."
----
Two weeks passed in a blur.
News of Dulthmune’s refusal to pay sent shockwaves rippling across the border. As expected, Kelter responded not with immediate invasion but with a high-level diplomatic envoy, demanding compliance.
In the central reception hall, Niel sat on his throne as royal guards escorted the lead diplomat forward — Duke Reginald, a middle-aged nobleman with sharp, greedy eyes, draped in extravagant green silk that practically dripped Kelter’s wealth.
"King Vance," Reginald greeted, offering a curt, barely respectful nod. "My sovereign was deeply troubled by your refusal to honor our economic agreements. I’ve been sent to demand full payment of the adjusted tariffs, along with a formal apology to the Kelter crown."
Niel studied the duke, an unreadable smile touching his lips as he rose from the throne. "A public hall is no place for delicate matters of state, Duke Reginald. Walk with me to my private chambers. Let’s speak freely, man to man."
Reginald hesitated, then smirked, assuming the king simply wanted a quiet way to concede without losing face before his court. "Lead the way, Your Grace."
Niel led him down a quiet, secluded corridor into the private inner sanctum, sealing the heavy oak doors behind them — the room fully soundproofed, sealed tight with spatial mana.
Niel crossed to a side table, pouring two glasses of deep crimson wine. "Tell me, Reginald — how long have you served the crown of Kelter?"
"Twenty years, Sire," Reginald replied, pride in his voice as he stepped further in. "I hold the largest territory in the southern duchy."
"And yet," Niel said, turning to offer him a glass, "no matter how much land you hold, how much wealth you funnel into their court, you remain a duke. A subject to a king who lacks the vision to actually rule."
Reginald froze, hand stopping inches from the glass, eyes narrowing sharply. "Careful, King Vance. That sounds dangerously close to treason against my sovereign."
"Is it treason if it’s simply true?" Niel let out a soft laugh, leaning his shoulder against the mantle. "King Kelter is weak. He props up his army on inflated taxes while men of real ambition — men like you — carry the weight and collect none of the glory."
Niel took a slow sip of wine, gaze cutting straight through the nobleman. "I have a proposal for you, Reginald. How would you like to be King of Kelter?"
Reginald’s breath caught. Cold shock rolled through him, chased fast by a dark spike of ambition he scrambled to suppress. "You— you speak madness! I’m a loyal servant of the realm! I’d never betray my king!"
"Loyalty is a concept kings invented to keep powerful men beneath them," Niel said, voice dropping into something smooth, almost hypnotic. "Think it through. War between Dulthmune and Kelter is inevitable now. But what if that war wasn’t meant to destroy Kelter at all — what if it was meant to clear your path to the throne?"
Niel stepped closer, towering over him. "Give me Kelter’s troop movements, border rotations, supply lines. Be my eyes inside their high council. Stir the conflict from within, push your king toward reckless moves, and when Kelter falls — I’ll place the crown on your head myself."
Reginald stared at him, heart hammering against his ribs like something caged. Sweat beaded across his forehead as the temptation took root, terrifying and intoxicating in equal measure. His eyes dropped to the wine in Niel’s hand, then rose again to meet the calm, absolute certainty in the man before him.
The tension in his shoulders slowly bled away. A slow, ruthless smirk crept across his face.
"If I’m to take the throne," Reginald murmured, voice trembling with greed, "I’ll require complete autonomy over the trade routes once it’s done."
"Granted," Niel lied smoothly, without missing a beat. There would be no kingdom left standing to tax, after all.
Reginald reached out and took the glass from Niel’s hand, raising it high, eyes gleaming with fresh malice. "To the fall of an old king, and the birth of a new era."
Niel clinked his glass against Reginald’s, something dark and hidden flickering behind his eyes. "To our agreement."
They drank together, sealing the quiet betrayal in the shadows of the palace.