Chapter 63: Just... Lya.
Lydia held her chin tipped upward, shoulders trembling with practiced precision as she gazed up into Niel’s stolen face. Her eyes brimmed with unshed tears, the perfect picture of a helpless commoner swept up in a monarch’s sudden whim.
"What is your name, maiden?" Niel asked, his tone carrying the smooth, resonant authority of King Vance.
"L-Lya, Your Majesty," she stammered, voice barely more than a whisper drifting across the silent hall. "Just... Lya."
Niel offered her a warm, grand smile that never reached his eyes. "Fear nothing, Lya. From this day forward, your days of simple living end. Gold, silk, land, every desire your heart holds — all of it belongs to you now, as Queen of Dulthmune."
Lydia bit her lip, casting a panicked glance toward the rear galleries where the guardians stood. "Your Majesty... you’re too generous, but... my brother is everything to me. We’ve only ever had each other. I couldn’t accept such an honor without his blessing."
Niel followed her gaze to the back of the hall, where Draken stood trembling in an oversized, plain tunic, looking thoroughly pitiful beneath the watch of a dozen royal guards.
"Bring her brother forward," Niel commanded.
Two knights seized Draken by the arms, half-dragging the hulking man down the center aisle. He stumbled over his own feet twice, bowing frantically as he was dropped to his knees before the dais.
"Forgive us, Your Grace! Forgive us!" Draken blubbered, wiping his nose against his sleeve.
Niel stepped down beside Lydia, looking down at the kneeling giant. "Stand, man. I’m asking for your sister’s hand. What say you?"
Draken scrambled upright, head bowed low, hands wringing together in visible distress. "Your Majesty... Lya is all I have left in this world. If you take her into the palace, I’ll have nowhere left to go — no home, no work. I’m just a simple laborer!"
"Is that all?" Niel let out a soft chuckle, resting a hand on the hilt of his ceremonial sword. "If your sister becomes my queen, you’ll have a permanent place within these walls. I’ll see you’re given a fitting role at court in due time."
Draken gasped, glancing between Niel and Lydia as though struggling to process such fortune. He turned to her, voice shaking as he played his part to the hilt. "Lya... what do you think? Would you truly take the King as your husband?"
Lydia lowered her gaze, a soft, delicate blush rising in her cheeks. "If it pleases His Majesty... I don’t object."
Draken wiped a tear from his eye and dropped into a sweeping bow. "Then you have my blessing, Your Majesty! May you both be blessed with long life and prosperity!"
Alistair stepped forward at once, raising his staff. "It is decided! Prepare the grand hall for the royal wedding!"
The declaration sent the entire castle into a frenzy. By afternoon, the grand hall had transformed into a lavish festival of white silk, towering floral arrangements, and tables overflowing with roasted meats and fine wine. Nobles from across the capital rushed to attend, eager to win favor with King Vance following his sudden, unpredictable choice of a commoner bride.
The ceremony moved fast and finished absolute. Before the sun dropped below the horizon, Lydia had been crowned Queen of Dulthmune, her hand bound to Niel’s in formal union before the high priest and the cheering court. Through all of it, Lydia kept up her quiet, timid smiles, while Draken spent the feast eating with unrefined enthusiasm in the corner, every bit the uncultured borderland brother suddenly dropped into luxury.
As night fell and the celebration wound down, Niel excused himself from the banquet, leaving the nobles to their drink while he made his way toward the royal study.
He hadn’t gone far down the grand corridor before Alistair caught up to him, a silver tray in hand bearing an official parchment sealed in heavy crimson wax.
"Your Majesty," Alistair said, breathless, bowing low. "Forgive the interruption on your wedding night, but an urgent messenger just arrived from Kelter."
Niel paused, turning his head. "Kelter? What do they want?"
"A royal tax decree, Your Grace," Alistair explained, nerves plain in his voice. "King Kelter has unilaterally raised trade and border tariffs across all neighboring territories by thirty percent. Effective end of the week."
Niel took the letter from the tray, snapping the wax seal with his thumb, eyes moving briefly over the ink before he folded it shut again.
"Leave it with me," he said, indifferent. "We’ll discuss our response tomorrow morning."
Alistair blinked, clearly braced for outrage from his usually volatile king, then bowed quickly instead. "As you command, Your Majesty. Goodnight."
Niel continued down the quiet royal wing until he reached the heavy double doors of the private inner sanctuary, two high knights posted outside.
"Bar these doors," Niel ordered, coldness slicing through his voice. "No one enters this wing until sunrise. Anyone who steps past the landing dies on sight."
"Understood, Your Majesty!" the knights barked, hauling the massive doors shut and dropping the iron bar into place from outside.
Inside the quiet, opulent chamber, the grand facade dropped instantly.
Lydia crossed to the center table, tearing off the heavy gold-embroidered veil and tossing it onto the velvet sofa. The delicate, timid demeanor vanished entirely, replaced by a deep scowl as she shook out her long blonde hair.
"If I’d had to keep up that sniveling maid act five minutes longer, I’d have used Hollow Black on the whole grand hall," Lydia snapped, rubbing her temples. "I despise playing weak."
Draken crossed to the fruit bowl, grabbed a large red apple, and bit into it with a booming laugh. "Are you kidding? You were fantastic, Lydia. The trembling, the blushing — I almost believed you were actually terrified of him."
"Quiet, Draken," she grumbled, shooting him a glare. "You overacted so hard I thought Alistair was going to throw you out himself."
"Hey, it worked, didn’t it? We’re inside the palace without throwing a single punch," Draken smirked, leaning back against the marble pillar.
Niel crossed to the center table, a faint, amused smile lingering as he stripped off his royal gloves. He tossed the folded letter from Kelter down between them.
Lydia glanced at it. "What’s this?"
"A gift from our neighbor," Niel said. "The King of Kelter just demanded a thirty percent tax hike on Dulthmune’s trade routes."
Draken leaned in, studying the seal. "So what’s the move? Pay it, or ignore it?"
Niel settled into the heavy wooden chair at the head of the table, resting his chin on steepled fingers. King Vance’s brown eyes flickered, shifting briefly back to deep, glowing crimson beneath a shadow of spatial mana.
"We don’t pay it. And we don’t ignore it," Niel said, his voice dropping into something cold and dangerous, filling the private room.
Lydia crossed her arms, leaning against the table, blue eyes sharpening. "Then what’s the next phase?"
Niel looked up at them both, smile returning in the dim candlelight.
"The next phase is war."