Location: Oslo, Morning Room — Later: Armathane Palace Courtyard
Time: Day 343 After Alec's Arrival
The day began quietly.
Oslo's early spring wind had no bite — not this high in the stone-terraced keep, where sun poured across Elira's private morning chamber in soft gold sheets. Her daughter, Annarella, was kneeling cross-legged across from her, a chalk slate in one hand and a scowl puckering her brows.
"No, no," Elira said gently, shifting closer. "This letter's not closed like that. You curl the bottom first, then cross the tail. It's a loop, not a hook."
Annarella huffed. "But it looks the same."
"Not to the scribe who fines your signature." She reached out, adjusting her daughter's hand. "There — now try."
The child bit her lip, focused again. Her curls had escaped their braid, falling across one eye. Elira didn't tuck them back. She loved her daughter's seriousness — her stubborn attention to every detail.
She had so much of her father in her face.
But her eyes… those were Elira's.
They were halfway through the next word when a knock sounded at the chamber door.
It opened softly, revealing Mariette, her personal maidservant, holding a single scroll tube in both hands. She stepped in quietly, waited.
Elira nodded once.
Mariette approached, curtsied.
"A courier from Midgard, my lady. Marked for your hand alone."
That gave Elira pause.
She looked at her daughter. Then gently took the slate from Annarella's lap, setting it aside.
"You're doing well," she said softly, brushing the girl's shoulder. "Mariette will take you down to the southern garden for your jam tart, yes?"
Annarella lit up. "Strawberry?"
"If you've earned it."
"I have."
"You have."
As the child skipped off, Mariette took her hand lightly, leading her out — one eye always on Elira for unspoken instruction. She gave none.
The door closed.
Elira stood, crossed to the reading alcove near the windows, and broke the red wax seal with her thumb.
There was no excess flourish. No golden leaf. Just direct script — not cold, but precise.
To the Lady Countess Elira of Oslo, Regent of House Brenven,
By will of the Duchess Vaelora of Midgard, you are invited to attend a diplomatic celebration to honor Midgard's reform success and the formal installment of Lord Alec Alenia as Lord Advisor and Chief Architect of Development. The duchy acknowledges your region's trials and your steadfast governance. The ducal court welcomes your presence, perspective, and voice.
A carriage will be provided. Escort optional. Arrival expected within ten days of this writing.
— In Grace and Light, Lady Syen Virelle, First Scribe of the Ducal Hand.
Elira read it twice.
Then once more, slowly.
Her fingertips hovered just above the last line for a moment longer than needed.
This wasn't just an invitation.
It was a summons. Veiled in silk and sealed in civility.
Vaelora wanted her at court.
And she'd used celebration — Alec's appointment — as the bait.
Elira folded the scroll, walked to her writing table, and slid it into the far drawer with her most sensitive correspondences. Then she turned toward the window and watched her daughter dart through the garden below, Mariette chasing after her with a half-eaten tart held in one hand.
A diplomatic celebration.
A gathering of Midgard's rising and established powers.
Alec Alenia.
She had heard the name a dozen times in missives and murmurs. Always connected to impossible changes. Walls rebuilt in days. Roads paved like stone carpets. Engineers bowing like scribes. Soldiers drilling like machines.
They called him a foreigner.
They also called him unstoppable.
Elira narrowed her eyes slightly against the sun.
Her rule was slipping — not from within, but from the sides. Dain moved like a maggot in silk, festering quietly, feeding on unrest. Her roads burned. Her grain vanished.
And now Midgard offered not relief…
…but recognition.
That was the difference between charity and strategy.
And Vaelora never played charity.
Elira tapped a single finger against the window frame.
Ten days.
Enough time to prepare.
Enough time to choose her weapons — gowns, words, presence.
Enough time to become more than the widow from Oslo.
Later That Night
In her private solar, Duchess Vaelora read the letter Elira had just received — or rather, the copy of it, scribed by Syen and placed discreetly in her red folio.
Serina stood nearby, arms folded. "You really think she'll come?"
"She's a ruler in decline with a daughter to protect and a legacy to defend. Of course she'll come."
"She's proud."
"Pride is not a barrier. It's a tool," Vaelora replied. "And if Elira is half as clever as I think she is, she'll know one truth."
Serina tilted her head. "Which is?"
Vaelora sipped her wine.
"That she's no longer being invited for sympathy. She's being weighed."