Location: Oslo Keep – Council Chamber
Time: Day 364 After Alec's Arrival
The Chamber Was Already Full.
Seven figures. Some seated. Some standing. None relaxed.
The room bore that crisp tension unique to spaces where power resists intrusion. It smelled faintly of stone polish, parchment dust, and dried citrus from a long-dead centerpiece in the corner.
This was Elira's inner circle — her fixed constellation of loyalty, custom, and command.
And Alec was the disturbance.
He didn't pause at the threshold. Didn't clear his throat or shuffle like an outsider.
He simply entered.
Straight-backed. Understated. Silent in movement.
His gaze swept once across the room — and within seconds, he began to file them.
Sir Jonver, Marshal of Oslo
Late fifties. Skin weathered like old parchment, but still sharp across the jawline. Belt worn too high. Pride higher.
Arms crossed, legs apart — a stance of guarded readiness, not invitation.
He had survived three consecutive winters of border raids without losing a single outpost, which meant two things:
He was stubborn. And smart enough to evolve when the stakes demanded it.
Still capable. Loyal to Elira, not Oslo. Will resist my presence if it feels like replacement. Will test authority. Needs a tactical win — publicly — to settle.
Steward Kelin
Early sixties. Robes of outdated weave, ink-stained fingers. Spine like a shepherd's crook. A man of math, not ceremony.
He didn't look up when Alec entered — but Alec saw his fingers stop moving over the edge of his account scroll.
Kelin had lived through five bad harvests and two famines. He didn't chase politics. He chased bread.
Pragmatic. Unsentimental. Loyal to results. Will support me only if the numbers add up. If I feed Oslo, I win him.
Chamberlain Alvenne
Mid-forties. Broad in frame, narrowed by stress. Mouth set in a thin, perpetual line. Wore her keyring like a gauntlet.
She had no use for flattery. She noticed when servants limped. She remembered which candleholders burned unevenly.
Logistics and rhythm. The castle breathes through her. Fiercely loyal to Elira — emotionally, not just formally. Will resist any interference in personal space or daily flow. Needs trust, not titles.
Captain Meren Vale
Mid to late thirties. Sword-callused hands. Tunic precisely fitted. Gloves held, not worn — too formal for a combat man. Sun-hardened skin. Presence like drawn steel.
His eyes met Alec's. Not with contempt.
But with depth.
Noticed.
Measured.
Possessed something.
Elira introduced him:
"Captain of the militia. My personal guard. He's led Oslo's shield for nearly ten years."
And Alec saw it — plainly.
The devotion.
The restraint.
A kind of honorable longing so controlled it had folded itself into silence.
He loves her.Maybe wordlessly. Maybe only in duty. But he loves her.Rival. Not adversary. Not yet.
Chief Cook Milla
Plump cheeks, lined eyes, apron dusted in flour. Fingers stained with berries, not ink.
Her ledger — reportedly — tracked not just food weights, but moods, menstrual cycles, and which guards favored which pie.
She eyed Alec like she'd measure his worth by his plate rather than his speech.
Castle morale officer, unofficial. Hears everything. Speaks less. Could serve as asset or liability depending on how well I treat her staff. Emotional conduit to Elira's soft power.
Butler Gerren
Early fifties. Impeccably shaven. Moved like silk spilled over polished stone.
His eyes gave nothing. His smile, everything.
If Alec died in the morning and breakfast still arrived on time, Gerren was why.
Operator. The kind of man who folds poisons and place settings in the same hour. Knows who sleeps where, who sneaks where, and who eats what. Dangerous if alienated. Useful if watched carefully.
Treasurer Baxt
Oldest in the room. Cataract in his right eye. Spine like melted wax. But fingers sharp, steady, and still fast with a pen.
Grasped his scribing stylus like a dagger.
Doesn't trust innovation. Obsessed with paper trails. Give him charts and outcomes, and he will yield. Without that, he will call me a risk until his last breath.
Elira Sets the Stage
Elira didn't sit.
She stood beside Alec — not behind him, not apart. Beside.
"Lord Alenia is not here to replace any of you," she said, voice clear and firm. "He is here to strengthen what we've already built — and challenge what we've ignored."
A beat.
"That includes tradition. That includes comfort."
Alec respected that pause. It was a surgical incision — just deep enough to bleed out hesitation.
Then it was his turn.
Alec Speaks
"I will speak plainly," Alec began.
He didn't project. Didn't gesture.
But the words cut clean.
"I'm not a noble. I'm not a traditionalist. And I'm not impressed by legacy. I'm here to make Oslo rise. Not in five years. Not in theory. Now."
He laid a single scroll case on the table.
"This week: restructuring the tax lane. Repairing the militia barracks. Redirecting the western canal. Each of you will be briefed. You will be consulted. But you will not slow me down."
He turned — not toward the room, but to Elira.
"Unless you overrule me."
Elira said nothing.
Which meant: everything.
The Room Responds
Sir Jonver cleared his throat.
"If I may, Lord Alenia — this isn't Midgard. Our militia's half farmers with axes."
Alec gave a single nod.
"Then we teach them to strike like soldiers. And think like citizens."
Captain Meren stepped forward — just slightly. Just enough to claim ground.
"They'll follow a man who bleeds beside them. Not one who commands from the tower."
Alec met his eyes.
"Then stand at my left flank when we drill them."
A hush.
Elira didn't blink.
Meren nodded once.
"One week."
Aftermath
As the meeting dispersed, Alec remained by the window, watching the others file out.
Meren lingered.
So did Alvenne.
Neither spoke — but both watched him.
And Alec saw it in Meren's gaze.
Not challenge.
Not warning.
Regret.
He would not sabotage. He would not disobey.But he would ache.
Because Elira had never looked at him the way she now looked at Alec.
And Alec — gods help him — had noticed far too much for a man who claimed to care only for efficiency.