The throne room of Ventora was a vast chamber of cold grey stone, where the grandeur of the ancient dynasty seemed to resist the passage of time. Its chill only accentuated the weight of the throne that rose in the centre of the room. The tapestries, already faded by the passing years, depicted scenes of ancient victories, but their colours now dissolved in the shadows cast by the high vaulted ceiling upon the polished marble floor. The fire in the hearth, however, cast a warm light that danced upon the metallic surfaces of the throne, making the details of the gemstones that adorned the wrought iron seat shimmer. Yet its beauty was not welcoming. Valeria's throne was more akin to a threat than a place of rest.
Queen Valeria Ventoforte sat upon it as an imposing figure, her distant gaze fixed on the tapestries of her hall, as if ancient times still whispered secrets to her and she was constantly weighing what had been and what might still come to be.
At fifty-three, Valeria no longer displayed the youthful vigour of former days, but her presence, now more hardened, was all the more fearsome. Her dark hair, tied in an impeccable bun, made her angular face stand out, and the scars that marked it only enhanced the harshness of the character it mirrored. Her steel eyes observed everything and everyone, but never gave anything away and never relaxed.
In that hall, she was not a woman; she was a living legend, feared by some, revered by others.
The deep white dress she wore, simple, yet of unquestionable quality, reflected her house, her symbol. The colour of the relentless winds that beat against the mountains and the sea and that bow to no one.
The nobles were gathered, awaiting her word, but she seemed oblivious to the agitation that surrounded them. The weight of the crown was no longer a metaphor; it was a reality sinking into her neck, a burden she had never ceased to bear.
Among those present were several figures of the Ventoran nobility. Count Silvano Rocaviva, a man of tense expression and robust frame, stood with a thick beard hiding a face marked by frustration. His gaze was fixed upon the Queen with a mixture of respect and despair. The heavy fur cloak that wrapped around him was a reflection of the harshness of the mountains he ruled, and yet it did not grant him strength enough to be heard with the urgency he felt.
At his side, Don Aurelio Lucantis, one of the high priests of the Cult of the Eternal Sun, sat in complete silence. His grey hair fell over his shoulders with unshakable serenity. His penetrating gaze was fixed on the void, as if meditating on the words that were about to be spoken. The golden robe he wore, now faded by the years, contrasted with the rigidity of his posture, that of one who already knew the weight of spiritual authority and the value of measuring every word.
Lady Lúcia Castellobravo, tall and austere, stood further away, observing everything with a keen eye. She was the pillar of Ventoran nobility, the lady of the most subtle conversations and courtly intrigues, always ready to intervene when most needed, but never before assessing the pieces on the board.
The atmosphere was heavy, as if the very air were saturated with unspoken tensions. With each sigh or movement from the nobles, the room seemed to echo with the rumble of a coming storm. Valeria, however, did not move. Her fingers, slender and powerful, touched the arms of her throne delicately, as if doing so with the intent of controlling fate itself, of keeping everything in order.
But the growing murmur of the nobles seemed a distant melody of no importance, until, at last, Count Silvano Rocaviva moved, stiffly, towards the throne. His tense shoulders betrayed the burden of a family honour that demanded reparation. He drew a deep breath and, with a grave voice laden with urgency, spoke:
– Your Majesty… – his voice faltered for a moment, but he quickly recovered. – I beg you to render justice in the name of my sister, Melina Rocaviva. She was dishonoured by a noble of Solterra who was her husband. He humiliated her publicly, and our family demands reparation. We cannot endure such an affront. Melina's honour has been stained, and only a challenge to restore it can be deemed acceptable. Solterra must not go unpunished.
Valeria's eyes fixed on him without blinking. Her expression did not change, but her eyes, hard as blades, watched with disconcerting intensity. Nothing in her face betrayed the compassion or indignation that the Count's words demanded. She remained silent, immersed in the weight of the decision she would have to make, and while she pondered, Don Aurelio Lucantis, the solar counsellor, spoke. His voice was soft, yet imbued with spiritual authority:
– Queen Valeria. This is, without doubt, a matter of honour, but it is not your battle. Solterra is a powerful kingdom, even after all these years, and its army is still large and formidable. You must not underestimate it. The confrontation between your realms could easily escalate into war, and that would bring nothing but ruin. Melina's honour shall be restored through public truth and the recognition of her virtue, not by the sword. The Cult of the Eternal Sun always cherishes peace and the peaceful resolution of conflicts. I advise you to handle this matter with discretion, so as to avoid violence.
The priest's words lingered in the air, creating a palpable tension. The silence in the room deepened, with all awaiting the Queen's decision. But she remained motionless, her eyes fixed on Silvano Rocaviva, then on Don Aurelio. It was impossible to read what passed through her mind, but the weight of her authority was undeniable. There, in that room, she held everyone's fate in her hands.
The silence in the hall was broken by the deep and calculated voice of Rafael Petra, Valeria's bastard, of robust build and impassive expression, who rose slowly.
– Your Majesty… – his words reverberated through the chamber, as though the weight of his name, so often neglected, followed him in every syllable. The coldness in his tone left no room for doubt. – Ventora hasn't seen a good fight in years. Our enemies no longer fear us and have forgotten the power that resides here. The time has come to remind the other kingdoms that we are the ones not to be underestimated. Let us show the strength we still possess!
The room was about to react, but the intervention of Lucia Ventoforte, the rightful daughter of Valeria, cut off any possibility of an immediate response. With a mocking smile, Lucia raised an eyebrow and cast her merciless gaze upon her half-brother.
– Ah, Rafael, always so imposing with your words – she said, her voice marked by an irony that made everyone present glance at one another. – But, I wonder, will you be the one to lead the troops? Who better than the great Petra, isn't that right? The bastard who wants to show the world that he can still be more than what he was born to be.
Lucia's low laugh, along with that of the nobles, echoed through the hall, but the sarcasm in her provocation didn't seem to affect Rafael. He remained impassive, his expression unaltered, as if his half-sister's words held no power over him.
However, there was no time for further taunts, as the door to the throne room burst open with the entrance of a breathless messenger, his breathing broken by urgency.
– Your Majesty, I beg your pardon for the interruption – he said, kneeling immediately before the Queen. His voice was laden with urgency. – There is news of great importance. The Kingdom of Aurelia is on the move.
The throne room trembled with a collective murmur. The name Aurelia, until then spoken in whispers and as a potential threat, now became a tangible shadow hanging over everyone present. Valeria's eyes did not waver, but something in her posture hardened, as if the weight of the news had made her figure even more imposing.
– The information has been confirmed – the messenger continued, his eyes gleaming with apprehension. – The patrols and scouts at the border have given us certainty: fifteen thousand soldiers are gathering at Leonespada. Rolando Leonespada and Hagen Ombradaga are commanding the forces. They are preparing to march, and all indications suggest they are moving with a purpose greater than a mere skirmish.
The murmur in the room turned into a frantic agitation. The nobles looked at each other, their expressions ranging from panic to curiosity, while the tension in the hall grew. Some began to speak among themselves, planning what they might do next. The rumour of war with Aurelia – a powerful and feared empire – had just become a reality before their eyes.
But Queen Valeria did not move. She didn't make a single gesture during the entire commotion following the news. Moments later, she raised her hand, and a deadly silence fell over the room, as though the very air compressed in anticipation of her command.
Valeria's gaze swept across the room once more, with the same intensity and coldness as always, but now her authority was more visible than ever. The hall seemed suspended in time, awaiting the final word of their Queen, who was about to decide the future of her kingdom and her dynasty.
Slowly and with resolve, she rose from her throne and walked directly towards Héctor Montespada, the lord of the oldest and most austere fortress in Ventora.
– Héctor, my old companion-in-arms, how many soldiers can you muster? – Her voice resounded through the hall like the echo of thunder.
– The fortress of Montespada can provide just over five thousand soldiers, Your Majesty. All of them have sworn loyalty to your crown and are ready to march under your banner once more.
Valeria nodded, unsurprised. For many years, she had always been able to rely on Héctor in any situation. She then turned to address the lady of Valleverde, Lucia, a woman in elegant attire and with measured words.
– And you, Lucia Valleverde? How many men can your city offer?
– The city of Valleverde can provide a number of soldiers similar to that of Montespada, Your Majesty – she replied with a restrained smile. – The city is well provisioned, and its sons are eager to defend what is ours.
Next came Antonio Collinaferro, as robust as the stones of his fortress, a man of few words but as firm as the mountain that gave him his name.
– Antonio, how many can you muster?
– Five thousand, Your Majesty – he replied, directly. – And all of them trained under the harsh winds of the frontier. Resilient and loyal.
Finally, the Queen turned to Lúcia Castellobravo, seated proudly. She was known for ruling with a firm hand over the fortified city of Collinaforte, the bastion of the west.
– And you, Lúcia Castellobravo? How many soldiers does Collinaforte have to offer?
– Almost five thousand, Your Majesty – she replied without hesitation. – All of them prepared and disciplined, as always.
The room became frenetic. Fifteen thousand soldiers. An army worthy of the annals of history. But Valeria raised her hand and, immediately, silence returned.
– I thank you for your readiness. However, I do not intend to mobilise all your soldiers. Only three thousand shall be called from Collinaforte – declared the Queen, surprising everyone present. – The remaining two thousand shall stay in the city. The west must be guarded. Should the Burning Empire of Solterra or the Kingdom of Calentia decide to take advantage of our absence to invade, Collinaforte will be our wall against misfortune.
A murmur of approval rippled through the assembly, returning to silence as the Queen's speech continued.
– These three thousand, together with others chosen from among you, will form the heart of the royal army. You will bring with me the honour of your names – she paused. Her gaze swept over every face in the room. – From the capital, Ventoris, I shall bring eight thousand soldiers, veterans of the war of independence, and my own personal force – the Cavalry of the Winds. A thousand horsemen. They are like the wind: swift, untameable, unpredictable. Under my command, they will fly again.
There was a shine in Valeria's eyes, not of vanity, but of purpose. It was the spark of someone preparing for more than a war: she was preparing to command the fate of the continent.
The throne room fell into a mute reverence. Not before the crown, but before the iron will of a woman who rose, once again, as the beating heart of Ventora.
The Queen returned to her throne. Her dress billowed with the movement, and the sound of the fabric brushing against the marble echoed like the snap of a sail catching wind. Valeria now addressed the entire assembly, who stood as firm as her.
– The command of the army's divisions shall be given to the one who carries my blood – she declared. – Lucia Ventoforte, my daughter, shall command under my direct orders. No general shall speak but through her, and she shall answer to none but me.
Lucia raised her chin with a smile tinged with irony. Some of the lords displayed surprised expressions, for some deemed her too young and others too impetuous. None, however, dared to contradict the monarch's will.
– I appoint, as division generals, Fausto Campodouro, Isabella Mareluz, Severino Fontesol, Catarina Ventomar, Silvano Rocaviva, and Gaspar Salinaterra. Each of you shall command a distinct division. It is your duty to organise the supply of your forces, ensure constant vigilance through patrols and scouts, and prepare your soldiers to march, to fight and, if necessary, to die for the Kingdom of Ventora.
Each appointed general knelt, one by one, as their name was called. Fausto, whose voice made men and ancient walls tremble. Isabella Mareluz, with her silver hair. Severino, with a furtive gaze and calculated movements. Catarina, of the foreign maritime lineage of Ventomar, whose family claimed to bear mermaid blood. Silvano, the Guardian of the Cliffs, and Gaspar Salinaterra, as tempered as the salt of the tides.
Then she turned to the remaining lords seated on the noble benches.
– And you, Héctor Montespada, Lucia Valleverde, Antonio Collinaferro and Lúcia Castellobravo, shall remain in your lands. Recruit. Train. Guard the kingdom's borders. Let us not be deceived by the fervour of war. The enemy may come from more than one side. Solterra does not sleep, and Calentia has always coveted our lands. Should they dare to march upon us, may they find your steel waiting for them.
They all nodded, though the bitterness of not departing with the Queen was noticeable in some of their gazes.
Valeria paused and turned to Rafael Petra, who until then had remained silent, leaning against a marble pillar, somewhat apart from the other members of the room. He was a bastard, but still of the Queen's blood.
– And you, Rafael, shall remain in Ventoris. You will be the governor of the capital until my return. Do as the other lords will do: recruit, organise, and protect. Your duty will be the wall between the throne and chaos.
Rafael's face contorted in a grimace. It was not disrespect, but pain and wounded pride. His dark eyes locked onto his mother's, searching for cracks in that wall of ice.
– As you wish, Your Majesty – he replied at last, with a firm voice, though reluctantly.
The room seemed to hold its breath. The Queen kept her gaze fixed on the bastard, two years older than her legitimate daughter, for long seconds before speaking:
– I know what you desire, Rafael, but there is more honour in protecting your home than in bleeding for it. One day, you will understand.
With the conversation ended, she turned her back on the hall. Her dress billowed behind her like a storm on the move. War called for Ventora, and Ventora, under the command of the Queen of the Winds, was preparing to answer.
She returned to her throne of wrought iron, adorned with gems and legends. Her silhouette, outlined against the stained glass of the room, seemed made of the very hardened light of the gods.
– In four days – she announced, – the army shall gather in Ventoforte. The drums shall sound at dawn, and whosoever is not ready to march, let them pray to Solarius to take them far from here, for my wrath shall pursue those who lack the stomach to protect what is rightfully ours.
The words fell like molten iron seals upon each lord, general, and servant of the crown. Ventoforte would become the whirlwind of war, and each division, each soldier, a lightning bolt in the storm.
With a brief gesture, Valeria summoned one of her personal messengers. The boy's brown tunic fluttered as he approached with restrained haste.
– Leave now – the Queen told him, in a tone that allowed no delay. – Find Colonel Matthias von Kessel. He and his men are camped near the convent of Ignisia, half a day's march southeast of Ventoris. Tell him that the Queen of Ventora summons the Iron Ghosts. Tell him I want all of his eighteen hundred men – veterans, hardened and ready – for whatever price he desires. There will be countless opportunities for plunder and reward in defeating my enemies.
The messenger nodded, his face pale but resolute. Without delay, he bowed to his liege, turned on his heels, and ran out of the hall, carrying with him the promise of blood and silver.
– Is there among you any doubt? – the Queen asked all the men and women present in her throne room. – Any fear? Any tongue that wishes to speak against what has been decided?
There was a moment when no one moved. Only the sound of the wind licking the tall windows broke the stillness.
Then, as if commanded by a single soul, all the lords, generals and nobles present replied:
– No, Your Majesty!
The cry was unanimous, fierce and loyal. A human thunder, rising from men and women who, even fearing what was to come, feared more to disappoint the one who led them.
Valeria closed her eyes for a brief moment, as if listening to the winds of the future whispering in her mind. Then, she turned her back, descending the marble steps of her throne with the serenity of a storm that knows it will come in its own time.
The doors of the hall opened for her, and the Queen of the Winds vanished into the light of the late afternoon. The fate of Ventora was already sealed – and war advanced, invisible, like the breath before the hurricane.