The rain stopped.
Eden was wrapped in a damp, chilly shroud.
The silence left by the departing Silverveil party was broken a week later. The sound was hooves on stone—harder, more rhythmic than before.
Noella watched from her laboratory. It was a converted storeroom in the west tower.
Through her window, she saw them.
Not the garish colors of coastal Silverveil. These were the grim, functional grey and black of Tombsrose.
The hegemon had arrived.
Twenty riders. Armored in polished steel that gleamed dully under the grey sky. Their horses were massive destriers, breathing plumes of steam.
At their head rode a standard-bearer. His pennant showed a black rose growing from a stone coffin.
The symbol of the kingdom that had saved humanity, and then enslaved its spirit.
Beside him rode a young man.
Prince Caelan of Tombsrose.
Even from this distance, Noella could see the set of his shoulders. Arrogant. Utterly assured.
His hair was dark, cut close to his skull. As he drew closer, his face came into focus.
Hard angles. A mouth that seemed designed for issuing commands, not smiles.
"The vultures have come to check on the dying sheep."
A voice spoke softly behind her.
She turned. Old Kael stood there. He was the castle's one-armed master-of-arms and her only semi-willing accomplice.
He'd lost his arm in the last border skirmish with Tombsrose-backed raiders. He had no love for the hegemon.
"They're not here for the sheep, Kael," Noella said.
Her eyes were still on the procession entering the main yard.
"They're here for the pasture. To see if it's worth annexing yet, or if they should let it starve a little longer."
The official reason was a "Goodwill Tour of the Lesser Kingdoms." A laughable concept.
It was an audit. A reminder.
A reminder of who held the real power. Who controlled the grain shipments, the iron, the knowledge of the Soul-Prayer.
The welcome in the great hall was frigidly formal.
King Alistair wore his one good crown. Noella stood at his side, in another stiff, proper gown.
She felt like a mannequin.
Prince Caelan did not bother with Florian's false jollity. He was cold. Efficient.
"The Kingdom of Tombsrose appreciates Eden's… continued loyalty."
Caelan's voice was like gravel grinding. He didn't look at Alistair.
His eyes swept the hall, assessing, dismissing. They passed over Noella with barely a flicker.
She was part of the furniture.
"The stability of the post-Scourge world rests on a firm hierarchy. It is the duty of the strong to guide the weak."
"We are always grateful for Tombsrose's… guidance," Alistair said.
The words tasted like ash.
"Good. Then you will understand the need for an increased tithe. The northern borders are restless. The cost of maintaining the peace—our peace—rises."
Caelan placed a scroll on the table between them. The new terms.
Alistair paled as he read the figures.
"Prince Caelan… this is more than our annual yield. We cannot—"
"You can."
Caelan interrupted. He finally looked at the king. His eyes were the color of flint.
"You will. Or Tombsrose will have to reconsider its protective arrangements. Eden is poor, yes. But it has… other assets."
His gaze slid, deliberate and slow, to Noella.
This time it lingered.
It was not the leering appraisal of Florian. It was the look a man gives a piece of livestock.
He was judging its breeding potential. Its utility as a commodity.
"A union between our houses would be a powerful symbol. It would secure Eden's place. A gesture of… unity."
The air left the room.
A political marriage. Noella would be the gesture.
A hostage to ensure compliance. A womb to produce heirs with a claim to whatever scrap of sovereignty Eden had left.
King Alistair looked stricken. He looked at his daughter. His kind eyes were full of a helpless agony.
Noella felt the coldness in her core solidify into something diamond-hard.
She had expected pressure. She had expected extortion.
But this was a fundamental rewrite of her existence. She was to be erased. Her mind and will subsumed into the Tombsrose machine.
Prince Caelan misread her silence for acquiescence. A faint, cold smile touched his lips.
"Think on it, Your Majesty. We will enjoy your hospitality for three days. I trust that will be sufficient time for you to see the… logic of our proposal."
The audience was over.
As the Tombsrose party was shown to their quarters, Noella stood rooted to the spot.
Asset. Union. Gesture.
Words. Variables. Threats.
Her mind, her sanctuary, began to whir.
It was no longer contemplating passive observation. It was analyzing threat vectors. Resource allocation. Weaknesses.
The catalyst had arrived.
Its name was Prince Caelan.
And Noella was done being part of the equation.
It was time to become the solver.