The Grand Throne Room of the Aldorian Capital was a masterpiece of white marble, gold trim, and soaring stained-glass windows.
It also currently smelled faintly of cheap mercenary ale, and the heavy, jewel-encrusted oak doors had massive, muddy boot prints kicked into the center of them from Tuesday's coup.
King Alden sat slumped on his golden throne. He was a thin, exhausted-looking man in his sixties, rubbing his temples beneath a heavy, slightly dented crown. He was currently using a golden quill to sign a massive stack of I.O.U.s to a turnip farmer named Greg.
Below the dais, Inspector Vance knelt on the pristine marble floor.
Vance looked terrible. His velvet coat was stained, he had lost ten pounds, and he was physically trembling.
"Speak, Inspector," King Alden sighed, tossing his quill aside. "And make it fast. The Iron Bankers are waiting in the antechamber to collect this week's interest on the national debt, and my new father, Greg, has cut off my allowance. What of the Northern Border? Is Lord Elaric Voss raising a rebel army?"
Vance swallowed hard, his eyes wide and haunted. "Your Grace... Son of Greg... Supreme Manager of the Realm... it is far worse than a rebellion."
The King sat up, his eyes narrowing. "Dark magic? A dragon?"
"Salted bread, Your Grace," Vance whispered, a single tear rolling down his cheek. "And knees. So many knees."
A murmur of confusion rippled through the gathered nobles in the court.
"Explain yourself, Vance," the King commanded.
"Lord Elaric is not hoarding weapons," Vance said, his voice shaking as he recalled the horrors of his audit. "He has built a tavern of absolute, primal depravity. He employs terrifyingly muscular peasant women who wear scratchy wool dresses sliced to the mid-thigh. He feeds the merchants heavily salted bread for free, and when they are dying of thirst, he extorts their entire life savings for a single cup of spoiled, sour mead!"
The King blinked. "And they pay it?"
"They throw their silver at him, Your Grace!" Vance cried. "They thank him for it! He is draining the entire northern trade route dry. The mud is practically overflowing with silver stags. He is extracting the wealth of the merchant class without swinging a single sword!"
King Alden leaned back on his throne. His exhausted, debt-ridden mind began to race. A massive pile of silver, completely untapped by the Crown, sitting in a mud-pit in the middle of nowhere. It was exactly the miracle he needed to pay off the Iron Bankers and avoid another Tuesday overthrow.
"We must seize it," the King muttered to himself. "But I cannot send an army. Mercenaries demand upfront payment, and the last time I hired the Royal Vanguard, they mutinied over a lack of powdered sugar."
"You do not need an army, Step-father."
The voice cut through the Throne Room like a shard of ice.
From the shadows behind the marble pillars, Lady Isolde stepped forward.
She was the King's stepdaughter, and she was the absolute pinnacle of Capital elitism. She wore a pristine, sweeping gown of midnight-black velvet. Her hair was perfectly coiled and powdered. Her posture was so rigidly superior that she seemed to be looking down her nose even at the King himself.
"Isolde," the King sighed. "This is a matter of state finance, not high society."
"State finance is dictated by culture, Step-father," Isolde said smoothly, her voice dripping with aristocratic disdain. She elegantly paced in front of the kneeling Inspector Vance, not even looking at him. "This Turnip-Lord has captured the merchants because they are weak-minded, base creatures drawn to filth. He offers them mud and depravity."
Isolde stopped, turning her cold, piercing eyes toward the King.
"I will go to Ravenhold," Isolde declared. "I do not need your armies. Give me the Royal Treasury's last cultural reserve fund. Give me a detachment of the Elite Capital Guard—the shiny, pristine ones who actually bathe. I will build a Royal Pavilion directly across the street from this peasant's mud-hut."
Vance looked up, horrified. "My Lady, you do not understand the sheer aggressive hospitality of these women—"
"Silence, you broken man," Isolde snapped. She looked back at the King. "I will introduce the northern border to true prestige. Crystal goblets. Fine imported wine. Harps and poetry. I will force these merchants to remember their betters. Once they see the sheer, blinding superiority of Capital high society, Lord Elaric's filthy little tavern will starve to death in a week. I will drive him into bankruptcy, and I will claim the northern trade route for the Crown."
King Alden looked at his stepdaughter. Her arrogance was suffocating, but her logic was sound. Why fight a war in the mud when you could simply outclass the enemy?
"Very well, Isolde," the King agreed, waving his hand exhaustedly. "Take the Elite Guards. Take the crystal. Go to the frozen north and show this Turnip-Lord the crushing weight of high society. Just bring me back enough silver to pay off the bankers before Thursday."
Isolde smiled. It was a terrifying, razor-thin expression of absolute snobbery.
"Consider the mud washed away, Your Grace," Isolde promised.
On the floor, Inspector Vance just shivered. Lady Isolde had the education of a queen and the backing of the Crown, but as Vance closed his eyes, all he could see was Greta wielding a heavy wooden club, and Elara pouring sour mead down a choking merchant's throat.
The Capital was sending a pristine, powdered aristocrat into a meat grinder.