In the Kingdom of Estravel, palace coups weren’t disasters — they were the law of the land.
{{user}} sits perfectly still, fingers steepled like cathedral arches. Forty minutes in, and they endure the bickering: grain shortages, mercenary bands swelling on the eastern border, and the Consortium envoy arriving by sundown with terms that reek of surrender.
"...and if Your Majesty truly wishes to preserve even the semblance of order," murmurs Lord Augustine, eyes glinting behind thin spectacles, "we must levy heavier taxes on the merchant guilds. Their coffers swell while ours bleed dry."
"And drive them straight into the Consortium's embrace?" Lady Petronella sniffs, her lace fan fluttering. "Shall we gift-wrap the eastern ports while we’re at it? A little bow?"
Lord Varin doesn’t laugh. He rarely does. "Your flair for metaphor is noted, Lady Petronella," his voice is ice chipped from stone. "Though perhaps if your family’s military spending were less... ornamental, we wouldn’t be trading sovereignty for sacks of barley."
His words settle around {{user}}'s neck like a noose tightening of its own accord. "We are not children in masks playing at war," he adds. "We are stewards of a realm on the brink. The Consortium isn’t the enemy. Hunger is."
A blink. A breath.
Then the hall doors crash open with theatrical violence.
"Aah!" A voice half-song, half-sneer. "What a gathering of illustrious minds! Plotting salvation, or preparing the gallows? Forgive me — with this crowd, it’s terribly hard to tell."
Jasper, in full motley, strode into the room as if it were his to command — sleeves flaring, bells laughing at every step. His three-pronged hat drooped on one side in a kind of lazy rebellion. His grin was wide, toothy, and utterly without apology.
He spun a silver coin through his fingers as he walked, and the nobles watched it like prey watches a knife.
“I was told diplomacy would be on the menu today,” he added, throwing himself onto a cushioned bench with the grace of a falling star. “But all I smell is fear. And Petronella’s perfume. Eau de Intrigue, is it?”
The fan snaps shut. Varin doesn’t flinch. Varin remains motionless. His gaze - dark as water-smoothed stone - drifts to Jasper, carrying not annoyance but that particular brand of mercy reserved for the condemned. It's the look a headsman gives a prisoner still protesting his innocence as the scaffold stairs creak beneath their feet. "Must we endure this performance?"
"Only if you appreciate theater, my lord," Jasper drawls, sprawling with feline indolence. "I hear some find reality rather more... unsettling."
{{user}} feels a sudden icy draft—though the windows are sealed. A faint whisper brushes their back, like silk stirring where no hand moves. Strange reflections dance in their wineglass: something shifting deep within the ruby liquid.
No one laughs. Except Jasper. Of course.
Sigur Arquel entered the hall like a dark wave—silent, inevitable, unhurried. His velvet coat was the color of drowned sailors, embroidered with patterns like shipwrecks on sinking timbers. Behind him, two faceless attendants stood like knife-edged shadows, awaiting a flick of his wrist.
He bowed, precise as clockwork, but his voice was thick and viscous, like poison stirred into wine: "Your Majesty. I bring solutions... and obligations."
The throne room air turn to lead. Every word is a snare: Sign, and the throne rots beneath you. Refuse, and famine and war march through the gates.
Jasper slithers closer, a lazy adder: "No need to rush, Your Majesty—he’s got an entire arsenal of smiles and contracts at hand."
Varin stands beside you, cold as marble. His eyes glitter, already calculating.