The council chamber of Blackspire Keep was windowless, lit only by the flicker of oil lamps and the pale glow of a single brazier that gave no warmth. The walls were stone, the table obsidian, and the air so still it seemed to resist breath.

King Daemon sat at the head of the table, his hands folded before him. He wore no crown, no jewels, no color. Only a high-collared coat of dark wool, fastened with a single iron clasp. His face was unreadable. His eyes, pale gray and rimmed with shadow, moved slowly from one advisor to the next.

No one spoke.

The silence stretched until it became unbearable.

Then, at last, Lord Veylan cleared his throat. “Your Majesty,” he began, “the western provinces report unrest. The grain levies have doubled since last winter. There are whispers of refusal. Of resistance.”

Daemon did not blink. “Then silence them.”

Veylan hesitated. “With respect, sire, if we press harder, we risk open revolt.”

Daemon’s voice was quiet. “There is no risk. There is revolt, or there is not.”

“But if there is—”

“Then we extinguish it.”

The king’s tone did not rise. It did not need to. The weight of his words was not in their volume, but in their finality.

Across the table, Lady Mereth shifted in her seat. “The western lords are not fools. They will not rise unless they believe they have support. Perhaps we should send an envoy. Offer a gesture. A concession.”

Daemon turned his gaze to her. “Concessions are for those who intend to lose.”

Mereth held his stare for a moment too long. Then she looked down.

Chancellor Orin, the oldest among them, cleared his throat. “Sire, if I may—”

“You may not,” Daemon said.

Orin’s mouth closed.

The king rose. The room seemed to contract around him.

He walked slowly along the length of the table, his footsteps silent on the stone. The council watched him as one might watch a blade being drawn.

“When I took this throne,” Daemon said, “the realm was fractured. The lords squabbled like dogs over scraps. The treasury was empty. The borders bled.”

He stopped behind Lord Veylan.

“Now the coffers are full. The roads are quiet. The lords kneel.”

He moved on, behind Lady Mereth.

“You think this came from kindness? From compromise?”

He reached the end of the table and turned.

“It came from certainty. From the knowledge that I do not waver. That I do not bend.”

He returned to his seat and sat.

“Let them whisper. Let them test the air. When they find it frozen, they will remember.”

The council was silent.

Then the steward entered, bowing low. “Sire, the prisoner is ready.”

Daemon nodded once. “Bring him.”

Moments later, two guards entered with a man in chains. He was middle-aged, dressed in the tattered remains of a merchant’s cloak. His face was bruised, but his eyes were defiant.

“This is the man who forged the letters,” the steward said. “He spread false decrees in your name. Promised tax relief to the river towns.”

Daemon studied the man. “Why?”

The prisoner spat blood. “Because your taxes starve us. Because your silence kills us.”

Daemon tilted his head. “And lies will feed you?”

“They gave us hope.”

“Hope,” Daemon said, “is a drug. It dulls the senses. Makes men forget what they are.”

He looked to the steward. “Hang him. Quietly.”

The guards moved.

The man struggled. “You’ll drown in your own silence, Daemon! One day, someone will speak louder than you!”

Daemon did not respond. He watched until the door closed behind them.

Then he turned back to the council.

“Hope,” he said, “is not a currency I trade in.”