Chapter Eight
Diplomacy
Raki flits above the Emperor’s shoulders as we all stand in the War Room. His Majesty casts his glare over every Imperial Army General and foreign diplomat in attendance, storming toward the edge of the circular stage where we’re meant to provide an imposing presence.
“Silence,” Emperor Aldritch commands, emitting thin gray lightning bolts from the center of his fists, arcing upward to blast the domed ceiling and making the bulbs flicker in one of the few rooms the Emperor allows these modern fixtures.
My magic struggles to maintain the connection with His Majesty as he simmers with rage I must slowly siphon from him, pulling on what I can of understanding and acceptance to try to replace it.
It requires far more focus than I have to spare when I imbue him with a sense of calm, forcing the blue and green tendrils inside his chest until he slowly loosens the fists he holds over the model of the broader Continent.
“You may now make your requests,” Emperor Aldritch says.
The room stirs as I scan over every head in attendance for the brown wavy hair I would recognize anywhere, when one General in particular catches my eye.
A thrill rolls down my spine from the subtle smile General Sal shares with me, as it must mean he was able to procure the book he claims contains some significance to our history, given how it has been preserved and exactly where it was hidden.
A book I am hoping could contain some compelling evidence to convince our citizens to rise against our resident tyrant and remove him from power so we all might prosper.
General Sal smiles, and my chest constricts, taking this as confirmation—his way of displaying recognition for having pleased me by procuring this item—as I imagine it would be the only reason he should risk being caught in making eye contact with me.
Hendry draws in a deep breath and glances between myself and Sal.
“Are you sure about this?” he asks under his breath.
I nod, then send him a bit of my excitement.
He shakes his head, slightly longer than usual, communicating his disapproval. A move imperceptible to anyone who does not know him as well, yet one which twists my stomach. He does not have to approve of the risks I am taking, but he could attempt to make it seem less like a betrayal.
“Your Majesty, would it please you to discuss the trade agreement with Draconea?” Dimitri Royce, the hand to the king of the land he mentions, asks in a measured, accented voice.
I study him after his calculated word choice.
Apparently practiced with coddling those in power, he has piqued my interest with the fact that he has come to represent his land, rather than sending the diplomats his king usually sends in his stead.
The King’s advisor being of too much importance to waste the kind of time and energy required to travel here just to speak with our Emperor.
Whatever he is here to discuss must be dire, requiring my finesse in preventing any sort of heightened conflict.
His Majesty’s healer must think the same, as he sends a light blue mist to infiltrate our ruler’s skin, settling his nerves enough for his shoulders to drop as his force Guard, Ivo, steps forward.
He stands with the Emperor in a show of intimidation, warning this advisor from being too bold in delivering whatever missive he is here to impart.
“I presume your king has demands, seeing as he sent you. Though King Culven will soon learn how our familial ties make no difference to me when it comes to negotiating.”
The Hand to the King of Draconea raises his prominent dark brows above a smile so wide it reaches his striking blue eyes, with his plush lips framed within his neatly trimmed black facial hair.
He has confusingly chosen to wear Imperial black rather than the golden threads of his own kingdom, where the only detail noting his homeland is the two golden suns depicting the Draconean sigil stitched into each of his lapels.
“Thank you, Your Eminence.” He bows before raising a pale hand with a yellow-gold ring on his middle finger, stamped with the impression of the same sun sigil.
“As you know, Draconea is land-locked, and the majority of our terrain is made up of desert. Therefore, our need for water and protein sources is higher.”
“Yes, of course I am aware.” His Majesty’s annoyance paints every syllable. “Go on.”
I send a thin string of curiosity to Dimitri’s chest and sense minor annoyance, daring, and fascination.
Nothing in need of modification; however, imbuing him with resignation could help, should the Emperor try to negotiate him into a wall.
My magic forms a deep orange spear, streaming from me to Dimitri as his striking blue eyes flick to mine as he slams his mental wards into place.
I stare back, uncertain how he perceived my magic. Could it be possible he’s so attuned to his emotions he could sense the shift happening? Or perhaps he warded with the assumption I would make an attempt, since everyone in this room is well aware of my purpose.
“With the Ampara Deicra Empire having colonized the entire western coastline, and considering our distance from all other shores on the Continent, we rely on agreements with the Ampara Deicra Empire to access waterways.”
“Make your point, Hand to the King Royce,” the Emperor commands.
“Your decree has come at a time of upheaval, after the untimely death of King Calvin, as the newly crowned King Culven works tirelessly to prove his ability to rule. The increased cost of resources our citizens require for survival is, simply put, unsustainable.”
“What do you propose?”
“We ask that you consider trading resources. We can offer you metal, minerals, or perhaps the luss flower found only on Draconean land.”
Emperor Aldritch’s eyes flare just enough to be noticeable at the mention of the flower of which he appreciates partaking in the essence.
I use his distraction to add curiosity and consideration into his abdomen, before turning my attention to the diplomat attempting to ply our leader.
“Send a proposal including the quantity and frequency with which we can expect to receive the resources you have mentioned, and I will take it into consideration.”
A prickling sensation rolls through my chest at his uncharacteristic response as both fear and triumph war within my ribs. Perhaps I was wrong. Maybe my magic isn’t all that weak after all.
Yet my sense of triumph is dashed when a familiar heat begins to spread across my chest, and my eyes frantically cast around the room, needing to see the one whose presence is enough to humble me, as a reminder of just how weak my magic is.