Chapter 15
Iam married to a man who never stops.
Before him, the world is a patchwork—small kingdoms, old bloodlines, borders guarded more by custom than force. Men rule because their fathers had ruled, and their fathers before them. They called it order.
My husband calls it waste.
While he once inherited a northern realm, his expansion of the empire has been a sight to behold.
He took the river valleys first, where trade runs thick and resistance fractures easily when enough money is offered.
He broke the hill-lords next, not with force, but with law, binding them by oaths they cannot later deny.
In the West, he put down rebellion in a single, terrible season. The lords there do not rise again.
The eastern plains take longer. They always do. Borders shift, retreat, harden. Fortresses rise where forests once stood. Charles does not chase enemies—he absorbs them, piece by piece, until resistance becomes administration.
He leaves some rulers in place. Dukes. Counts. Men who still believe they govern.
They do not.
Everything bends toward the crown now. Coin. Justice. War. Even faith, when it must.
He does not call it conquest; he calls it unity.
But at what cost?
I stand beside him as this world reshapes itself, as men kneel who once stood equal, as old freedoms become privileges granted at royal discretion. I am his wife, his Queen, and his witness.
And I know this much, even now: The kingdom he is building will not stop at borders.
It will stop only when there is nothing left that refuses him.
Charles is sitting, deep in thought, bent over a map. As if he is playing a game, trying to decide which kingdom to conquer next, always hungry for more.
I scribble down my own notes.
Placitum is a new word I have learned since becoming more involved in the running of this kingdom.
It is the assembly of the Duke’s, bishops and nobles in spring, where important political matters are being discussed.
I was surprised when Charles had announced that we would be traveling to Passberg for the spring and summer.
Now it makes sense. He is planning something and he needs the assembly to happen here, in between the semi-independent dukedoms at the southern border.
He wants them to know he is already here, taking up residence, staking a claim to the land, getting comfortable in their home territory.
One by one, the assembly members arrive.
They shake hands and exchange pleasantries.
They show their independence in small ways: no crowns, no kneeling, no waiting to be spoken to.
Their lands lie south of the old rivers, beyond the forests and passes that once protected them from northern kings.
They have ruled themselves for generations and they do not intend on changing the status any time soon.
Charles stands at the head of the table and closes the ledger in front of him with force, drawing the attention of everyone in the room. While the Dukes and nobles take their places at the table, Charles signals for the servants to bring in the wine.
At once, servers appear with bottles upon bottles of the finest wine, beautifully crafted glasses appearing on the table, accompanied by breads and cheese. A show of generosity from the King.
“Welcome, members of the esteemed Placitum,” Charles finally says, his voice carrying easily across the hall. “You have traveled far, and I would much rather be welcoming you at a feast than keeping you from your hearths. Unfortunately, borders do not wait for better seasons.”
A ripple of quiet laughter moves through the room. Even the stiffest of the southern dukes smiles despite themselves.
“I promise,” he adds, glancing down at the maps laid before him, “that nothing I place on this table today will require you to surrender your titles, your sons, or your gods. If it does, you have my permission to throw me into the river.”
This time, the laughter is real.
I watch the tension loosen, just slightly. Charles has always known how to do this—how to make men forget they are being charmed.
“We are here,” he continues, more warmly now, “because the world around us is changing faster than any of us would like. Old threats return. New ones learn our names. And while I would love to believe that tradition alone will keep our borders safe, I have yet to see a spear impressed by ancestry.”
A few nods. A few murmurs of agreement.
Charles leans lightly against the table, utterly at ease. “So let us speak plainly, as allies and neighbors. No declarations. No demands. Only what must be done to ensure that all our lands still exist to be argued over next year.”
He smiles then—not sharp, not cruel, but confident.
“This is, after all, a council of dukes. Not a court of prisoners.”
The room settles, and only then does the bartering begin.
* * *
It is early evening already, and I am struggling to keep my focus. The talks have been going on for several hours now, only interrupted by a short break to take a light meal this afternoon. Some progress has been made—if that is what this can be called.
They have agreed, at least, on the matter of the church.
New churches are to be founded along the southern borders, in lands where faith still bends to local custom.
The dukes will bear the cost of construction, each within his own territory, while Charles will provide clerics, relics, and, more importantly, the assurance of papal favor.
It is framed as piety, as unity and protection.
No one speaks of what follows once the stones are laid.
The agreement is recorded carefully.
It is not nothing. But it is not what Charles came for.
“We are no longer dealing with local threats,” he says evenly. “The borders have changed. So must our response.”
As if on silent command, scrolls are unrolled. I marvel at their beauty… Rivers traced in ink, mountain passes marked with small symbols, towns varying in size, tiny dots across a wide canvas of forests and the sea.
There is tension now around Charles’s eyes. He is going to make his move. I recognize the pattern. This is how he speaks of conquest when he wants it to sound like reason.
“The northern wars will continue,” he goes on. “They demand men. Grain. Coordination. A kingdom divided by customs cannot hold.”
A murmur moves through the room.
One of the dukes leans forward. “We are not divided,” he says. “We are allied.”
Charles inclines his head. “Alliances are fragile. Kingdoms endure.”
That word lands hard, multiple dukes are wincing visibly.
Another duke speaks, sharper. “And the cost of endurance? We know what becomes of lands absorbed into your realm. Their kings vanish. Their laws are replaced. Their sons are sent north to be educated into obedience.”
Silence.
Charles does not deny it.
Instead, he says, “They prosper.”
My eyes find Tassilo as the others speak.
He listens, composed, hands folded, gaze unmoving.
Bavria lies along the eastern border. His lands shield the rest of the South from what waits beyond.
He has married into Langaria, a southern kingdom older than my husband’s crown, where kings rule by inheritance sanctified by the church rather than conquest. His father-in-law’s word still carries weight in Rome.
His sisters and cousins sit on foreign thrones. He is not isolated.
But that is precisely the problem and will most likely be his downfall.
Charles gestures to the map. “I am not asking for surrender. I am proposing unity. Shared defense. Standard levies. Royal law only applies where disputes cross borders.”
“Today,” someone mutters.
Charles’s eyes flick toward the sound.
Tassilo finally speaks. His voice is calm. “You ask us to bind ourselves without knowing where the binding ends.”
“You already rely on my armies,” Charles replies. “You already benefit from my borders.”
“Yes,” Tassilo says. “And in return, we have kept the peace here. Without annexation.”
The word hangs between them.
Charles smiles faintly. “Peace is temporary.”
“And sovereignty,” Tassilo counters, “once yielded, is never returned.”
I feel it then—the shift in the conversation.
Another duke clears his throat. “We have alliances beyond this table. Through marriage. Through faith. Our loyalty is not unmoored.”
Faith.
The Pope’s name is not spoken, but everyone hears it anyway.
Charles’s voice remains steady. “The Church values order. Stability. Protection—”
“So do we,” Tassilo interrupts. “Which is why we hesitate to place ourselves entirely under one crown.”
I glance at Charles. His jaw is tight. The ring on his hand catches the light. I know this look, this is the moment where patience becomes restraint.
“We will not end like the kingdoms you have already folded into your realm,” one of the dukes says quietly. “We will not trade our titles for your favor.”
No one breathes.
Then Charles nods.
“Very well,” he says. “Consider what I have offered. Consider what your refusal will cost.” He rolls up the maps, and the meeting ends without resolution. That alone is dangerous.
As the dukes rise, I see it clearly: this was never about taxes or borders. It was about whether the South would kneel willingly, or be remembered as something that used to exist.
Some of the dukes leave the palace immediately, other stay behind to speak to one another, to ask about their neighbors, family, or talk trade. Charles is in deep conversation with Lord Vexton and Aynhard, when the door to the King’s hall opens.
“Father?”
My heart stutters.
She runs in before anyone can stop her, skirts lifted in small fists, hair coming loose from its braid. A servant follows, pale and breathless.
Charles turns instantly, warmth flooding his face. “Little star. What is it?”
She looks around the hall, curious.
“I wanted to say goodnight,” Thea whispers when she realizes the room is filled with unknown people.
“Well, that was good of you. Good night, darling. Now run along and we’ll play tomorrow,” he says, giving her a gentle kiss on the forehead.