Chapter 43 The Tsar’s Court of Fear #2
A murmur spreads through the room, gasps barely stifled. Elias, the soft-spoken knyaz of Róstan, frowns. “Eyleen ársa? The blue rose who—”
“My wife,” I interject. “And her daughter seems intent on continuing the rebellion. She has allied with the vólkins, and they are more organized than ever before. She has their loyalty and power. A human sergeant, backed by an army of wolves.”
When my men questioned Gregor, he revealed the truth.
A vólkin stands by Noel’s side. Her mate.
They are unbonded—for now—but that is only a matter of time.
Once their bond is complete, she will not settle for a quiet life in ávera.
That is not who Noel is. Noel ársa is a force of rage and power, a woman made in defiance and driven by fury, just like her mother.
She is not meant to live in obscurity. She is meant to fight.
To lead. To silence the weak and to serve under my command, as she should have from the start.
Hākān clears his throat. “If what you say is true, Your Imperial Majesty, this poses a grave threat. What is our course of action?”
I lean forward, steepling my fingers. “The vólkins cannot be allowed to thrive. They are a crack in the foundation of our rule. If left unchecked, they will inspire rebellion across Vathéria.”
The previous generation of vólkins was completely uninterested in the world beyond their eyes.
Content with their mates, they turned their backs on the chaos happening outside their lands.
But Noel is no ordinary woman. She is a blue rose, the Lidé?en.
She will not rest in complacency, she will lead them into chaos, a storm waiting to be unleashed.
I feel it in the marrow of my bones, an inevitability that cannot be ignored.
Across the table, Caelan smirks. The glint in his eye gets on my nerves. “And what would you have us do? March our armies into the forest? Hunt wolves like common peasants?”
I fix him with a glare. “Careful, brother. Your tongue dances close to treason.”
Caelan Velstrād, my younger brother, the second born who was never destined for the crown.
I allow him to govern Velháven to ensure my hold over the capital remains absolute.
My ancestors secured Vathéria for the Velstrād family, and I will not fail in maintaining that legacy.
All of it belongs to us—from Velháven’s grandeur to the smallest, most insignificant village.
All except ávera. ávera remains the one stain beyond my reach. For now.
Caelan’s smirk disappears. “I merely mean to say, Your Imperial Majesty, that brute force alone will not suffice. Centuries ago, one of them killed a hundred armed men. A whole army of them leaves us with little hope.”
Gāvril crosses his arms. “Then we extinguish the fire before it spreads. We crush them completely, leave nothing to rebuild.”
Gāvril Velstrād, the third born, always excelled in combat and strategy.
Entrusting him with Tárnov, the second-largest village in Vathéria and its most formidable military base, was a calculated decision on my part.
Unlike our father, I recognize Gāvril’s worth.
While our father dismissed him, let him be overshadowed by me and Caelan, I see beyond tradition.
Gāvril had to fight the hardest to prove himself, and that makes him invaluable.
Where others see rank and birthright, I see potential and power. And he has that power.
Elias shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “A coordinated strike risks too much, especially if they’ve already fortified their numbers. We cannot afford to stretch our forces thin.”
Elias Vorst, Knyaz of Róstan. It’s no surprise that Gregor and his family hail from there—a land where poverty and hardship are a way of life.
His parents succumbed to hunger and overwork, leaving Gregor and his sister, Linnéa, as orphans.
Gregor, what a selfish creature you are.
You abandoned Linnéa to a lonely, wretched existence, tossing her a few silver coins each month as if that could make up for leaving her behind.
A pitiful man clinging to survival, blind to anything beyond himself.
I turn to Caspian, who has remained silent, his gaze distant and unfocused. “And you, Knyaz Tarn? What does Vódany advise?”
Caspian’s voice is as deep and haunting as the waters he rules. “The vólkins are creatures of the land, tied to the spirits. They will not fall easily. The waters speak of a reckoning, Your Imperial Majesty. The goddesses are restless.”
A hush falls over the room. Superstition always leaves discomfort among pragmatists like Gāvril and Caelan. I dismiss it with a wave of my hand. “Spare me your omens, Caspian. I need solutions, not riddles.”
Hākān, my dear friend and Knyaz of Gráyárk, leans forward. “What of alliances? If this threat is as dire as you say, Your Imperial Majesty, perhaps it is time to reach out to others.”
A heavy silence descends.
Orcs.
Before my ancestors created the barrier, they sought a power capable of ending vólkin lives.
Using slaves and dark magic, they fashioned abominations—half man, half beast. At first, these creatures were failures: sickly and mindless, dying off one by one.
But the tsar at the time, Aldrik I, refused to abandon his vision.
He poured thousands of lives into his experiments, sacrificing slaves to perfect the formula.
By balancing elements drawn from nature, he produced monsters that grew larger, stronger, closer to his ideal.
But it wasn’t enough. Aldrik craved more. He wanted them to think, to reason, to speak and serve.
What a fool he was.
He introduced the essence of the blue rose into the mix, believing it would grant them intelligence.
And it did. At a cost. The orcs were born, towering, intelligent beasts as large as the average vólkin.
At seven to eight feet tall, with frames as wide as the walls of Velháven, they were formidable and terrifying.
And they were as green as nature. But Aldrik underestimated his creation.
The orcs, smarter than the average man of Róstan, refused servitude.
They brought chaos, unleashed destruction on Velháven and the southern villages, laid waste to Yáarím and Róstan.
In time, they fled to the nearby continent now known as Thrā’kkor, named after their leader—the one who ended Aldrik’s life with his own monstrous hands.
What a true fool he was.
Caelan is the first to break it. “You mean the orcs, don’t you? Those savages?”
“Savages,” I echo. “Savages who have the numbers and strength to obliterate the vólkins. They fight for blood and plunder, and we can provide both.”
Edrin Haymoor, usually detached from political discussions, finally speaks up. “Offering them anything will bring chaos to the villages. The Orcs do not know restraint.”
“That is why we will control them,” I reply, my gaze sweeping the table. “We will make them an offer they cannot resist: goods, land, and women. In return, they will annihilate the vólkins.”
The orcs are not creatures of nature. They have no females, no means to reproduce on their own.
They will accept the offer, of that, I have no doubt.
But I am not Aldrik. I am Varyán, Tsar Varyán II.
With the promise of bodies to fulfill their desires, they will obey.
No rational being would decline such a favor.
Caspian’s frown deepens, and his fingers drum against the table. “The waters will not favor this decision.”
“They are orcs, not vólkins,” Gāvril snaps. “They don’t pray to goddesses. They bleed and die like any other.”
I allow a slow smirk to spread across my face. “Then it’s settled. We will send a messenger to the orcs. They will have as many women as they want and more—slaves, land, and goods. We will offer them things they never dreamed possible.”
The knyzya exchange glances, but none dare voice their objections outright. I rise from my seat, towering over them all. “The vólkins and their leader will fall. And when they do, Vathéria will stand unchallenged.”
As I walk toward the double doors, I turn over my shoulder for one last glance at the knyzya.
“Let the Tafl begin.”