Chapter 17
SEVENTEEN
The council chamber was already loud when Jesenia entered.
It wasn’t filled with shouting, but with the low, grinding noise of men who believed they knew all—men who believed their cruelty justified.
Voices overlapped in measured indignation, robes rustled, rings tapped impatiently against marble.
The long table gleamed beneath the afternoon light, gold inlay catching against the polished stone, beautiful in a way that felt obscene when weighed against the hunger she had just walked through to get here.
Val-Theris stood at the head of the chamber, wings folded tight behind him, expression carefully neutral. He did not look at her when she entered, though she felt the subtle shift in his posture—the acknowledgment that she was there.
She took her place at the table to his right, hands folded, shawl drawn close.
“The unrest in the lower districts is no longer contained,” Councilor Varin said, his voice smooth with displeasure. “The ration lines were disrupted this morning. A guard injured. Another nearly stabbed. The people grow bold.”
“That is a lie!” Jesenia said before she could stop herself. “My people have never hurt any of your citizens. It is your people who incite the unrest.”
The room went still. Jesenia had never spoken so boldly before, but she was irritated with the council and pacifism did not mean she had endless patience.
Varin’s mouth curled faintly. “Ah. The Lunarethian speaks.”
Jesenia straightened. “My people stood in line as they always do. Some of them were turned away after hours of waiting. Mothers with children. Elderly men who can no longer stand for long periods. If desperation looks like boldness to you, perhaps you have forgotten what hunger does to the body.”
A murmur rippled through the chamber. Another councilor leaned forward, palms pressed flat against the table. “We cannot continue diverting supplies to the quarter at the expense of our own citizens.”
“They are under your protection now. Does that mean nothing?”
“It means they are guests,” Varin snapped. “And guests do not dictate the household.”
Val-Theris lifted a hand. “Enough.” The room quieted, but the tension did not lift. “We are here to discuss solutions,” he said evenly. “Not to assign blame.”
“With respect, Majesty,” another councilor interjected, “the solution is obvious. We limit rations further until order is restored.”
The words hit Jesenia like a physical blow. She stood, heart hammering. “You would starve them into silence?”
Several heads turned. One man laughed softly, without humor. “They are already starving,” he said. “We would simply…hasten compliance.”
Val-Theris’s wings twitched. “That will not happen,” he said, voice quiet and firm.
Varin raised a brow. “Then perhaps Your Majesty would like to explain how we are to feed these guests without stealing from Seraveth’s mouths?”
“There are surplus stores in the eastern granaries,” Jesenia said quickly. “You know this. I’ve seen the ledgers. There are less than ninety Lunarethians within your walls. I am not asking you to feed an army, I am begging you to show some humanity to people who have lost everything.”
“You have seen no such thing,” Varin cut in sharply. “You are not a councilor. You do not have the authority to view those records.”
“She reviewed the documents with my permission,” Val-Theris said.
The room stiffened.
“And therein lies the problem,” Varin replied calmly. “You give her leave. You walk among her people. You listen to her counsel. The city sees this, Majesty. They whisper. They ask why a foreign woman is granted the ear of a god while citizens born beneath your banners go unheard.”
Jesenia felt her chest tighten. “You think this is about me,” she said, incredulous. “While children are starving in your streets?”
“It is about perception,” Varin said coolly. “And perception governs loyalty.”
Val-Theris said nothing. Jesenia turned to him, disbelief creeping into her voice, then looked back to Varin. “You can open the granaries today. Even temporarily. Even just until winter—”
“And what happens after winter thaws?” another councilor demanded. “And the day after? When the people realize all they must do to bend the crown is riot loudly enough?”
“They’re not rioting,” Jesenia said. “They’re begging.”
“Begging is simply a kinder word for demanding,” Varin replied. “And demand becomes revolt.”
“And starving becomes death,” she shot back, her composure finally cracking. “Is that an acceptable cost to you? Are you really so afraid of pacifists who let Korvath destroy their homes because they would not fight back?”
The chamber erupted. Voices rose, overlapping, sharp with accusation and fear.
“Your voice is the reason the Lunarethians are so comfortable inciting unrest. You have no understanding of governance! This is exactly why it was a mistake allowing you to enter this chamber.”
Val-Theris stood motionless amid it all. Jesenia waited. She waited for him to raise his voice. To strike the table. To remind them who he was. But he didn’t.
Instead, he lifted a single hand. The room fell silent again.
“We will revisit ration distribution at the next session,” he said. “For now, this discussion is concluded.”
Jesenia stared at him. That was it. No concessions. No immediate relief. Just postponement that might as well have been a slap in the face.
She looked toward him, unable to keep the tremor from her voice. “Val-Theris—”
“Not now,” he said quietly.
Something inside her snapped. She turned away from the council, away from their polished indifference, and walked straight toward the doors.
Behind her, Varin exhaled in thin satisfaction, and rose from his seat with a triumphant smile that faded the moment his king stood to follow the refugee through the door.
The door to Val-Theris’s private office slammed shut behind Jesenia, and the sound echoed through the marble chamber like a crack of thunder.
Val-Theris had followed her inside, then stood at the window, his wings drawn tight against his back, their golden edges dim in the afternoon light.
“You can’t keep turning them away,” Jesenia said, her voice trembling with fury and grief. “There are children starving in the refugee quarter, Val-Theris. The ration lines barely last an hour before the guards shut them down. The council keeps promising more supplies but nothing ever comes!”
“I know,” he said quietly.
“Then do something!”
He turned, eyes hardening. “It’s not that simple.”
“It is that simple!” she snapped, stepping closer. “You are the King of Seraveth! You are a god among men! You could open the granaries today if you wanted to!”
He looked away. “And if I do, I give the council cause to call me a tyrant.”
“Better a tyrant who feeds the hungry than a king who watches them die!”
Her words hit him like a slap. For a moment, he said nothing, only let the silence stretch until it was unbearable.
“You think I don’t want to help them?” His voice was low now, controlled, but shaking beneath the surface.
“You think I don’t hear their cries in my sleep?
Every petition I grant, every law I sign—it’s a war with my own council.
They control the trade routes. They own the fields.
I may be a god, but the crown is not, Jesenia. It is a cage.”
“Then break it!” she cried. “You of all people can!”
Her words trembled in the air between them. He stared at her for a long time, his expression unreadable. Then, very softly, he said, “If I do what you ask…I will be no better than my brother.”
Jesenia shook her head. “You are nothing like him.”
“Am I not?” he demanded, stepping forward, the air shifting with the faint stir of his wings.
“You think Val-Oros began his rule by burning cities? No. He began by believing his godhood gave him the right to ignore law. By believing that his heart was wiser than the balance of his people. I will not become that.”
Her voice cracked. “Then what good is your mercy if it starves us?”
Val-Theris went still. For the first time, she saw something almost fragile in his face—that flicker of doubt he could never admit. But it hardened again, quickly, as though he feared what it might mean to let her see it.
“You speak like someone who’s never ruled,” he said finally, his tone cutting. “You don’t understand what’s at stake.”
“I understand hunger,” she shot back. “I understand watching people die because no one in power cares enough to stop it!”
He raised his voice. Something he’d never done to her before. “You’re being unreasonable.”
Her breath caught. “Unreasonable?”
“Yes,” he said, the word sharp as glass. “You’re letting your heart blind you to what must be done. This is not the time to let your emotions get in the way.”
The air left the room. Jesenia’s lips parted, but no sound came. He knew, instantly, what he’d said—that it was the same words the council had used against her, the same insult that stripped her of her voice in that chamber time and time again.
Emotional. Unreasonable. Ignorant.
She blinked rapidly, tears stinging her eyes. “I see,” she whispered.
“Jesenia—”
“No.” She shook her head, stepping back. “You’ve made yourself clear.” She turned and walked toward the door, her steps soft against the marble.
“Jesenia, please—”
But she was gone. The door closed quietly behind her, but to Val-Theris, it might as well have been the sound of a blade sinking into his chest. He stood there for a long time, hands trembling at his sides, staring at the door she’d just walked through.
What have I done? he thought to himself. The silence stretched until a voice broke it.
“She’s right, you know.”
Val-Theris turned sharply. Rohannes stood by one of the pillars near the door, his expression unreadable. “You heard,” the king said.
“I hear everything,” Rohannes replied. “As is my job.”
Val-Theris exhaled, pressing his hand to his temple. “Was I too harsh?”