Awakener's Guide to Climbing the Tower

The queen never hated the concubines Russel had, she never had feelings for him so jealousy was not even a thing for her. She acknowledged them properly at court, ensured their household received what rank entitled them to, and made certain every child Russel openly acknowledged was entered into the royal records.

She did not humiliate women simply because the king desired them, but she never became their friend. She did not pretend they were sisters, and never pretended their positions were equal.

They respected one another, and for most part, that was enough.

Misha could respect that. Actually, she respected it more than she expected.

There was none of the petty hair-pulling nonsense she would have expected from half the palace drams she had watched, where every woman within ten meters of the king apparently woke up wondering who she could poison before breakfast.

The queen seemed to have a much simpler policy: Stay in your lane and we’ll be fine.

One winter, a young concubine came to the queen trembling badly enough that the guards outside the receiving room noticed. She had lived in the royal household less than a year and dropped immediately to her knees the moment the doors closed behind her.

"Oh, Mother Queen, please help me... My brother has been arrested."

The queen looked up from the document in her hands. "For what?"

The young woman hesitated, and that hesitation told the queen enough to set the document down.

"Treason, Your Grace..." the concubine whispered. Then panic overtook whatever caution she had left. "But he is innocent! Someone used his seal on letters sent to Duke Vernhal’s men, but he never wrote them, I swear it!"

The queen studied her. "Why come to me? You could just ask the King to save him."

The concubine’s fingers tightened in her skirts. "His Majesty is with the northern army. The ministers will assume I am only trying to protect my family because I share the king’s bed."

"That assumption would not be unreasonable."

The woman flinched.

The queen let the silence sit between them for a moment before releasing a quiet sigh. "Look at me."

The concubine obeyed, her eyes were glassy with tears.

"If your brother is guilty, I will not save him."

The woman’s face crumpled slightly, but she nodded shakily.

"If he is innocent, I will not allow him to hang merely because proving it might be inconvenient." Then she turned toward an attendant. "Send for the Master of Records and the royal cipher clerk. I want the letters, seals, messenger accounts, and travel logs before sunset."

The concubine’s tears finally spilled down her cheeks. "Thank you! Thank you, Your Grace!"

The queen did rise to embrace her. She remained seated, watching the woman with the same measured gaze.

"Do not thank me yet." Her voice softened only slightly. "Truth is not obligated to favor you."

The investigation lasted twelve days, and the brother was eventually cleared. Someone within his household had stolen his seal and sold access to a man connected to Duke Vernhal.

The queen never mentioned the matter again, and neither did the concubine. From then on, however, whenever the two women crossed paths, the concubine bowed a little deeper than protocol required.

The queen always acknowledged it, nothing more.

Misha watched the woman disappear down another palace corridor and found herself smiling faintly. There was no tearful scene where they suddenly became sisters, just gratitude that neither woman needed to say aloud.

"Okay," Misha murmured. "I like her, she’s cool."

===

Some people mistook that restraint for weakness, and those people tended not to make the mistake twice.

The first serious objection came not from one of Russel’s women, but from the families behind them.

A daughter becoming the king’s concubine brought prestige, and a son born from his blood created possibilities. An invitation into the royal household gave ambitious fathers, brothers, and uncles something dangerous to cultivate.

Eventually, several families began questioning why the queen possessed so much authority over the concubines, their residences, their allowances, their guards, and the education of their children.

The matter finally reached open council.

A nervous noble cleared his throat after spending several minutes pretending not to be nervous.

"Your Majesty, there is some concern regarding the structure of the inner household."

Russel leaned back in his chair. "There is always concern regarding something."

The noble smiled weakly. "This matter is somewhat delicate."

"Then I recommend handling it delicately."

Misha snorted. It was probably fortunate nobody inside the memory could hear her.

The noble continued. "Some believe granting one woman such extensive authority over His Majesty’s concubines and their children creates obvious opportunities for... abuse."

Russel considered the statement.

Then the minister continued, "The Queen possesses enough authority to kill them now."

The chamber went silent.

Russel rested one elbow against the arm of his chair. "The fact that most remain alive appears to be an argument in her favor."

"Your Majesty, that is not entirely reassuring."

"It was not intended to be."

The king’s gaze drifted toward his queen, who sat several places away with one hand resting against a stack of documents.

"She protects the succession, she oversees their children, she ensures every recognized member of my household receives what is owed to them, and she prevents their families from turning my bedchamber into a second council chamber." His attention returned to the minister. "If another woman threatens any of those things, my wife may act as she sees fit."

The queen raised one eyebrow.

Russel noticed it. "Within reason, of course."

She continued looking at him, and this made him smile knowingly.

"Within her definition of reason."

Several ministers somehow looked even less comfortable.

The minister shifted in his seat. "Surely Your Majesty understands why some houses might worry that Her Grace could favor her own children over–"

"My queen does favor her own children."

The man stopped.

Russel looked mildly puzzled. "They are hers, and mine."

"I meant politically, Majesty."

"So did I."

The queen’s mouth moved faintly at the corner.

Russel continued, "The difference is that she has never deprived one of my other children of what is theirs merely to benefit her own. If you possess evidence otherwise, present it."

Another minister tried a different approach. "Your Majesty, some of these women come from houses of considerable standing. Their families naturally wish to ensure their daughters retain an appropriate degree of influence."

The queen finally spoke. "They retain exactly the influence appropriate to their position."

The minister turned toward her. "And who determines what is appropriate?"

"I do."

"With respect, Your Grace, some might argue that such authority should belong solely to the king."

Russel glanced toward them. "It does."

The minister looked relieved.

Then the king continued, "I delegated it to her."

The relief disappeared. "And if I may ask why–"

"No," Russel interrupted before he reached for his wine. "You may not. If you wish to debate it, debate her."

The minister looked toward the queen, and immediately reconsidered.

The matter should have ended there. For most sensible people, it did, but others became more ambitious.

A few concubines themselves eventually began believing that the affection they received from the king meant more than it did. More often, however, the problem came from their families whispering around them.

A king may favor one woman today, and another tomorrow. A son could become useful, a daughter could be married strategically, a mistress could become indispensable, and perhaps, if the queen somehow disappeared, the seat beside Russel would no longer be occupied.

Misha’s amusement faded. The queen had been perfectly willing to tolerate nearly everything else.

Other women in Russel’s bed, children who were not hers, and families receiving prestige from royal favor. She had even protected people who, under a less secure queen, might have been considered threats simply for existing.

But the throne beside him? That had always been the condition, and Misha remembered exactly what the queen had promised to do with claimants.

The first woman to make that mistake did not threaten the queen directly. She merely began hosting gatherings, nothing illegal, and nothing even particularly suspicious, if considered individually.

The queen noticed anyway, she always noticed.

One evening, Russel returned to their chambers and found his wife reading beside the fire.

"You’re going to kill Lady Merine."

The queen turned a page. "That is an interesting way to greet your wife."

"Am I wrong?"

She continued reading without giving him an answer.

Russel removed his gloves and tossed them onto the table. "That is not denial. She had not done anything deserving death."

"Yet." She finally glanced up.

He smiled faintly. "There it is again... that expression."

"Hm?" She lifted a brow. "And what expression would that be?"

"You have several," he said, amusement slipping into his voice. "Most of them frighten ministers, so I’ve learned not to interrupt the process."

She returned to the book, giving him no reaction.

Russel crossed the room and placed his hands gently on her shoulders. "My wife."

The page stopped beneath her fingers. "My husband."

"I am going to say something important."

She closed the book and waited.

"If Merine dies tonight, people will notice."

The queen considered that. "Tomorrow, then."

Russel laughed before he could stop himself.

She raised her gaze to him and looked mildly offended. "You find this amusing?"

"I married you knowing exactly what you were."

"No. You married me because my father owned half the grain routes feeding your western provinces."

Russel reached around and gently cupped her chin. His thumb brushed lightly beneath the queen’s jaw as he lowered himself closer. "Be subtle."

The queen stared at him. "That is all?"

"What would you prefer? A lecture?"

"I expected at least mild disapproval. After all, you have been summoning her rather frequently to your room lately." The queen reached up and touched his cheek.

Russel caught her wrist. Then, without looking away from her, he turned his head and pressed a slow kiss into the center of her palm. "And yet, I cannot summon you to mine."

Misha leaned forward like getting physically closer might somehow improve the view.

The queen’s fingers remained against his cheek. "I do not wish to share the same bed with those women."

"That’s why I’m here." He kissed the base of her fingers this time. "I wish to spend this night with my queen."

She raised a brow. "I’m still going to have her killed, Your Highness."

"I know." Then he kissed her fingers again. "Just do not start murdering women because I compliment their dresses."

"I have better standards than that."

"Yes, I know."

Misha was grinning now.

For the past several hours she had been watching political murders, succession disputes, and memories depressing enough to make her want alcohol, so she deserved watching this moment unfold.

Russel was still holding his wife’s hand, and the queen was still looking at him in that controlled way that suddenly did not look nearly as cold as it had in council.

Misha waited.

The king leaned closer—

The memory shifted.

Lady Merine did not die the following day, nor did she the day after.

Misha’s smile disappeared. "No... No, no, go back!"

Three weeks later, her father was exposed for paying royal officers to falsify guard assignments.

"I don’t care about her father!"

Her brother attempted to flee and was caught carrying correspondence discussing which ministers might support replacing the queen’s eldest son in the succession.

"Can we please return to the royal bedroom?"

Lady Merine herself was quietly removed from court.

Misha threw both hands out. "You cannot show me that romance and then cut to political arrests!"

The memory, being a memory and therefore entirely indifferent to her suffering, continued.

Her death came months from what palace physicians recorded as a sudden fever while residing at a distant estate. No one connected it to the queen, except for one.

Misha narrowed her eyes at the fragments floating around her.

"This is terrible storytelling." Then she paused. "Not the murder, the scene transition."

The memory continued anyway.

There was never a grand moment when Russel dismissed every concubine and declared his queen had become the only woman he wanted, because that never happened.

He continued having other women, his queen kept her throne, and anyone foolish enough to confuse the first with a path toward the second tended to suffer extraordinarily unfortunate accidents.

Their relationship simply became something none of the others possessed.

Russel trusted her with unopened correspondence. He left the royal seal in her hands whenever he rode to war. When ministers lied, he asked what she believed. When his sons fought, he sent them to her.

When rebellion threatened, she governed the capital without sending messengers every few hours begging permission to make decisions he had already trusted her to make.

That was probably the part that mattered more than whatever happened behind the bedroom doors Misha had been so rudely denied access to.

Russel desired other women, but he trusted his queen. It was not decorative trust, either, not the kind where a king smiled fondly at his wife before ignoring every opinion she gave him. He trusted her with his life’s work, and that was something else entirely.

Once, after Russel returned from a six-month campaign, a councillor complained that the queen had dismissed two treasury officials without consulting the field court.

Russel looked toward his wife. "Were they stealing?"

"...Yes."

He turned back toward the councillor. "Then she saved me paperwork."

Misha stared at the royal couple for another moment.

Well, apparently marriage counseling had been considerably more efficient in this era, mostly because one half of the marriage knew exactly where the bodies were buried, while the other had helped choose the graves and quietly burned whatever evidence against his wife happened to reach his hands.

"...That is either true love or a deeply concerning partnership."