Chapter 392: The Silent War
Reuben sat brooding in the shadowed solitude of his private chamber. The flickering light of a brass candelabrum cast long, wavering shadows on the carved walls, while a storm simmered in his chest. He leaned forward on an ornate chair, its velvet cushions creaking beneath his tense frame, elbows resting on a mahogany table etched with the sigils of the Royal Family—a golden eagle clutching a ring of fire, a symbol of hard-won peace and not easily shattered.
His mother had just left, and the news she brought still echoed in his mind like war drums.
Bandits ravaged the borderlands. Rebels whispered sedition in the villages. And the Estalian armies—disciplined, merciless—were marching steadily toward the gates of Fereya.
"My prince, you seem troubled," Mira murmured, her voice like silk brushing against a blade. Her presence was warm and measured, like a balm to his unrest. She moved gracefully, her silken robe whispering against the stone floor as she stepped behind him. Her fingers—cool, practiced—found his temples and began to circle gently.
Reuben exhaled, his rigid shoulders sagging ever so slightly under her touch. He moaned softly, eyes closing as tension slipped from his brow. Mira knew exactly how to touch him—how to ease the weight he bore. In moments like these, he could almost forget that Amielle wore the crown of Princess Consort.
He had once regretted marrying Mira, dismissing her as a political afterthought, a secondary wife from a minor house. But time had proven her worth. Mira was not merely soothing—she was sharp, clever, and dangerously perceptive. She understood him in ways Amielle never could.
If only her father had been less of a disappointment. Marlon Norse was a pale echo of his forebear, Odin Norse, the iron-hearted general who had once defended the kingdom with honor and fire. Had Mira’s lineage been more formidable, Reuben might have named her queen.
"Everyone is turning against me," Reuben muttered, his voice strained. "Rebels, bandits... even the Estalian soldiers are stirring. How could I not be troubled?"
Mira’s hands drifted lower, pressing firmly into the tight muscles of his neck and shoulders.
"Have you spoken to your father? He might offer... guidance," she said, her tone soft but probing.