CHAPTER 11: THE KING’S COUNCIL

18 DAYS EARLIER

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Far to the east of Ivarion, sits the mighty capital city, Aerthwyn. Known as the Heart of the Realm, Aerthwyn is where laws are written, wars are decided, and kings are crowned.

Inside the royal castle, King Tharyn Elyndor sat on his throne. The king ruled with strength, but also with patience. Yet today, that patience was being tested.

The High Hall of Counsel was full and inside the hall, stood the realm’s most powerful lords, nobles with names known in every corner of Ivarion. Everyone looked tense as they knew trouble was stirring.

The King’s voice echoed:

"Let the council begin." The room became quiet.

Then, a voice thundered across the hall.

"It is high time we show the Sandborns what we are made of!" Lord Kasien Arvel, High Marshal of the Realm, said loudly. "We have answered their calls for years. Sent food, silver, horses. Tributes, they called it. To keep the peace. But now? Now they ask for entire herds, sacks of grain enough to starve our own cities. What next? Our daughters? Our land? We’ve received complaints that villages far north are being looted. Who knows, it might be them."

He turned to the king. "We cannot let them walk over us anymore, Your Majesty. I say we go to war."

Murmurs stirred around the room. Some nodded. Others didn’t.

Then another voice cut through. "And have you forgotten who the Sandborns are, Lord Arvel?"

It was Lord Edgar Seldor, the Lord Arbiter of the Crown. His face was calm, but there was warning in his voice. "They are not just men. They are the Sandborn for a reason. Born of sand and wildlife. They hunt like wolves, fight like lions. They have no fear of death. Are you saying we should fight animals?"

Lord Arvel didn’t flinch. He shot back:

"Yes. And animals, my lord, are meant to be tamed. If you do not tame them, they will keep running wild, spreading fear, chewing at your borders, testing your rule. And soon, they will forget who the true owners are!"

He stood fully now with his armor clanking.

"Your Majesty, the Ministry of War is ready. The soldiers are well prepared. Just give the order and we march."

All eyes turned to King Tharyn.

But the king did not speak immediately. He held his chin in his hand, deep in thought.

Then slowly, he looked down from his throne. "You have not said anything yet. What do you think? Lord Vanýr," the king said.

Lord Voryn Vanýr, the Lord Chancellor, a slender man in long robes with gold stood gracefully. "Your Majesty, I thank you for the honor. I will speak clearly and without fear."

He paused, looking around the room.

"Yes. The Sandborns have remained quiet for many years. Yes, we have kept the peace by honoring their old treaties. But now, without warning, they demand more than ever. Why? What changed?"

He looked back at the king. "They see weakness."

A low gasp swept across the chamber. Some lords exchanged uneasy glances.

But Lord Vanýr remained calm and continued. "Forgive me, Your Majesty, but the realm sees it too. The throne is not as strong as it once was. And I say this with loyalty in my heart: the reason... is because you have no heir."

The room became the most silent it had ever been. The King stiffened as his hand gripped the edge of the throne.

"Go on," he said quietly.

"There is no crown prince," Lord Vanýr said. "No clear successor. If anything were to happen to you, there would be chaos. The Sandborns are not foolish. They smell opportunity. They think we will avoid war because we cannot risk fighting them."

Another murmur.

But Vanýr wasn’t finished.

"So I say this, Your Majesty, with the deepest respect. The throne must be stabilized before any swords are drawn. Your only child, Princess Nyella, is of age. Let her be married, to someone noble, someone the realm can rally behind. Let the people see a future ruler and let the Sandborns see strength."

The room was tense. All eyes returned to the king, who sat in silence.

The king sat on the throne, unmoving. Everyone waited.

Then a calm, graceful voice spoke up. "Perhaps... Lord Vanýr made a good point, my King."

It was Lady Nymera of House Quaithe, Keeper of the Commons’ Voice. She was a woman of presence, her robes woven with the green and gold of the lower lands. Though she held no sword, her words often struck like one.

She stepped forward slowly, folding her hands. "The Sandborns grow reckless because they believe we are weak. They believe the crown would rather bow than bleed. That we are too afraid, too cautious to stand up to them. That is why they dare to demand so much from us now, like we are their vassals."

Her gaze swept the room.

"But perhaps... if the throne was made stable, as Lord Vanýr suggested, they might question their boldness. If they see strength, if they see unity, they might just step back. Or at least, reduce the weight of their demands."

The King’s voice broke through after a long silence. It was low, heavy, and tired. "The Princess... is still too young to speak of marriage."

But before the silence could settle again, Lord Vanýr stepped forward and gently cut in:

"Your Majesty... with the deepest respect, Princess Nyella is eighteen. And according to the customs of Ivarion, that is the rightful age for a lady to be offered in marriage. You know this. The realm knows this."

He bowed his head slightly. "I ask... no, I urge you to consider it."

The King’s eyes narrowed, looking at no one in particular. His fingers tapped against the armrest of his throne with the shape of a lion.

"And what if I agree?" he said finally, his voice louder now. "What if I get her married, then what? What changes?"

He looked around the room with sharp eyes now. "Do we suddenly bargain like beggars, as Lady Nymera suggests? Do we sit down with these wildmen and plead for mercy? Do we negotiate the price of our sweat?"

He stood now, truly stood, the way kings rarely do in counsel.

"No. Enough of this. The Sandborns have mocked our strength for too long. Every year we send them gifts, and every year their arrogance grows. Not once have they offered peace. Not once have they shown gratitude. They see our kindness as weakness. Our patience is fear."

He turned to Lord Arvel. "Lord Arvel!"

"Yes, my King," Lord Arvel replied.

"You say the Ministry of War is ready?"

"Yes, my King." He replied again with a grin.

There was a moment of silence.

Then the King drew in a deep breath... and let it out like a man lifting a mountain off his back.

"Then war it is."

Gasps swept through the hall. Even those who wanted war hadn’t expected the king to decide so suddenly, so fiercely.

"Let them see what Ivarion is made of," the King declared. "Let them see that we are not afraid. That we will not bow. That this kingdom... this throne... does not bow to threats."