Chapter 11 - Whispers of the Southern Syndicate
The celebration of the Summer Solstice lingered in the memories of the court, but peace in the Western Reaches was a fragile architecture. Deep within the shadow-draped valleys of the southern border, far beyond the reach of the Solus golden light, a clandestine meeting was underway.
A dozen cloaked figures sat around a rough-hewn stone table inside a cavernous cavern known as the Viper’s Maw. At the head of the table sat Duke Malakor, the cunning ruler of the Southern Syndicate. His eyes, sharp and reptilian, reflected the flickering green flame of a toxic brazier.
"The northern girl has upended the natural order," Malakor hissed, his voice grating like stones rubbing together. "She dismantled House Sterling, humiliated King Godfrey, and brought House Windsor to heel within a single moon. If we allow her bloodline to solidify its grip on the throne, our trade routes, our shadow contracts, and our autonomy will vanish."
From the shadows, a scarred figure stepped forward—it was an exiled lieutenant from the Blackwood forces who had managed to escape the purge at the Iron Gate.
"She is not invincible, My Lord," the lieutenant argued, slamming a heavily scarred fist onto the table. "She relies upon the ancient power of the Solus aura. But that power requires a living host. If we strike at her foundation—if we poison the ley lines that feed the ancient wolf—she will bleed just like any other mortal."
Malakor leaned back, a sinister smile twisting his thin lips. "Poisoning ley lines requires more than mere blade and muscle. We need someone from the inside. Someone who knows the layout of Dartmouth Citadel and possesses a hatred deep enough to burn the kingdom to ash."
"Then it is fortunate," a cold, smooth voice echoed from the dark tunnel entrance, "that we still have friends who despise the queen."
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A figure stepped into the green firelight, wrapped in a tattered gray cloak. As the hood fell back, it revealed the hollow, bitter face of Beatrice. Though stripped of her titles and exiled to grueling physical labor, her hatred had only fermented into something venomous and terminal.
"Tell me," Beatrice whispered, her eyes burning with an unholy light as she approached Malakor's table. "How do we kill a queen?"
