Along the route, the mood was a little awkward after the market disturbance; but before long they reached the royal palace of Thalasson. The stone gates opened wide, servants and soldiers lined up to offer their salutes. The air shifted—from salty and dusty to warm, full of candles and calming seawood.

  Before the throne, King Lorvalis sat composed; Queen Lirena rose at once and stepped forward, drawing her two children into an embrace. Kaela and Vaelvalis returned the hug—warm, almost like a patch over an old crack—then they knelt in the proper greeting.

  “How did it go?” Lorvalis asked, voice measured, holding weighty concern and demanding truth.

  Vaelvalis answered briefly, plainly: “We succeeded, Father.”

  Kaela exhaled, then interjected with the practiced gentleness she’d learned: “May I freshen up first, Father? After that I will explain everything.” Her request was soft—packaged to sound natural, even wise.

  Lorvalis nodded. “Do so, my child. While you do, summon those who must gather. I want the full account once Kaela is ready.” The soldiers moved swiftly to obey.

  In the marble corridor Kaela’s footsteps echoed. The words from the market looped again in her head: “You will bring ruin to Thalasson.” The phrase felt like a cold current touching bone—disturbing, yet not wholly new. She closed her eyes for a moment, steadied her breath, and put on the face that would reweave the room.

  The royal bathing chamber was steamed with warm mist. The scent of lavender oil mixed with bath salt; candlelight reflected off the water so the whole room glimmered faintly. Servants awaited in practiced motion, deft hands carrying cloths, basins, and scrubs.

  They removed Kaela’s garments with respectful efficiency—no brusqueness, only the practical ritual of cleansing before a public performance. Warm water slid over her skin; the trickle filled the small wall recess. Kaela closed her eyes and let the steam veil her face, but her mind busied itself weaving the words she would speak.

  For a moment she lingered—not from fatigue, but mapping the faces she had to soften, the rhetoric to use, and the moments to drop a promise. For our future… she whispered inwardly, feeling how that simple phrase could be threaded like a fine line.

  A servant poured water down her back. Kaela watched him a beat longer than necessary, then asked—her voice soft, almost songlike, “Do you… hate me?”

  The servant flinched; his eyes widened. “No, Your Highness. I—I'm loyal, I care for you,” he stammered, fear lingering in his tone.

  Kaela lifted the corner of her mouth, then sharpened her words, turning the exchange into a subtle test. “Have you heard—my name carved in the Visilanth?” she asked quietly.

  The servant shook his head, attempting to deflect. Kaela gripped his hand firmer than customary—no mere touch now, but a gentle pressure demanding truth. The servant’s face shifted; hidden fear opened wide.

  “Don't lie,” Kaela said, her voice still sweet but with a cold edge. “Old stories spread through Thalasson. Do not let them take root within the palace shadows.”

  At last the servant slumped, voice small: “There are whispers, Your Highness. Some say the Visilanth showed one name. That name—the name of you. And they are afraid.”

  Kaela released him. Her breath stayed even—not a burst of anger, but a thin vibration of certainty. She’d expected this current. “I understand,” she said softly. “Now tell me everything. Where do these whispers spread? Who first spoke the name?”

  The servant stammered through it—streets by the quay, old houses in Seabright, faces altered by fear—old dread that had once faded but reemerged since news from the northern sea circulated—each time Kaela’s name and Visilanth were paired. No one dared an open accusation—only inheritance of fear like an old wound.

  Kaela listened without interruption. Her face was calm, almost gentle, as if the story were merely a weather report. But beneath that calm she tied knots: who must be soothed, who must be silenced, who she must embrace first.

  When the servant finished, Kaela looked at him—there was that small, controlled smile again, cool and precise. “If you hear anything—anything that links my name to that stone—bring it to me immediately. Do not let fear grow directionless. I will not punish honesty.” She paused. “I will explain, in my way.”

  The servants bowed, equal parts relieved and fearful. They went back to work: scrubs applied, hair smoothed, cloths bound once more about Kaela. Warm water washed travel dust off while her mind moved faster than the current—sequencing words, pauses, and the promises she would scatter.

  Standing before a small mirror, Kaela met her reflection. She inhaled deeply and whispered, almost inaudible, “For our future…”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  Then she stepped out—toward the waiting room, toward her family, toward the stage where the name carved in Visilanth would be turned from dread into control.

  In the palace hall, the Council of Thalasson had assembled. Stone seats in a circle filled with the realm’s elders—silent, no debate, no whispering. They waited for only one thing: the envoy’s report from Valterion.

  Kaela entered with grace. Her hair still held moisture from the bath, her cloak clean and ordered, though traces of the journey lingered in her eyes. Princess Ocea approached at once, took Kaela’s hand, and pressed her forehead to her niece’s—an old family gesture.

  “Thank the gods you are well,” Ocea said softly, steadying breath.

  “Thank you, Aunt,” Kaela answered quietly.

  Elsewhere in the hall, Ocevalis remained seated in his council chair, gaze sharp and withheld. He did not rise. No embrace—only appraisal.

  Kaela moved to the center of the circle.

  The greats of Thalasson leaned forward—waiting the Royal Envoy’s account, waiting the outcome of negotiations between two kingdoms, waiting to know whether the world would buy them time—or not.

  Lorvalis lifted a hand slightly. “Begin, Kaela,” he said calm, voice like an anchor lowered. “When you are ready.”

  Kaela swept her gaze, ensuring every face was present. Then she spoke.

  “King Kaelric Valterion has closed that sea lane specifically against Aurelion,” she stated plainly, measured. “Aurelion may still trade with us—but only by land. Our ships will not be impeded when they sail toward Aurelion.”

  Lorvalis leaned back. “And what counter-demand did they make for this decision?”

  “We are not to interfere with their patrols,” Kaela replied. “And we are asked to report if Aurelion ships trade via the sea lane.”

  Silence broke.

  “And that,” Lorvalis’ voice sharpened a degree, steady but leaving no room, his gaze fixed on Vaelvalis, “you call a success?”

  He left no pause. “We are not Valterion’s vassal. They speak as if our compass is in their hand. That will not happen. If trade winds exist because they fail to guard a gap—this is not our obligation.”

  “Calm, Father,” Kaela entered, voice soft but commanding attention like a song that halts movement. “In return,” she continued, measured yet persuasive, “Valterion replaces all the land-supplied food we have taken from Aurelion. More of it. Cheaper. And their harvest quality… is better.”

  Lorvalis fell silent.

  Kaela went on, her tone gaining momentum—not rushed, but driven. “That is why I called it success. We will follow King Kaelric’s terms—but not entirely. We report selectively. If we report everything, Aurelion will know we watch them. If we report nothing, Valterion will suspect we shelter smuggling.”

  She inhaled. “We will amass supplies from both sides. We swap our quick-to-spoil sea goods for grain that stores. We prepare.”

  “Kaela,” Lorvalis cut in, his tone cooling and firm, “stop speaking of prophecy.”

  “The prophecy is why I stand here, Father,” Kaela shot back. Her voice trembled faintly—not weak, but held too long. “You think it nonsense. Then tell me—why would a princess negotiate for another kingdom if not for something else?”

  The Council fell silent. Lirena, Vaelvalis, Ocea—no one interrupted.

  “The prophecy is real,” Kaela said, voice steady again, each word like a hidden current. “Father, you don’t know the burden I carry. All this… because you gave me that name.”

  Lorvalis rose slowly. “The prophecy is real, child,” he said more softly. “But not yet. Not in our time.”

  “True,” Ocevalis interjected, brief and weighted, like a log reported after a storm. “I’ve seen Leviathan. That beast cannot be slain—not in this era.”

  Kaela turned on him sharply. “Uncle knows these seas,” she said. “You led the hunting bands. Tell me—in the last three years, have you ever seen Leviathan?”

  Ocevalis did not bristle. “No,” he answered bluntly. “And not seeing it is the sailors’ prayer the gods most often grant. But not seeing does not mean dead. It dies the day I see it die. That day has not come.”

  Kaela breathed out and looked toward Ocea. “Aunt,” she said softly. “Help me. You know the prophecy moves.”

  Ocea rose. Her voice was gentle, but her words could not be ignored. “Stop pretending safety,” she said, gentle yet morally heavy. “We all know my husband saw Varian Valterion and the Leviathan fight. Chalentos knows the Leviathan is dead.”

  She scanned the council. “Kaela is not spreading panic,” Ocea continued quietly. “She offers long-term thinking—fields, harbors, the children who will live after us.” And what the Meruda read in Visilanth—never wrong.”

  Kaela looked back to her father. “I do not care about the burden you place on me, Father,” she said softly. “If you stand with me.”

  Lorvalis exhaled—long, the breath of a king who knows every decision will be tested by time. “Very well,” he said at last, after a long pause that had every chest in the hall holding breath. “From now we focus on stockpiling food. If the reading is true—if the land no longer defends us—then we prepare as if it will be so.”

  “Thank you, Father,” Kaela said.

  Lorvalis turned to the council. “We follow Kaela’s plan. And we thank her—for securing more food supplies than Valterion offered.”

  He looked around the circle before his voice filled the hall again.

  “Is there anything else to add,” he asked evenly, “or to ask?”

  Ocevalis rose. The stone beneath his feet shifted slightly—the small movement drawing every eye.

  “After we stack food,” he said, calm but sharp, “what then, Kaela?”

  He stared at his niece without blinking.

  “You believe the prophecy. Yet your plan touches only its beginning. The Visilanth’s prophecy does not end with famine—it speaks of ruin.”

  Silence fell. Some members bowed their heads, others stared at the stone table as if hunting answers there.

  “Oce,” Lorvalis interrupted. “We will consider that later.”

  “No, Brother,” Ocevalis replied without raising his voice. “If we choose to believe it, we must not go halfway. If Valterion discovers we play behind the treaty, it will not be the deep-sea monster of the prophecy that destroys Thalasson—but Valterion itself.”

  His gaze returned to Kaela.

  “And I am sure,” he continued, “you have thought of it. You always take more than one road… you are simply hesitant to name the rest.”

  Kaela drew a deep breath. The salt still faint in her newly dried hair, a contrast to the hall’s cool air.

  “There is,” she said finally, voice steady. “And I do not think it mad.”

  She stepped half a pace forward.

  “Once our food stores grow plentiful while others run short, the kingdoms of Chalentos will need it. They will buy from us. From there, we gather power—not only in gold.”

  A murmur ran through the council, but Kaela did not stop.

  “We move the kingdom to land.”

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  But simply reading and enjoying this tale is more than enough—I am already deeply grateful.