It was barely midday, yet the hall had already become a den of clashing voices—noble tongues eager to outshout one another under the guise of discussing matters of state. Jaques stood near the long table, gaze sharp and jaw tight, looking at them all as if he were one breath away from sinking his teeth into someone’s face, dragging them out by the collar, and kicking them down the castle steps.

But alas, such pleasures were reserved only when his lord commanded it.

These hyenas, dressed in silk and smug intentions, had not come to serve the crown. They had come to tame it. Barely a month had passed since the young king had been crowned, his father cold in the ground, and already they saw him as little more than a lamb fattened for the slaughter—ripe for manipulation. Fools. Jaques was more than just a knight; he was his king’s shadow, bound by blood, steel, and unshakable loyalty. Even now, his makeshift sofa sat behind a curtain in the royal chambers, within arm’s reach, because Jaques trusted no one.

“My daughter, Alastra, is the fairest in all Kanaria!” bellowed one envoy, raising a finger like a priest in sermon. “She is well-mannered, well-bred, and skilled in embroidery!”

And currently bedding two knights at once, Jaques thought coldly, his face unmoved, his silence honed to the edge of a blade. The mere mention of her name soured the air.

As the envoys continued to dress up land-grabbing schemes in phrases like for the greater good, it was clear none of them sought peace. They sought territory, wealth, and a crown they could touch without earning. Pigs, the lot of them—thinking people were onions to be peeled and devoured.

“The second daughter of Kalabra is a finer choice,” came another voice, this one from a flaxen-haired man with a haircut so offensive it nearly warranted execution. He struck the table for attention like a street vendor calling out fish. “She is no fragile porcelain doll. She rides horses!”

She also prefers her handmaid’s bed, and has no taste for men, Jaques mused, his patience fraying at the seams. His fingers tapped rhythmically at the spine of his sword—a clear sign for those who knew him well: the circle-talk was beginning to rot.

To spend an hour trapped in a room with these peacocks, each convinced their offer was gold wrapped in roses, was torture beyond measure. Jaques longed to plant his boot on the table, lean in with a snarl, and remind them all that it was the king—his king—who held the final word here. Not these pompous parasites bloated with pride.

"Do I have your leave to cut his tongue out, Your Highness?" Jaques muttered low, leaning just enough to let the king catch the irritation tightening his jaw. "You've finer things to do than endure last-minute marriage auctions from desperate men who haven't the courtesy to ask what you want."