"So you're saying we don't need to send anyone, we can just sit back and watch the show?" King Noland Lister Russbinder of Arisindra whispered.

  The King of Brigar nodded decisively. "Precisely so."

  "This does appear to be the wisest course for now. There's no need to declare war against Godma at present," King Moore Byron Lawrence of Dud remarked, casually slapping the girl's buttocks. "But this isn't a binding agreement, I presume?"

  King Royce hastily raised his hands. "Of course not. How could I tell you what to do?" His smile was diplomatic. "If, after hearing what I have to say, any of you still want to send troops to Cynthia, I can't stop you—and I don't care what you do in your own kingdom. However," he looked at Richard and Einington, "that would mess up our plan and hurt everyone in the north. If Godma takes the Throat Road and attacks us, you'll be on your own..."

  Einington returned his stare with equally frigid intensity.

  "Enough about slugs," Royce Paul Sain clapped his hands briskly. "It's time for the main course."

  Serving maids entered the hall through various side doors. "I'll wager the next dish is roasted cockroaches with jam," King Porchet Malen Owen of Popodovis muttered, eyeing the platters suspiciously.

  "I have one final question," Princess Angela Disterin Lloyd of Ellytra said, absently toying with the red gemstone on her necklace. "What if Godma breaches Cynthia's walls before winter and advances northward? What contingency exists for that scenario?"

  "That would indeed be the most unfortunate outcome," King Royce's fingers drummed against the tabletop. "To fight the Godma Army head-on, we'd need an alliance, and... a little help from some friends."

  "From the Seven Seas, perhaps?"

  "No, Princess. The Seven Seas Kingdoms lie too distant. Their forces excel in naval combat but would offer minimal value in our situation. The help we need will come from another 'sea' altogether." He lifted his knife and fork.

  "Another sea?" Queen Shirley Farland of Megonian tilted her head quizzically. "To my knowledge, no lands have been discovered beyond the Eastern Sea..."

  "...The Flottant de la mer."

  Time froze in that instant. Even the serving maids seemed paralyzed mid-step, as if caught in a sorcerer's spell.

  Porchet Malen Owen drew a sharp, audible breath.

  "What did you just say?!"

  "What did you just say?!" Queen Claire of Cynthia whirled around, her voice taut with urgency. "Are you certain of your source?"

  "Yes, the information should be accurate... most likely." Lothar, captain of the Shadowgreen Knights, knelt on one knee, eyes fixed on the floor. "It comes from two knights under my command who have previously provided reliable military intelligence—all of which proved correct."

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  A gentle breeze swept across the balcony, lifting strands of the queen's silver-white hair. "Are they reconnaissance specialists?" she asked, tucking wayward locks behind her ear. "This seems like highly classified Godma information—normally impossible to intercept. Do we have infiltrators within their ranks? Did you inquire how they obtained it?"

  (Those two bastards... always shrouded in mystery,) Lothar thought irritably. "They provided no details regarding their methods. I suspect they ambushed a high-ranking Godma courier, but specifics remain unclear." He raised his gaze to meet Claire's deep purple eyes. "I could summon them to report directly to Your Majesty if you wish..."

  "That won't be necessary." The queen's smile softened her features. "I trust you, Lothar, and by extension, those Shadowgreen Knights as well." She clasped her hands before her. "Our immediate concern is how to counter Godma's movements. Did the intercepted correspondence mention how many troops they intend to commit to the assault?"

  "The letter indicated plans to bring 120,000 additional soldiers from Crivi for a direct assault on the main gates—a full-frontal attack..." Lothar lowered his head again. "Current estimates place approximately 200,000 Godma troops besieging our outskirts. This suggests their full assault force will exceed 300,000 men."

  "Three times our strength," Claire exhaled slowly. Beyond the balcony, orchids glistened with morning dew, their vibrant beauty offering no consolation. "Still nothing from King Richard?"

  "Uh, Your Majesty, you should ask the royal advisor about that," the Shadowgreen Knight replied hesitantly. "I'm not privy to such matters..."

  "Of course," the queen shook her head. "How foolish of me—I forgot you're not Rhones Lord. Well then," she approached Lothar. "Please, rise. I apologize for keeping you kneeling so long—I was distracted by the view from the balcony." Claire offered an embarrassed smile.

  "Not at all, it's my privilege," Lothar stood with practiced deference. (I've enjoyed quite a different 'view' myself from this position.)

  "Come," the Queen of Cynthia said as she moved past him. "Let's go."

  "Go?" Lothar turned, surprised. "Where to?"

  "I'd like you to accompany me through the gardens—to admire the flowers." Her smile held a hint of fragility as she regarded the knight. "You wouldn't refuse, would you?"

  "Never!" The Shadowgreen Knight declared with solemn formality. "Being with you is like a gift from the gods!"

  "Such extravagant flattery, Lothar," the queen laughed softly. "Let's hurry, before these beautiful blossoms fade away." A guard wielding a long-handled axe opened the door, and Lothar followed closely behind Claire as they left the small reception chamber.

  "This might be the last time," she murmured, seemingly to herself.

  Lothar remained silent, uncertain how to respond or offer comfort.

  Her white lace dress, though immaculate, appeared somehow pallid and lifeless against her skin. And her silhouette, viewed from behind, seemed to carry an unbearable weight of solitude.

  Monica Dunston clutched the corduroy blanket between her legs, tossing restlessly on the double bed. The window beside her bed stood brazenly open, welcoming sunlight, fresh air, and the persistent chorus of birdsong. "Mmph..." The young woman rolled to her side, attempting to escape the sun's relentless intrusion. But daylight had already claimed the bedroom, leaving no shadows in which to hide. Monica yanked away the blanket covering her face and raised her hands in surrender. "Fine, I give up. I'm getting up."

  "You should have risen hours ago," a voice with an unusual accent responded near her ear.

  Monica propped herself up, squinting against the light as she stretched languidly. Her head throbbed as if something were churning inside her skull. (Damn it, I drank far too much last night.) She massaged her temples with her fingertips. "Who's there?" she called out. "Is that you, Deborah?"