While Lord Riven was executing the high-stakes core of their scheme, His Highness Vaelorian was performing the equally essential, if agonizingly dull, work of being the perfect distraction.
The Senate chamber was a stuffy, echoing vault of cold marble and simmering resentment. Amidst it all, Vaelorian, with the air of a man thoroughly dedicated to the soul-crushing detail of governance, presented his latest bureaucratic masterpiece: the "Post-Tour Comprehensive Resource Reallocation Proposal."
Vaelorian adjusted the collar of his silk tunic—a small, theatrical gesture that promised hours of suffering. He held a massive, tightly-bound scroll, seemingly heavier than the political careers of everyone in the room.
"As per subsection 4B, Annex Three, concerning the standardized thread count for official Imperial tent canvas in the Southern Territories," Vaelorian drawled, flipping the scroll's first page with agonizing, dramatic slowness. He tapped the parchment with a silver signet ring. "We must meticulously analyze the fiscal impact of a Type-7 Weave versus a budget-friendly, yet perhaps morally questionable, Type-4 Blend."
He fixed his gaze on the most volatile target. "Senator Aldrin," Vaelorian continued, sounding genuinely pained by the weight of his duty. "I require a forty-minute discourse on the historical durability profile of the Type-7 Weave in persistently damp conditions. Let's really delve into the mold resistance of the flax."
Senator Aldrin, a perpetually annoyed man whose face was the color of a bruised plum, slammed his fist on the polished mahogany table.
"Your Highness! This is an outrage! We cannot waste the Empire's time debating tent thread when your future Consort is actively making secret land deals in the South!" The accusation hung in the air, a desperate Hail Mary pass.
Vaelorian looked up, his expression a mask of bewildered innocence. He blinked slowly. "A land deal? Why, Senator, why would Lord Riven, a simple Knight and my future Consort, be engaged in such matters? Preposterous! He wouldn't lift a finger on a matter of state without informing me first." He waved a dismissive hand. "Nonsense! Now, we must remain laser-focused! A leaky tent leads to damp rations; damp rations lead to a drop in morale; a drop in morale leads to an unstable border! The logic is irrefutable!"
He flipped the scroll again, landing on a page near the end with a triumphant thump. "Now, let us move to page 217, line 12: The exact minimum measurements for a standard Imperial field latrine. Do we authorize Redwood or Iron Oak? I propose a vote on the timber's grain pattern!"
He was driving them utterly mad, forcing the Empire's most powerful people to argue themselves blue over the specifics of glorified outhouses.
Every minute spent debating latrine timber is another minute Riven spends cementing the new foundation beneath their ignorant feet, Vaelorian thought, a devious smile pulling at the corner of his lips. Just keep talking about spoons, Vaelorian. Let's give Riven all the time he needs to get the job done.
Meanwhile, in a hidden strategy room tucked deep beneath the city, the air crackled with energy and purpose. Riven's elite team was already onto the most critical, perilous step.
"Lord Torvin is signed, sealed, and currently serving as the official 'Custodian' of the resources," Riven announced, leaning over a topographical map. "That was the easy part. Now for the ugly part: the how. We need specialized tools, high-yield seeds, and heavy-duty transport trucks to get it all to the Breadbasket like yesterday."
He made eye contact with each of his conspirators. "Remember this: We cannot touch Imperial funds. Not a single gold coin. That's the only way we can walk out of this unscathed if the Senate decides to cry treason."
"So," Willow summarized, her finger already tracing high-speed routes across the map's territory lines. "We need a secret, high-speed supply drop funded entirely by private individuals. That means we need the Western Lords to pay up—but in a way that makes them think they are investing in the political ascension of the Consort, not donating to a relief effort."
"Exactly," Riven confirmed with a sharp, cheeky grin. He turned to his most diplomatic—and most deadly—asset. "Ambassador Mira Lune, you're up next. As the Imperial Special Envoy for Youth and Cultural Diplomacy—a truly excellent cover, by the way—you have to make the Western Houses feel like their honor is on the line. House Ashbourne has the best grain. House Durnhall has the fastest trucks. Who do we target first, and what is the hook?"
Mira Lune, the epitome of controlled elegance, pointed a slender finger straight at Riven's own ancestral territory on the map.
"We start with your father, my friend. But we don't ask for charity; we frame it as a Pre-Marital Loyalty Test." Her voice was low and perfectly calibrated. "We'll contact Master Thomas, Duke Ashbourne's fiercely loyal logistics man. We tell him, quite plainly, that if the Western Houses cannot collectively solve this food crisis without the Crown's gold, their allegiance to the Consort-to-be is worthless."
Riven nodded, a dangerous, mischievous glint in his eyes. "Hit them where it hurts: their pride. Mira Lune, draft the note. Focus on the shame of failing to support their future Consort's first major initiative. Make it sound like an insult that can only be washed away with them providing us with the finest winter wheat and the fastest transport."
"Consider it done," Mira Lune replied, already pulling a pristine scroll toward her. "I know just the thing that will make them want to ship an entire convoy of supplies just to save face and shut down the gossip."
Riven then turned to Anya, his eyes serious. "Anya, logistics are useless if the people don't know it's coming. We need to prepare the locals. Get the word to the miners and farmers that Custodian Lord Torvin has partnered with the future Consort to bring them resources. Crucially, we give them a delivery date—a hard, non-negotiable deadline."
Anya raised a skeptical eyebrow. "A non-negotiable deadline? If we miss it, we lose all trust and credibility. It's a huge risk."
"That's why we won't miss it," Riven stated, his eyes blazing with certainty. "We will use that deadline to pressure House Ashbourne and the other Houses. We'll make the cost of failure too high for them to bear. They'll become accountable to the people, not to the Senate. Barron, you and Willow will work together on this—inventory, routes, and timing. We move as planned."
Riven clapped his hands, the sound sharp and final, echoing the new reality they were forging.
"We're not just moving supplies. We are changing the game. We are building the future right now."