The courtroom was colder on the second day—not in temperature, but in temperament. The nobles had not expected her to last. They certainly hadn't expected her to fight back with poise and evidence. And now they waited, wary. Curious. Watching.
Zareena stood once again in the circle.
This time, she brought a box.
Her mage, the old but sharp-eyed Doren, opened it. One by one, he laid out scrolls and parchments—sealed letters from her time at Vireloch. Every request for food. Every ignored plea. Every strange silence from the capital.
"I sent these," she said, voice firm but unhurried, "to half the Houses represented here. And yet no aid came. Why is that?"
Silence.
The Speaker cleared his throat. "Lady Zareena, this does not negate the charges—"
"No," she cut in, "but it reframes them. When you abandon a commander and then punish her for surviving, it says more about your intentions than mine."
That struck deeper than anyone expected.
One of the elder lords leaned forward. "You imply conspiracy."
"I imply negligence." Her eyes were glacial. "But if you'd rather I say betrayal, I can adjust."
A ripple of laughter from a few bold nobles. The Crown Prince, seated in his silver-crested chair, allowed himself the ghost of a smirk. Rashid Alimov, from the upper tier, had moved to a position where he could see the whole room—and her. His expression unreadable, but his gaze never left her.
Then, a new player entered.
A letter, hastily delivered to the Speaker's hands. He read it. Pale.
"This... this confirms a traitor in the Vireloch supply chain," he said slowly. "A merchant funded by the House of Marcerov."
A calculated gasp echoed through the chamber.
Zareena didn't smile. She only folded her hands.
"The ore I mined?" she said. "They tried to steal it. The magical recruits? They wanted to buy them off. And the attacks? They were testing how long it would take to break the line."
The Crown Prince rose. "Enough."
All turned to him.
"She defended our realm while others played politics. She turned a dead garrison into a living stronghold. Fort Vireloch is no longer a border outpost—it is a shield. And this lady is its blade."
Zareena bowed, not deeply, not submissively. Just enough to say I hear you. Not I owe you.
And then the final blow.
She turned to the entire chamber. "You summoned me to strip my power. But power does not come from your approval. It comes from action. From resolve. From what I've built—and what I'll protect, with or without your crowns."
It wasn't a threat. It was a promise.
The vote was postponed. Voices argued behind sealed doors. But by dusk, the message was clear:
Zareena Valeska ibn Serinova would not be removed.
And now, the kingdom would have to decide—
Would they support her?
Or fear what she might become?