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Chapter 13 - 13. The Queen of Clearwater

The newly restored estate pulsed with life. Servants hurried across polished floors, the scent of fresh bread mingling with the fragrance of burning cedar. Two merchant families—guests from the western territory—merchant who brings news to the king regarding Prince Roland occupied the manor's best rooms. Their laughter echoed through the hallways, their boots clattering over marble as they admired the restored grandeur.

Children in neat uniforms moved busily between corridors, balancing trays and linens with practiced grace. Gerald supervised a group of them in the stables, his once-scrawny frame hidden beneath a too-large coat. They had all changed in mere weeks. Gone were the hollow eyes and trembling hands of street urchins. Under Morgan's command, they had become diligent attendants—disciplined, useful, and proud of their work.

Morgan moved through the halls with calm authority, her steps measured, her expression composed. She wore a simple dark dress, her hair bound neatly beneath a small white cap. To her guests, she was Miss Morgan Ivory, the composed proprietor of a modest yet refined manor that catered to the wealthy and discreet.

She was smiling faintly when one of the hired coachmen, still covered in frost, burst into the entrance hall. His breath came in quick, steaming clouds.

"Miss! Miss Ivory!"

Morgan turned, frowning at his lack of decorum. "What is it?"

The man bowed hastily, his eyes wide. "News from the south, Miss. A messenger at the checkpoint—he said Lady Garcia Wimbledon has declared herself Queen of Clearwater. She's split the southern territories from Greycastle!"

The words spread like wildfire among the servants. Gasps and murmurs filled the air. One of the merchant guests nearby muttered a curse, another whispered something about the Queen's audacity.

Morgan's expression didn't change. She simply nodded and dismissed the man with a calm gesture. "See that the horses are fed and warmed. You've done well."

When the hall emptied again, she stood still, gazing out through the frost-coated window.

So, it had begun.

The rebellion of Garcia Wimbledon—a storm that would shake the kingdom.

Morgan pressed her lips together, deep in thought. In her previous world, she had read this part before. She knew exactly how it would unfold. The news of Garcia's declaration would soon reach Timothy, the newly crowned King of Greycastle. He would see it as treason. His pride would not allow him to tolerate such defiance from his sister.

And that meant war.

Morgan turned from the window, her mind already moving like a well-oiled machine.

When war came, Timothy would leave the capital to march south. He would bring with him his best knights, most of the army, and an enormous convoy of supplies. That would leave the capital poorly guarded—and open. The noble houses would tighten their defenses, the merchants would panic, and the Church would scheme to fill the power vacuum.

And for those who operated in the shadows… it would be a season of profit.

That evening, when the guests dined in the manor's great hall, Morgan excused herself early. She retreated to her study—a modest room lined with ledgers and maps. The faint crackle of firelight glowed against parchment as she poured herself a cup of wine and began to write.

On the desk lay a small collection of letters sealed with different insignias—symbols of various factions and trading guilds within the capital. Some belonged to noble intermediaries, others to merchants who trafficked in both goods and information.

Morgan reviewed the papers one by one. Each of them would soon hunger for the same thing: knowledge.

She leaned back in her chair, her thoughts aligning like puzzle pieces.

If Garcia had declared herself Queen, then Timothy's next move was inevitable.

He would summon his council within two days, send messengers to Eagle City, and begin drafting war orders. Within a week, the first battalions would depart from the capital, dragging half the royal logistics behind them.

Supplies. Horses. Wagons. Carriages.

Everything would be in demand—and everything had a price.

Morgan rose from her chair and crossed the room to the window. Beyond the frost-covered glass, she could see the faint lights of the lower district flickering like dying embers. Somewhere out there, her old world of thieves and beggars was stirring again, sensing opportunity in the shifting tides.

She smiled faintly.

"Less knights," she murmured, "more business."

The next morning, Morgan called Gerald to her office.

He entered cautiously, brushing snow from his sleeves. Despite the cold, his face glowed with health and purpose. "You called, Miss?"

"Yes." She gestured to the chair. "I have a task for you and the others."

Gerald sat, eager.

"You'll visit the coachmakers' guild and the cartwrights along the riverfront," Morgan said. "Buy every carriage, wagon, and transport cart available—quietly. Use different names. Don't mention Ivory Manor. I'll provide the funds and sealed letters for each purchase."

Gerald frowned. "So many, Miss? What for?"

Morgan smiled, not unkindly. "Preparation. Let's just say I prefer to move before the storm hits."

He hesitated, then nodded. "Understood."

"Good. Take three of the older boys with you. Keep your heads down and your ears open."

As he left, Morgan pulled another ledger from her drawer. She opened it to a clean page and began listing expenses—each coin from Big Rat's stolen stash, each investment made into Ivory Manor, and now, each carriage to be bought under false names.

Within a few days, seven carriages stood in the manor's stable, freshly polished and marked under separate ownerships. Several smaller carts were stashed in rented barns outside the city. To anyone else, they were scattered property—insignificant. To Morgan, they were pieces in a greater game.

The following days unfolded like clockwork.

Rumors of the southern rebellion filled the capital. Tavern talk spoke of Garcia's navy, of Clearwater's independence, of banners flying over the coast. The Church denounced her as a heretic, the nobles debated loyalty, and the streets buzzed with uncertainty.

Morgan moved through it all with practiced calm.

By day, she was the gracious hostess of Ivory Manor—her smile warm, her gestures practiced. Guests often praised her hospitality, remarking on how the scent of jasmine tea always lingered in her halls. They spoke of trade routes, the weather, the scarcity of salt, or the coming end of winter. Morgan listened, nodded in all the right places, and laughed when expected. No one ever noticed how her gaze lingered on details others missed—the ink stains on a merchant's cuffs, the subtle wear on a nobleman's boots, the way a servant's eyes darted whenever the border was mentioned.

To them, she was polite company.

To her, they were walking ledgers of opportunity.

When dusk fell and the manor quieted, the mask changed. The tea trays were replaced by parchment and coded ink, her voice replaced by silence and the scratching of a quill. By candlelight, she penned the same short warning in invisible ink—a few simple words that could shift the tides of fortune:

"Prepare your stores. The south rises. The King will march soon."

Each copy was sealed with wax and slipped into the hands of her street runners—thin, sharp-eyed youths who owed her coin or shelter. They vanished into alleys and snow-choked streets, their paths branching through taverns, guild houses, and merchant quarters.

Each message carried its own price. A few silver royals for the cautious traders. A gold coin for the desperate nobles clinging to their estates. Others paid in favors: warehouse access, smuggled documents, introductions whispered over wine. Morgan never asked what they did with the information. Some bought grain, others armed their guards or hired mercenaries.

It was not her concern.

Knowledge was a blade—she merely sold the handle to those who could pay.

What mattered was timing.

By the sixth day, the snowstorms had returned. The city's rhythm slowed; wagons struggled through the frost-bitten roads, and chimneys smoked like weary sentinels. Morgan sat alone in her private chamber, a single oil lamp casting light over the ledgers before her. Her handwriting, neat and measured, tracked the pulse of her growing web—names, coin flow, movement of goods, the rise and fall of carriage prices.

Carriages and carts—once cheap and abundant—were now worth their weight in silver. Merchants hoarded them, anticipating the army's demand. Inns filled with soldiers and scouts. Rumors clung to every conversation.

She leaned back, fingers tracing the edge of a parchment. A faint, satisfied smile crossed her lips.

Everything was moving. Just as she had foreseen.

The markets trembled with the scent of profit and fear.

And in the quiet heart of Ivory Manor, Morgan began plotting her next move. Word had spread that the royal army was mobilizing.

Exactly as planned.

The demand for transport exploded overnight. Nobles hoarded wagons to move supplies, while merchants offered ridiculous sums for any available carriage. The streets of the capital became a frenzy of buying and haggling.

Morgan, under the guise of Lady Mirelle, a fabricated widow trader from the east, appeared at a small tradehouse with a modest smile and several signed bills of sale.

"I have several carriages and transport carts available for lease or purchase," she told the merchant overseer.

His eyes nearly bulged. "Available? Now? Name your price!"

Morgan did. Triple the standard rate.

And he paid. Without question.

By evening, more nobles came knocking, desperate for carriages to move their retinues south or to safer estates. Morgan sold them sparingly, ensuring her name—her real one—never appeared in any document.

Gold flowed like water.

When news finally broke that King Timothy had officially declared war on Queen Garcia of Clearwater, the capital erupted into chaos.

Drums sounded through the streets. Messengers galloped through the snow. Smithies burned through the night, forging weapons and armor.

Carriages were nowhere to be found. The army's logistics officers scrambled to requisition what they could, but many were already sold or "missing." The city guard blamed the merchants, the merchants blamed the crown, and through it all, Morgan Ivory watched in silence.

From her balcony, she could see the long line of torches stretching through the southern gate. Timothy's army—thousands strong—marched through the snow, their banners flickering beneath the pale winter moon.

The faint sound of horns drifted on the wind, solemn and distant.

Morgan leaned against the balcony rail, her cloak drawn tight around her.

She had sold only a fraction of her carriages, keeping the rest for future ventures. The profits she earned filled a new vault beneath the manor—stacks of gold royals that glittered in candlelight. Enough to sustain Ivory Manor for months without guests. Enough to buy influence.

As she watched the last battalion vanish beyond the walls, she whispered to herself,

"Good luck, Timothy. You'll need it."

Her reflection in the frosted glass window was faint but steady—calm eyes, cold lips, and a quiet fire burning behind them.

While the kingdom plunged into war, Morgan Ivory's world was only just beginning to flourish.

And in the quiet heart of winter, beneath the snow-covered spires of the capital, Ivory Manor became more than just a haven for nobles.

It became a throne of shadows.

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