When the union steps in
The Union did not arrive loudly.
It never did.
No banners. No declarations of urgency. Just parchment sealed in pale blue wax, delivered simultaneously to every embassy in Luminor before dawn.
By midmorning, the diplomatic quarter buzzed with restrained panic.
Lysandra stood at the long table in her private study, the Union's summons laid open before her. Its wording was neutral to the point of cruelty.
In the interest of regional stability, the Union Council will assume an active mediating role between the Kingdoms of Valenfirth and Asterfell. All military maneuvering is to be reported. All diplomatic correspondence is to be reviewed.
Active mediation.
Interference, dressed as order.
"They're inserting themselves directly," Serene said, pacing. "No more pretending to be observers."
Zelda adjusted her spectacles, scanning a second copy. "They waited just long enough to justify it. Asterfell's border incursion gave them the excuse."
Aira leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "And Mavren gets to hide behind procedure."
Rhedon's expression was grim. "The Union doesn't act unless pushed. Or paid."
Lysandra said nothing.
She folded the parchment carefully, her movements deliberate.
"They want control," she said at last. "Not peace."
Daren stood near the window, watching the embassy courtyard below as messengers ran between buildings like ants before rain.
"They'll freeze troop movements," he said. "Limit our responses. Force us to justify every defense."
"And every hesitation," Lysandra added quietly.
She turned toward the table.
"But interference cuts both ways."
Everyone looked at her.
"If the Union involves itself fully," she continued, "then its neutrality becomes accountable. Which means—if it has been compromised—we can expose it."
Zelda's eyes sharpened.
"You're thinking bribery."
"I'm thinking leverage," Lysandra replied.
Shadows speak - Valenfirth's intelligence move
The intelligence chamber beneath the embassy had no windows.
That was intentional.
Three figures waited inside—hooded, quiet, disciplined. They did not bow when Lysandra entered. They did not need to.
They were Valenfirth's Veil—operatives trained not for glory, but for silence.
One stepped forward.
"Your Majesty," he said. "We believe King Mavren began cultivating Union councilors months ago. Possibly earlier."
Zelda inhaled sharply. "Names?"
"Not yet," the operative replied. "But patterns."
He placed a ledger on the table.
"Unexplained debt forgiveness. Trade privileges granted unusually fast. Councilors whose estates received 'investments' through intermediaries linked to Asterfell banks."
Daren leaned in. "That's circumstantial."
"Yes," the operative agreed. "Which is why we followed the money."
He slid forward a second document.
This one bore seals.
Foreign seals.
"Asterfell merchant consortiums," he continued, "funneled coin through shell accounts into Union territory. The accounts belong to relatives of three councilors."
Silence settled heavily.
Serene whispered, "That's treason."
"It's influence," the operative corrected. "The Union will deny it unless confronted with proof undeniable enough to fracture its own authority."
Lysandra studied the documents carefully.
"How soon can you trace direct correspondence?"
"Days," the operative replied. "Perhaps less. Mavren grows careless when confident."
Lysandra closed the ledger.
"Continue," she ordered. "Quietly. I want names, signatures, routes. When we act, we do so decisively."
The operatives bowed once and vanished back into shadow.
Daren exhaled slowly.
"If this is true… the Union isn't mediating to stop war."
"They're mediating to protect themselves," Lysandra said.
The line between duty and truth
That night, Lysandra did not sleep.
Neither did Daren.
They found each other in the embassy's upper archive—an unguarded space rarely used after midnight. Shelves of treaties and forgotten histories surrounded them, heavy with dust and precedent.
"You shouldn't be here," Daren said softly.
She smiled faintly. "Neither should you."
They stood close, closer than propriety allowed. Close enough that the weight of the day pressed between them.
"The Union will restrain us," Lysandra said. "They'll delay decisions. Prolong talks. Bleed momentum."
Daren nodded. "And Asterfell will use the pause to reposition."
She turned to him.
"Tell me something honestly," she said. "Not as my knight. Not as my protector."
He met her gaze.
"As yourself."
"Do you believe I am strong enough for this?"
The question was quiet.
Dangerous.
He didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he reached out—hesitant, deliberate—and rested his hand over hers.
"You're the only one I trust to carry it," he said. "Because you doubt yourself."
Her breath caught.
"Power without doubt is tyranny," he continued. "And fear without doubt is panic. You balance both."
Lysandra closed her eyes for a moment.
When she opened them, something had changed.
"I cannot afford this," she whispered. "Whatever this is between us."
"I know," he said.
"And yet…"
"And yet," he echoed.
The silence stretched—tight, charged.
She leaned forward, just enough that her forehead touched his chest.
Not a kiss.
Not a confession.
But an intimacy deeper than either.
"If this becomes known," she murmured, "they'll say you influence me."
Daren's voice was steady. "Then I'll make sure I never do."
She laughed quietly, breath warm against him.
"That's not reassuring."
His hand tightened slightly around hers.
"We keep it secret," he said. "Until the kingdom is safe enough to survive the truth."
She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes.
"Then we are agreed."
He bowed his head. "Completely."
Their hands parted.
But something irrevocable had already taken root.
Asterfell's calculations
Across the city, in Asterfell's embassy, King Mavren smiled.
"The Union intervenes," he said, swirling wine in his goblet. "Predictable."
His advisor hesitated. "Your Majesty… Valenfirth's intelligence network is stronger than expected."
Mavren waved it off.
"They have fragments. We have time."
"And if the bribes surface?"
Mavren's smile thinned.
"They won't. Councilors protect themselves first. Always."
He turned toward the window, gazing at the Union spire in the distance.
"By the time mediation ends," he continued, "Valenfirth will be politically exhausted. Their empress will be isolated. And when she finally acts…"
He raised his goblet.
"…the Union will call her the aggressor."
Convergence
The bells of the Union Council Hall rang at dawn.
Slow.
Heavy.
Unavoidable.
Envoys poured into the square—Valenfirth blue beside Asterfell gold, neutral banners clustered uncertainly between them.
Lysandra arrived in full state regalia.
Daren walked half a step behind her.
Their expressions were composed.
Their secret was intact.
For now.
Inside the Hall, the councilors took their seats—some nervous, some confident, some already calculating their exits.
Asterfell's delegation entered from the east.
Valenfirth's from the west.
Between them stood the Union.
Claiming peace.
Hiding rot.
As Lysandra crossed the threshold, she met Mavren's gaze.
Neither bowed.
Neither smiled.
The doors closed behind them.
And the game entered its most dangerous phase yet.