King Christopher ate slowly.

  The cut of meat on his plate steamed faintly in the warm air of the dining chamber, juices pooling against a smear of dark sauce.

  He took his time with it, chewing as if the act itself required attention. Silverware chimed softly against porcelain. Beyond the tall windows, Rumazete lay half-lit beneath the evening haze, the glow of ward-lamps dotting the town like patient eyes.

  Argus stood a few steps away, hands clasped behind his back, posture rigid with restraint.

  “This cannot continue,” Argus said at last. “The divide is no longer subtle. Rumya and Aranya are hardening into factions, not disagreements. Students are provoking each other openly. Guardians are filing complaints. If violence breaks out—”

  Christopher lifted a finger, not looking up.

  “Try the venison,” he said mildly. “It’s prepared in the Kringston style. Apparently quite popular this season.”

  Argus stared at him.

  “Your Majesty,” he said, carefully, “the realm is not a supper table.”

  Christopher smiled faintly and cut another piece. “Everything is a table, Argus. It’s simply a matter of who is seated and who is served.”

  Argus exhaled through his nose. “You have not punished either side. Rumya accuse you of weakness. Aranya accuse you of partiality. The Accords are being tested daily. If power does not assert itself, people will fill the vacuum themselves.”

  Christopher dabbed his mouth with a linen cloth. His movements were unhurried, almost indulgent.

  “And what would you have me do?” he asked.

  “Execute children? Strip entire bloodlines of privilege? You worry too much.”

  “You call this worry?” Argus gestured toward the windows, toward the unseen streets beyond them. “This is fracture. The longer it goes unchecked, the harder it will be to mend. The realm is edging toward conflict.”

  This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Christopher finally looked at him then.

  Not sharply. Not with anger. Just interest.

  “You’ve been speaking to the Pale Reaches again,” the King said. “I can tell.”

  Argus stiffened. “If you’re drawing inspiration from them, that should alarm you. They barely qualify as a realm. No unified governance. No ethical oversight. They burn through their populations like fuel.”

  “And yet,” Christopher said lightly, “they persist.”

  Argus’s mouth tightened. “At the cost of everything that makes a civilization worth preserving.”

  Christopher leaned back in his chair, studying him. “Do you believe people would remain united if they had no need for a ruler?”

  Argus hesitated. “Unity doesn’t erase the need for governance.”

  “It does diminish it,” Christopher replied.

  “Harmony is expensive. It requires effort. Compromise. Shared sacrifice.” He waved a hand dismissively. “Division, on the other hand, is efficient.”

  Argus felt a chill settle under his ribs.

  “You allowed this,” he said slowly. “You let it happen.”

  Christopher’s expression didn’t change. “I permitted it.”

  Silence stretched between them.

  “You’re playing with volatile forces,” Argus said. “These are not abstractions. They are people.”

  “Energy,” Christopher corrected, almost gently. “Magic. Instinct. Fear. These things don’t vanish when ignored. They must be directed.”

  “By tearing them apart?”

  “By keeping them dependent,”

  Christopher said. “If Rumya and Aranya ever truly unite, what purpose do we serve? A ruler is only necessary when order feels fragile.”

  Argus felt something cold and unpleasant settle into place.

  “You’re harvesting instability,” he said.

  Christopher smiled. Not cruelly. Amused.

  “There are far too many powerful beings in this realm,” he said. “Too many unregulated sources of magic. Their volatility is not a flaw. It’s an asset.”

  “And when it ignites?” Argus demanded.

  “When blood is spilled?”

  Christopher shrugged. “Then we respond. Responsiveness is far more convincing than prevention.”

  Argus stared at him, aghast.

  “This is not governance,” he said. “It’s manipulation.”

  Christopher set his fork down at last. “All governance is manipulation, Argus. Some of us are simply honest about it.”

  He rose from his chair and crossed to the window, looking out over the town below. From here, the streets looked calm. Orderly. Almost peaceful.

  “I will host a ball,” Christopher said. “A gathering. Open invitation. Music. Light. Celebration.”

  Argus frowned. “A ball?”

  “Hatred thrives in silence,” Christopher continued. “Noise dulls it. Glamour distracts. Suppression fields woven into the décor will soften edges, slow impulses.” He glanced back over his shoulder. “The people will feel united. For a night.”

  “And afterward?” Argus asked.

  Christopher’s smile returned.

  “Afterward, they will remember who gave them relief.”

  Argus understood then. The ball wasn’t reconciliation. It was pressure release. A lid placed briefly on a boiling pot.

  “You’re containing it,” Argus said quietly. “Not resolving it.”

  Christopher’s eyes gleamed. “Exactly.”

  Argus said nothing more. He bowed stiffly and left the chamber with the weight of obedience heavy on his shoulders.

  By morning, the Sanctum buzzed with the news.

  A Grand Ball, to be held on the first moon of fall. Open attendance. Formal invitation. Council-sanctioned.

  Students whispered excitedly in the halls. Guardians sent letters ahead of time, eager to attend something that felt like normalcy. Vendors petitioned for stalls. Tailors were suddenly overwhelmed with requests.

  Relief spread faster than fear.

  The announcement went out under the Sanctum head’s seal, language carefully chosen: unity, celebration, peace.

  Argus watched the preparations begin and felt no comfort in them.

  Above the music and silk and polished stone, he heard only the echo of the King’s voice:

  Division is efficient.

  And efficiency, Argus realized too late, rarely cared who paid the cost.