Chapter 23: Among Lions

The silence after Viar’s words lasted approximately three seconds.

Which, considering the number of nobles packed around one table, was probably a national record.

Then one of the unfamiliar council members leaned back in her chair and looked directly at me.

She was a middle-aged Lionkin woman wearing a dark crimson gown beneath a sleeveless formal coat. Several jeweled pins decorated her collar, each shaped like tiny lions because apparently this kingdom had signed an exclusive contract with one animal and intended to get its money’s worth.

Her eyes traveled over me once.

Not rudely.

Assessingly.

Then she looked toward Viar.

“A Spriggan?”

There it was.

No hello.

No welcome.

Straight to species-based employment concerns.

Efficient woman.

Her gaze returned to me.

“Really?”

I said nothing.

Not because I had suddenly become shy.

If that ever happened, someone should immediately check me for poison.

But Leyra had drilled one useful diplomatic lesson into me earlier.

Sometimes shutting up was the correct move.

Horrifying concept.

I sat with my hands relaxed near the edge of the stone table, expression calm, posture straight.

Professional Caled.

The council could meet Idiot Caled after introductions.

Viar looked toward the woman.

“Lady Dren, I admit that appointing an outsider to such a position is unusual.”

Lady Dren.

Good.

Name acquired.

“But,” Viar continued, “I have learned not to dismiss the Great Sage when she believes something deserves attention.”

His gaze shifted briefly toward Zeria.

“There are few judgments I trust more.”

Dren leaned back.

She did not look convinced.

Not hostile either.

Just wary.

Fair.

From her perspective, some random lone Spriggan had arrived a few days ago, received Zeria’s personal crest, met the royal family, and was now sitting in a council meeting discussing national war policy.

If I were her, I would have questions too.

Possibly several involving security failures.

Before Dren could respond, the bald noble spoke.

He sat two chairs away from her.

Completely bald.

Not thinning.

Not receding.

The man’s scalp had accepted defeat and moved on with dignity.

He wore layered blue robes lined with silver thread, and his fingers were covered in rings.

I had already decided I disliked him before he opened his mouth.

Then he opened it and proved my instincts deserved raises.

“None of us are questioning the Great Sage.”

His tone said exactly the opposite.

Ah.

Passive aggression.

Beautiful.

The conversational equivalent of poisoning someone’s tea and then asking why they looked pale.

He smiled faintly.

“The Great Sage has never failed this council.”

A pause.

“So far.”

There it was.

I almost sighed.

My least favorite type of person.

If you disliked someone, just say it.

Throw a chair.

Challenge them to ritual combat.

Write an insulting poem.

Anything but this polite little verbal knife nonsense.

Zeria did not react.

That interested me.

The cheerful woman who could become emotionally invested in fried monster claws had vanished entirely.

She sat with her fingers loosely folded on the table, watching the bald noble with the patience of someone who had heard this exact tone many times before and had already calculated sixteen responses but decided none were worth the oxygen.

Queen Milfy responded instead.

“I see no reason tonight should become the first occasion.”

Her voice remained elegant.

Soft.

But the words landed with enough precision to make several people around the table glance toward her.

She looked at the bald man.

“Lord Balder.”

So that was Balder.

Of course it was.

Bald Lord Balder.

The universe had gotten lazy with naming.

He smiled politely toward the queen.

“Of course, Your Majesty. I merely believe caution has value.”

“So does trust,” Milfy replied.

Balder stopped smiling.

Tiny victory.

Across the table, the youngest council member began tapping one finger against the stone.

He looked maybe early thirties, which made him practically an infant compared to some of the fossilized political expressions around us.

His golden hair was tied loosely behind his neck. Unlike several others, he wore relatively simple dark formal clothing with only one silver lion emblem near his collar.

“I trust the Great Sage.”

Everyone looked toward him.

He shrugged.

“If we are counting history, we should count all of it.”

Balder’s expression tightened.

The younger noble continued.

“She was the reason the civil war in our region ended before it consumed half the eastern territories.”

That got my attention.

Civil war.

Interesting.

Zeria glanced toward him.

No smile yet, but her expression softened slightly.

Viar nodded.

“Thank you, Lord Heim.”

Heim.

Okay.

Heim leaned forward.

“But whether this Spriggan deserves his position is not the greatest problem before us.”

I raised an eyebrow internally.

Good.

Someone with priorities.

He gestured toward me.

“I did not leave my territory in the middle of the night to debate whether a lone Spriggan should serve as temporary diplomat.”

Temporary.

Accurate.

“I came because the kingdom is approaching war.”

His gaze shifted across the table.

“And because our experienced diplomats already failed.”

Oh.

That sentence found its target.

A middle-aged Lionkin man seated opposite Heim stiffened immediately.

He was broad through the shoulders, dressed in expensive green and gold, with a neatly trimmed beard and the facial expression of someone who had never once entered a room without assuming he was the smartest person inside.

He frowned.

“I failed because the queen of that miserable kingdom is stubborn beyond reason.”

There we go.

Lord Friendly.

Heim looked unimpressed.

The middle-aged noble continued.

“Queen Firsa refused every reasonable condition I presented.”

Interesting.

So this was one of the diplomats Leyra had mentioned.

The man had negotiated personally with the Tigerkin queen.

Judging by his current attitude, I began developing theories about why the conversation had not gone well.

He waved one hand dismissively.

“I will not waste my time flattering a woman who refuses to understand her position.”

Another man immediately scoffed.

This one sat nearer the end of the table.

Also middle-aged, though thinner, with narrow eyes and a black-and-gold formal coat.

“But her kingdom is apparently worth starting a war with, Lord Yori?”

Ah.

Green coat was Yori.

Yori’s head snapped toward him.

“What did you say?”

“I asked a simple question.”

The thinner noble leaned back calmly.

“If Queen Firsa was not worthy of your time, why is she suddenly worthy of thousands of our soldiers’ lives?”

Oh.

I liked him.

At least temporarily.

Yori pushed his chair backward and stood.

The scrape echoed through the chamber.

“You dare question me, Feig?”

There.

Thin man was Feig.

Names acquired at dangerous speed.

Yori pointed across the table.

“A minor lord who clawed his way into this council by licking the boots of every superior willing to tolerate him?”

Feig’s expression did not change.

That somehow made it funnier.

I looked between them.

This was excellent.

National crisis aside, royal councils apparently came with free theater.

I remained silent.

Professional Caled continued behaving.

Internally, I had already purchased front-row seats.

Feig smiled.

“Interesting accusation from a diplomat who returned without an agreement.”

Yori’s face reddened.

He took one step away from his chair.

Viar slammed his palm against the stone table.

“Enough!”

The sound cracked through the hall.

Every voice died.

Even Yori stopped.

King Viar did not need to shout often.

Apparently when he did, the room remembered who owned the building.

Yori slowly returned to his chair.

Feig looked away.

I took mental notes.

Council etiquette rule number one.

Do not make the king use the dad voice.

Viar’s eyes moved between them.

“We are not here to reopen personal grievances.”

Nobody responded.

“Good.”

He turned toward one of the older men.

This council member looked slightly younger than Balder but older than Viar, with streaks of white through his golden hair and lines carved deeply around his eyes.

Unlike Yori, he looked tired rather than arrogant.

The kind of tired caused by receiving too many reports containing the words incident and border.

“Lord Nalrus.”

The older noble straightened.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“What is the latest situation along your territory?”

Ah.

Border lord.

That explained the face.

Nalrus folded his hands.

“Worse than the report I sent this morning.”

The room tightened.

Viar frowned.

“How much worse?”

“Tension is increasing faster than expected.”

Nalrus glanced around the table.

“It began as scattered arguments between patrols and merchants. Nothing unusual for neighboring territories with strained relations.”

He paused.

“Then an army belonging to a certain noble entered my border without authorization.”

Oh.

Here we go.

Nalrus’s eyes moved toward the last unfamiliar lord.

Everyone else followed.

So did I.

The man sitting near Balder had a scar running diagonally across his face from his temple to the edge of his jaw.

Heavy build.

Short golden hair.

Dark military-style clothing despite lacking Nemris’s official knight insignia.

He looked completely unconcerned.

That was probably not promising.

Nalrus continued.

“That force attacked Agranian travelers passing through my territory.”

Scar Face leaned back.

“You say that like I invaded your estate.”

“You sent armed men into my jurisdiction without my consent.”

“The location was near both our borders.”

“That changes nothing.”

Scar Face’s expression hardened.

“I did what was necessary.”

Nalrus stared.

“Necessary.”

“Yes.”

Scar Face planted one thick hand against the table.

“We cannot allow those Tigerkin vermin to wander wherever they please.”

The room went colder.

Even Yori looked toward him.

Nalrus’s jaw clenched.

“They were merchants.”

Scar Face shrugged.

“Agranian merchants.”

“Merchants.”

“They were inside territory we control.”

“Passing through an established trade route.”

“Which should have been closed.”

Nalrus leaned forward.

“You attacked civilians.”

“They resisted.”

I looked toward Nemris.

Her face had become stone.

Not normal Nemris stone.

A colder version.

The kind suggesting she had already formed several opinions about Scar Face and none involved friendship.

Zeria remained still too.

But her eyes were sharp.

Very sharp.

Viar lifted one hand before the argument could ignite.

“What happened has happened.”

Nalrus stopped.

Scar Face sat back.

Viar’s expression darkened.

“I cannot reverse it. None of us can.”

His gaze moved across the table.

“We deal with what follows.”

Nalrus nodded slowly.

“Agran has already mobilized.”

That landed harder than anything before it.

He continued.

“Scouts confirm their army is marching toward our border.”

No murmurs this time.

Nobody seemed surprised enough.

Which meant everyone here had probably suspected it already.

I looked at the map.

Small carved pieces rested near one section of the border.

Agran.

Inizio.

Two kingdoms of roughly equal strength.

One extremely avoidable incident.

And now armies were moving.

Fantastic.

Civilization.

We invent language, diplomacy, laws, trade, and councils.

Then somebody punches a merchant and everyone gets swords.

Lord Yori smiled.

Actually smiled.

“Good.”

Several heads turned.

He leaned forward.

“Let them cross.”

I already disliked where this was going.

“Once their troops enter our territory, we destroy them.”

He swept one hand across the map.

“And if Agran sends another army, we destroy that one too.”

Feig rubbed his forehead.

Viar simply shook his head.

Yori continued.

“Queen Firsa understands strength. Nothing else.”

“You failed to make her understand anything,” Feig muttered.

Yori turned.

Viar raised one finger.

Both stopped.

Zeria finally spoke.

“What if we show strength without beginning the war?”

Every eye shifted toward her.

There she was.

Great Sage mode.

Her voice was calm.

No childish energy.

No playful rhythm.

Just clarity.

Viar looked interested.

“Explain.”

Zeria placed one finger on the map near the border.

“Agran’s first force is already marching.”

“Yes,” Nalrus said.

“We cannot undo Lord Garren’s mistake.”

Scar Face looked offended.

Good.

Garren.

Final name acquired.

Zeria continued as if she had not noticed.

“But we can decide how we respond.”

Yori scoffed.

“With soldiers.”

“With restraint.”

That silenced him.

Zeria looked toward Viar.

“We defeat the approaching army.”

Lord Dren frowned.

“That sounds remarkably similar to war.”

“Not if we do it correctly.”

Zeria moved one of the carved markers slightly.

“We incapacitate them.”

Her eyes lifted.

“We do not kill them.”

Several nobles exchanged looks.

Dren leaned forward.

“And who exactly will accomplish that?”

Zeria answered immediately.

“Nemris.”

I looked toward the Lord Commander beside Viar.

Nemris did not react.

Of course she didn’t.

Someone had just proposed sending her against an army with instructions basically reading:

Please win without killing anyone.

Normal people would request clarification.

Nemris looked like someone had asked her to pick up groceries.

Balder laughed.

Not loudly.

Just enough to be irritating.

“A charming idea.”

Zeria looked toward him.

Balder spread his hands.

“But the Agranians will not arrive with similar mercy.”

“No.”

“They will try to kill our troops.”

“Yes.”

“And you propose sending one commander to capture them?”

Zeria tilted her head slightly.

“That is why I proposed Nemris.”

The room went quiet.

Balder’s smile weakened.

Zeria continued.

“Ordinary soldiers cannot defeat her.”

Her gaze shifted briefly toward Nemris.

“An army of ordinary soldiers does not change that.”

No boasting.

No dramatic praise.

Simple statement.

That somehow made it more convincing.

Nemris remained expressionless.

I looked at her.

Right.

This was the woman who had been considered too powerful to allow a quiet career.

Suddenly the kingdom’s decision looked slightly less absurd.

Zeria returned her attention to the map.

“If we kill Agran’s soldiers, their next force will march for revenge.”

She moved another marker.

“If we capture them alive, the situation changes.”

Nalrus nodded slowly.

“Prisoners.”

“Yes.”

Zeria looked around the table.

“We defeat the force decisively enough that Agran understands we could have killed them.”

Her finger tapped the map.

“But we choose not to.”

Queen Milfy smiled.

Not playful.

Approving.

“So we demonstrate strength and mercy at the same time.”

Zeria nodded.

“Exactly.”

Milfy’s hand rested lightly near Viar’s.

“We show them that Inizio is capable of destroying the force they sent but has no desire to turn this into slaughter.”

Heim leaned forward.

“And the prisoners give us leverage.”

“Not leverage for threats,” Zeria corrected.

“Leverage for conversation.”

That distinction mattered.

Interesting.

“We contact Agran,” Zeria continued. “We request a parley regarding the captured soldiers.”

Dren’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

“And use the parley to reopen negotiations.”

Zeria nodded.

“Yes.”

The room fell silent.

Not skeptical silence.

Thinking silence.

Different creature.

I looked around.

Even Balder was no longer smiling.

Yori looked unhappy, which improved the proposal automatically.

Garren seemed irritated that nobody was discussing additional merchant punching.

Nalrus looked relieved.

Feig looked interested.

Heim tapped one finger against the table again.

“Who handles the parley?”

Several eyes shifted.

Zeria smiled.

And there she was.

Not full cheerful Zeria.

But enough.

The familiar little curve appeared at the corner of her mouth.

I immediately became suspicious.

“Perhaps,” she said, “it is time to test our new diplomat.”

Every head turned toward me.

Wonderful.

I had been sitting quietly for too long anyway.

Zeria’s blue eyes met mine.

Great Sage smile.

The one that usually meant she knew exactly what she was doing while everyone else was three conversations behind.

Heim studied me.

Then nodded once.

“Reasonable.”

Balder looked personally offended by the concept.

“I cannot believe we are seriously placing our confidence in an outsider.”

There it was again.

I turned toward him.

No grin.

No joke.

No irritation.

Diplomat Caled.

I inclined my head politely.

“You need not offer me blind confidence, my lord.”

Balder blinked.

My tone was measured.

Formal.

Exactly the version Leyra had spent all day hammering into me.

“Allow me the opportunity to earn it.”

That caught him off guard.

Beautiful.

His mouth opened slightly.

Then closed.

He cleared his throat.

Looked away.

I kept my expression perfectly neutral.

Inside, I celebrated like a child who had successfully thrown a rock through an enemy window.

Leyra saw it.

I knew because the tiniest smile appeared on her lips.

Zeria continued.

“If the parley succeeds, we move to the next stage.”

Viar looked toward her.

“Direct negotiation with Agran.”

“Yes.”

Zeria looked toward Leyra.

“Sir Caled will travel to Agran with Crown Princess Leyra as part of a formal diplomatic mission.”

A few nobles shifted.

Leyra remained composed.

Zeria continued.

“I have met Queen Firsa personally.”

That immediately drew my attention.

“She is difficult,” Zeria said, “but she is not cruel without reason.”

Yori scoffed under his breath.

Nobody cared.

“She respects diplomatic protections,” Zeria continued. “She will not harm a messenger sent under peaceful terms.”

Her gaze moved toward Leyra.

“And certainly not a crown princess arriving openly as an envoy.”

Leyra gave a graceful nod.

“If Father and the council approve, I will fulfill the role expected of me.”

Perfect princess voice.

Soft.

Controlled.

Nobody around the table had seen her threatening to snap my neck while teaching ballroom dancing.

Probably.

Leyra looked toward me.

“Though based on what I personally observed during Sir Caled’s training today, I suspect he may perform better than many here expect.”

There.

Personal observation.

Correct timeline.

She had spent the entire day teaching me.

Her smile softened slightly.

Only enough for me to notice something beyond formal approval.

I returned a polite nod.

“Your confidence is appreciated, Princess.”

Yori looked unconvinced.

Balder looked even less convinced.

Dren seemed thoughtful.

Nobody openly objected.

Probably because Zeria’s proposal had already solved several problems at once.

Stop the approaching force.

Avoid unnecessary deaths.

Create prisoners.

Use prisoners to open parley.

Use parley to establish diplomatic contact.

Then send an official envoy.

Incredibly competent plan.

I looked at Zeria.

Hard to believe this was the same woman who had nearly tripped from excitement after winning a monster bet.

Dren spoke again.

“What concerns me is not the negotiation.”

She looked directly at me.

Her tone had changed.

No skepticism now.

Actual concern.

“The parley would occur near an active military situation.”

I listened.

“You intend to send a lone Spriggan onto a battlefield?”

The room shifted slightly.

Reasonable concern.

Spriggans operated best with other Spriggans because of their resonance.

Everyone here believed I was one.

A lone Spriggan showing up near armies probably sounded like sending a bird after removing its wings.

Zeria looked at me.

Then smiled.

Not innocent.

Not entirely.

Meaningful.

Oh.

I knew that look.

“Believe me, Lady Dren,” she said, “Sir Caled will manage.”

Dren frowned.

“You sound certain.”

“I am.”

“How?”

Zeria’s eyes remained on mine.

That secret sat between us.

She knew what I was.

She knew what I could do.

More importantly, she knew exactly what being surrounded by fighters using different skills meant for someone like me.

The battlefield was danger.

Yes.

It was also information.

Opportunity.

And Zeria knew it.

She tilted her head slightly.

“I actually suspect a battlefield may suit him better than a quiet council chamber.”

Several nobles looked confused.

Nemris looked interested.

Leyra looked toward me.

Viar’s eyes sharpened.

Zeria’s smile grew by the smallest amount.

“Wouldn’t you agree, Sir Caled?”

I leaned back slightly.

For a moment, nobody spoke.

They were waiting.

Seven nobles who knew almost nothing about me.

A king who had hired me because he was curious.

A queen studying every reaction.

A crown princess who had already discovered I could fight.

Nemris, who still thought I was simply a very strange Spriggan.

And Zeria.

The one person in the room who understood why putting me near combat might be a spectacular idea.

I let a faint smile appear.

Not my usual shameless grin.

Something smaller.

Controlled.

“Perhaps it is time I showed everyone a little of what I can do.”

Viar nodded repeatedly at my answer.