"As of this week, lumber and pulp production are at 80 percent of ideal quota. Grain and cattle production are at 85 percent of ideal quota. None of the supply stores in the city-states have yet been affected by this shortage, but the court's concern will greatly help this matter and prevent further loss."

As Thaumaturge Mavelin spoke, the entire crowd of nobles sat still in their seats. It was obvious to anyone that they were all bored. Even Marrok, who had sworn that he would make an effort to worry about the country, found himself dozing off on this throne. Never enough to lose hold on his glamour, though.

"Regolith production is at 75 percent of ideal quota. Accidents in the mines have doubled since the last inspection, exactly six months ago. At least twenty labourers are injured and unable to work. There have been many complaints of underpayment and poor conditions." Thaumaturge Mavelin looked about herself. Her brow furrowed. The court's indifference was getting on her nerves. "The heads of the mining corporation have requested you to do a personal inspection, Your Majesty."

Marrok perked up. "Pardon?"

"They believe that meeting their king in person will help appease the angry labourers. A show of care and goodwill can do wonders," she said.

The court began titter. A couple of them snickered. The king, the great and powerful ruler, going down to the filthy mines?

Marrok leaned back and closed his eyes. It was out of the question. They all remembered what happened to the last king when he foolishly decided to do a report himself—and Tybalt hadn't even been down as far as the miners. He had remained in the top office when everything was blown into the air. Even now, after so many years, Marrok still shuddered at the thought. He had vowed never to go down there. That was what the professionals were for.

"I don't see what effect it will have," said the king. "Nothing about my presence will render their jobs any easier. In all honesty, I can only see my visit aggravating them more. Let your team deal with the complaints, Mavelin."

The court bristled. They didn't like to hear the king speak so negatively about himself. Wasn't that the job of the gossipy aristocracy?

"However, My King..."

Marrok turned his head to see Lord Mavelin standing, tall and contemptuous among his peers. The king felt his gut writhing in hatred. "Do you have any good reasoning as to your interruption, Lord?"

The thaumaturge standing below the dais glanced at her cousin, and a sly look passed between the two of them—as they were both out to conspire against the king. "I simply think that my cousin has reason to believe what she does; My King, you have not been to the mines. You do not know what the people think."

Marrok narrowed his eyes. "Do you, Lord Mavelin?"

His grin was smug and righteous and Marrok wanted to punch it away. "Majesty, how can one rule the people when they do not know the people?"

The aristocrats all cringed and giggled at Nolan's statement. They were looking forward to a little action in the otherwise dull proceedings. Now the entire room was tense with excitement. Would the lord be punished, or would he continue to make sport at the king?

"Hold your tongue, Lord Mavelin," Marrok snapped. He forced his voice to deepen and resonate. Nolan's smile faded slightly. "I have said no, and I will not have my orders questioned."

Nolan sat back down, although his eyes still sparkled with contempt. The tension popped, and every aristocrat in the room deflated in disappointment. There would be no bloodshed today. "Thaumaturge Mavelin."

She turned to the king and nodded.

"Please resume your report."

"Of course." The thaumaturge put her hands behind her back. Every word that came out of her mouth was ignored by the king, who simply closed his eyes and seethed. He was beginning to find that he couldn't care less about what the people thought of him. Endless nights were spent with empty coffee cups in his study, his eyes stinging and head spinning, as he struggled to find solutions to the people's struggles. He tried so hard, harder than anyone else in the brainless court. He cared. He cared.

At least, he tried to convince himself that he did. No matter what he tried, nothing was improving. The people still complained. None of the aristocrats seemed willing to help; they were so lost in their wealth and love for lewd fancies that nothing could really convince them to give to those who needed more. He had toyed with the idea of setting up charities and goodwill projects to assist the shells and outer sectors, but he knew that the court would immediately disapprove. Besides, it's something that Aisha would've done—which guaranteed failure. If, in a moment of courage, he imposed a tax on the nobles, they would invade the palace and kill him themselves.

There was nothing he could do.

Not with the horrendous aristocrats that swarmed his home. Not with his exhaustion. Not with the demanding job that had been forced upon him since the very moment of his conception.

At last, at last, Thaumaurge Mavelin finished her report with a bow. The court's boredom sizzled and crackled through the air. It was clear that they wanted something interesting to talk about. Something that had nothing to do with the welfare of the people, but instead with their own gain and status.

Marriages to the two princesses.

Of course, talks about which of the families would get the crown princess' hand were nothing new—ever since Channary was born, the aristocrats began grooming their sons in hope that one of them would become the future king. But Marrok had never expected them to demand Levana as well. Many tittered excitedly; two royal daughters meant a higher chance of tying into the Blackburn line. They all secretly hoped that Marrok and Jannali would eventually have a third.

If Marrok had loathed Nolan before, it was nothing compared to the pure hatred that he felt when he mentioned his infant son, only a few months older than Levana. The idiot was already challenging the king's authority and trying to take his wife; now, he wanted his little girl? Marrok swore that he would never let any member of House Mavelin court either one of his daughters. Who cared if it was out of spite? He was the king, he reminded himself. He could do anything he wanted. He was the most powerful man in all of Luna. He had the perfect queen, perfect daughter, perfect life. Lord Mavelin would do well to learn his place.

He relished in the thought. It was the only thing that kept him calm as the nobles all gawked about his children and boasted about how their own offspring would be the ideal match. Suitors of the highest houses, the only ones that could hope to marry the future queen, simply bored the king. It didn't matter—Channary would marry as ordered. She had no say in the matter. But the more numerous families that hoped for Levana's hand were much more open about their desires. He tried to force down the bile in his throat.

Marcus Ingleger? Much too old.

Leonard Bellay? Much too gaudy and stupid—Marrok wouldn't wish him on anyone.

Horus Dampierre? A known womanizer who regularly raped and beat his servant girls. Marrok would never allow him in the same room as Levana.

Ren Wyndham? A boring recluse who refused to speak to women. The king suspected that the princess would not want to be with such a person who would ignore and neglect her.

On and on this went. He pinned down every noble boy and scrutinized them, coming up with reasons why Levana would never marry them. None of them deserved his precious little girl. He was just doing her a favour for later in life. Perhaps she would not want to marry a man. Perhaps she would want to marry a woman. Perhaps she would not want to marry at all. Perhaps she would want to marry someone she loves. In any case, Marrok wanted to ensure her happiness. He made promises to the wealthier and more powerful houses, simply because they were breathing down his neck like wild dogs—however, he had no intention of keeping those promises.

Even if they grew angry and threatened him, Marrok told himself it was right. They would bring Levana nothing but pain. And wasn't that a good father's duty, to protect his child from harm?


Levana was alone with Jannali in the big playroom. Channary, having gone off to her lessons, was not there to bully her sister or irritate her mother. Instead, the queen sat crossed-legged on the floor, watching Levana crawl around and play with Juno, her new cat. She was white and fluffy with a blue ribbon tied around her neck. Levana was instantly enamored with her and would cry when she was taken away. After a couple of weeks, Juno began to sit at the end of Levana's crib while she slept and kept careful watch, as if to protect her from some unknown threat.

"What are you playing with?" Jannali crooned, smoothing out the pages of the book she had open on her lap. Levana stopped and held out a small doll.

Juno paced towards it, her head cocked in curiosity. Her bushy tail wrapped along Levana's back. "Mine," Levana whined, holding the doll to her chest. It wasn't the first time that Juno had taken some of the princess' toys and chewed them up.

"Juno," Jannali preened, holding out her hand. "Come here."

The cat meowed and waved her tail in the queen's face.

"Come here, kitty," Jannali crooned again.

Juno scratched her ear and bared her teeth.

A few clicking sounds. "Come on...come to Ugly J..."

She was answered by a sharp hiss. Juno's fur was bristled and her claws exposed. Jannali closed her book and set it on the ground, her eyes burning with excitement. It was just like her childhood pets; they had never been very fond of her. "Oh, come here, you stupid—"

She let out a cry of pain as Juno leaped up and scratched her across the face. Furious, Jannali roared and tossed away the shrieking cat. Beads of blood dripped from her cheeks and nose, where Juno's claws had pierced her skin. Said cat rolled away further on the carpet—righting herself, she hissed again at the queen and scurried under the nearby sofa. Levana, who sat silently during the whole thing, stared at her mother with wide eyes and an open mouth. Jannali snarled at her stupid expression and waited for her to begin wailing.

Instead, Levana dropped her doll and laughed.

She laughed at Jannali's anger. At the cat's violence. At the blood running down her mother's face.

Jannali sat for a moment, thoughtful. Her rage ebbed away. With a smile, she dabbed away the blood with her sleeve and scooped Levana up into her arms. "Was that funny, Sweetling?" She took Levana's hand and traced her tiny fingers along her wounds. "Do you like blood?"

Levana cooed. Jannali rubbed her nose against the child's and brought her out of the room. Her guard made sure to follow them closely as she made her way to her chambers, where she stored her weapons and the like. It was time to start Levana's training; it would be a long, difficult process. Really, she had no idea how she would do it. This would have to be a trial-and-error experiment...and she figured that cutting would be a good place to start.

Once alone in her rooms, Jannali set Levana down on the carpet and locked the balcony doors. There was no use in tempting fate—just last week, Levana nearly fell off said balcony when left unsupervised for all of five minutes. Jannali gave Levana some trinket or another to keep her busy and out of trouble as she ventured down to gather her weapons. Down in the bunker, there was nothing but dead silence from her knives and the several human skulls that lined her shelf.

She gently hummed to herself as she rummaged through her weaponry. Axes, maces, swords...it was enough to make an assassin blush. For this first try, she chose two simple blades, short and easy to maneuver. Her grin was contagious and she was met with the exact same smile from her daughter. "Come here, Baby Girl," Jannali enticed, gently waving one of the knives. "Mommy wants to show you something."


Thanks to .hope for the cat's name! I really like it. :) Please leave a review!