Beatrice sat motionless, like a statue carved from marble. But inside her, a hum was rising—a dull, burning, unbearable roar. Duke de Vignier lifted his chin.
– So let's end these foolish games of power. Order your boys to remove this nonsense about accusations. And everything will return to its place. – He was calm. So sure of his own impunity that he didn't even think to lower his tone.
She placed her hands on the smooth surface of the table.
Her fingers trembled from restrained tension, but only for a moment.
– Ah, Duke de Vignier! – she said evenly, – you are charged with embezzling funds allocated for recovery after the summer drought. With falsifying registers. With concealing food supplies. And with hiding evidence. – Each word struck like a hammer on a nail.
The duke raised his eyebrow, but the smirk did not leave his face.
– Baseless accusations with no pro—
He didn't finish.
– The evidence is attached! – she cut him off sharply. – Scrolls with your seals! Lists of people you paid for their silence! Scribes' confessions, obtained under torture!
The word "torture" echoed in the hall like a stone thrown into still water. The duke's face paled for an instant.
– But, "dear" de Vignier, if that's not enough for you— she made a brief pause. – You are also charged with using state funds to maintain brothels in the southern quarters.
A whisper rolled through the hall like a wave. Several lords recoiled sharply from the table.
Beatrice did not allow herself a single extra movement.
– According to our data, – she continued, – through fake grain purchases, money was funneled into these establishments. Where it was spent on maintenance, expansion, and protection of the brothels—bringing profits directly to you, milord.
She tossed the scroll onto the table so it rolled open for all to see: financial flowcharts, accounts, descriptions of the deals.
– Under the guise of charitable expenses, you funded your own lecherous pleasures. And fed your greed at the expense of those who starved.
Every word sounded heavy and dull.
The duke stood, pale, but still clinging to the last shreds of self-importance. But the hall was already trembling with silent horror. This was no longer just theft. This was filth. Real, reeking of despair and betrayal.
She straightened slowly.
– Guards.
Theodore nodded silently to the captain standing by the door. Armed guards entered the hall. Their steps echoed under the arches. The duke still tried to save face:
– You wouldn't dare! – he hissed. – I am de Vignier! My name is older than your crown! Your power hangs by a thread! You… you are nothing without us!
The guards surrounded him.
The duke cast a last look at the lords around the table, searching for support. But no one stood. No one spoke in his defense. They all sat, hunched in their seats, heads bowed, as if afraid the next blow would fall on them.
Beatrice looked down at him. There was no mercy in her eyes.
When he finally collapsed to his knees, hysterically begging for mercy, Beatrice forced herself to listen. Every pitiful plea. Every dirty attempt to save his own skin. Rage boiled in her chest. Blood pounded in her temples. But she stood. Silent.
Only when the duke, choking on his own spit, screamed yet another lie about his loyalty to the throne, did Beatrice snap. Her voice broke:
– Enough!
One short word. Dull. Like a sword striking the ground.
And in that "enough" there was so much strength, so much contempt, that the whole hall seemed to shudder. She did not lose control. She smothered her fury inside, then unleashed it—cold and searing—on everyone in that hall.
When the guards led Duke de Vignier away, and the heavy door closed with a dull thud, a thick, boiling silence lingered in the hall for some time. Beatrice stood by the table, straight and unmoving. Every gaze was fixed on her.
Some in fear. Some in bitter anxiety.
She slowly swept the hall with her eyes, her breath uneven, barely containing her anger and fury. And her voice, when it came, was iron-hard:
– The Council is adjourned for today.
Her tone was not a request. It was a command. She paused, letting the weight of her words settle on everyone's shoulders.
– But I give a last chance to those who still harbor the fear of exposure.
She stopped her gaze on each lord, one after another.
– The mercy of the Queen and King… – and she emphasized those words, turning for a moment to Theodore.
Theodore, who had been silent all this time, gave a slight nod—no extra gestures, but enough for the hall to see.
Beatrice continued:
– Mercy will be given to those who confess voluntarily. Who come forward themselves. Who help cleanse the court of lies.
Her voice did not falter.
– For those who persist in their lies, nothing will remain. No name. No honor. No future.
She straightened.
– You have three days.
As she slowly walked to the exit, the heels of her shoes echoed dully across the stone floor. No one stood.
No one dared to bow or meet her gaze.
The lords sat, pressed into their chairs, like schoolboys before an execution.
Only when the heavy door of her chambers closed behind her,
only when silence wrapped around her like wet cloth, did she allow herself to breathe out.
And in that moment her hands trembled—a slight, but very real trembling. Unable to hold herself upright, she slid down to the floor. Her fingers clenched the fabric of her dress so tightly that her knuckles turned white. She stared at the empty wall ahead and felt everything that had held her together all day cracking from the inside. She knew: if she had faltered there, at the Council, if she had shown even a shadow of weakness—those wolves would have torn her to pieces. If she had made even one mistake in a name, a number, a single step—then tomorrow, everything she'd fought for would be lost. She trembled because at last she could. Because no one was watching anymore.
Beatrice ran her hand over her face. Her palm was as cold as stone. She felt beads of sweat running down her temples—the fear she never allowed herself to show. She took a deep breath. Then another. And forced herself to rise.
Three days passed.
The palace froze in a strange anticipation, like a pond before the first crack of ice. The servants moved more quietly than usual. The ladies-in-waiting exchanged glances behind folded hands. Lords and barons disappeared from the corridors, locking themselves in their apartments under the pretense of illness. The first to come were the minor accomplices.
One after another.
People who handled the accounts, forged the reports, transferred gold to the side. Stewards, treasurers of lesser courts, land managers. They bowed before the throne, kneeling, clutching pitiful petitions for mercy. It wasn't so much guilt as fear that drove them:
Beatrice had made it clear at the Council: voluntary confession would ease their sentence.
By the laws of the kingdom, by the old codes, such confessions allowed for "lenient ransom"—a huge monetary compensation to the treasury, loss of office, but life and title spared for repentance. Those who came forward paid the ransom. Sometimes lost lands. Sometimes their people. But they remained alive. Their silence, Beatrice bought with reason, not the sword. For now.
With Duke de Vignier, it was different.
His guilt was proven not only by financial records,
but by humiliating testimonies: gold meant for the army wound up in the hands of brothel owners,
and the profit secretly returned to the duke's personal coffers. That was enough. But even cornered, de Vignier did not lose his nerve.
At the royal tribunal, he behaved defiantly:
argued, was insolent, laughed in the face of fate.
– I sat at the thrones of three kings! – he shouted at Beatrice. – Who do you think you are, little girl, to judge me?
The answer was brief.
Theodore, his expression unchanged, delivered the sentence:
– For years of embezzling state funds, for damage to the royal treasury, for violating the power of His and Her Majesties, Duke de Vignier is stripped of his title and lands, and sentenced to exile in a distant monastery on the Northern Isles.
At that time, it was tantamount to a slow death: bitter cold, poverty, silent cells, where a name was forgotten faster than a face. De Vignier was led from the hall in chains—not as a duke, but as a criminal.
In the shadow of the hall, Beatrice stood tall. She did not watch as de Vignier was taken away. She did not tremble. But inside, where threads of fear, exhaustion, and fragile relief still stretched, she knew: this was only the first step.
The first demon toppled from the throne. And behind that step would have to come a thousand more—if she wanted to survive.
And if she wanted to protect those she could no longer allow herself to lose.