Location: Armathane, Private Solar of the Duchess Time: Day 50 After Arrival
The summons came just after midday.
A steward in violet livery entered Alec's villa chamber without knocking, bowed with mechanical precision, and delivered a single sentence:
"Her Grace, Duchess Vaelora of Midgard, will see you now."
No explanation. No time to prepare.
Alec rose from his desk, closed his journal of notes, and adjusted his cuffs.
"Lead," he said simply.
The Approach
The walk through the palace corridors was slow and deliberate.
The walls of Armathane's keep were adorned with tapestries that told no myths — no gods, no monsters, no celestial battles. Instead, they showed maps. Battle formations. Diagrams of cities under construction. One tapestry showed a wheat field being irrigated by what looked very much like a series of tiered aqueducts.
Another showed Vaelora herself, seated not on a throne, but at a war table.
No crown. Just command.
They ascended two narrow spiral staircases, passed through a guarded antechamber, and finally arrived at a stained glass door shaped like a rising sun.
The steward knocked once, then opened it.
"Enter," came the voice from within.
Alec stepped forward.
And saw her for the first time.
Vaelora
She sat alone at a crescent-shaped desk of pale stone. Her robe was ivory trimmed with black, her golden blonde hair woven into a high knot with golden threading. Her skin bore the faint lines of years spent thinking more than smiling, and her eyes — light hazel, flecked with gray — did not flicker when they met his.
She did not rise.
She did not gesture for him to sit.
But she did speak.
"So. This is the man who rearranged a village like a chessboard."
Alec didn't answer immediately. He studied the room: high shelves with books organized by discipline, a fireplace flanked by iron braziers, a window that overlooked the north gardens — not the city.
Privacy.
This meeting was meant to be seen by no one.
"I assume that makes you the woman who decides which pieces are worth preserving," Alec replied.
Vaelora's mouth curved — not quite a smile. "You answer without flattery. Good."
"I wasn't raised to flatter."
"Then what were you raised to do?"
"To survive. Solve. And remember."
She rose then — tall, poised, not towering but commanding. She circled the desk slowly.
"Describe Midgard to me," she said.
Alec blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You've crossed it. Observed it. I imagine you were cataloging it as you rode."
"I was."
"Then describe it."
Alec folded his hands behind his back. "Your roads are twenty years behind your capital. Your outer villages operate on fear of taxation, not loyalty. Your patrols are disciplined but poorly resupplied. Your harvest yield is sufficient, but inefficient. Your people do not love you."
Vaelora's brow arched.
"But they obey," Alec finished.
She walked to the window, clasped her hands behind her back.
"You've just insulted my infrastructure, questioned my economy, and dismissed my political strategy in fewer than ten sentences."
"I was answering your question."
"And do you think I don't know these things?"
"I think you're the only one here who does."
She turned. "Careful, Alec. Compliments are flattery in disguise."
"I meant it as a warning."
Silence stretched between them like drawn steel.
Then she stepped closer, her voice lower.
"They say you fixed a mill in two days. That you redirected a stream without flooding the valley. That you taught peasants to count in columns and plan their plantings by celestial angles."
Alec said nothing.
"They say," she continued, "you speak languages no one taught you. That your hands are bare but your mind is armored."
Still he remained silent.
"And they say," she said softly, "you fell from the sky."
He met her eyes. "Which of those things frightens you most?"
"None," she said. "Fear is for the unprepared. I deal in calculation."
Vaelora walked to a side table and poured two glasses of pale green wine. She handed one to him.
He took it, inspected the color, and drank.
Not poisoned.
She raised her glass. "To honesty."
"To understanding," Alec replied.
Questions and Pressure
Vaelora sat again. This time, she gestured for him to take the chair opposite.
Alec did so.
"You have no family, no crest, no history. No church claims you. No house names you. Yet you bring knowledge no one else possesses. That makes you a threat, a gift… or a problem."
"I'd argue all three."
"I know."
She leaned forward. "Who are you, Alec?"
He met her gaze. "A man displaced."
"From where?"
"Somewhere you cannot reach."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the best one I can offer."
She regarded him for a long moment.
"You're not mad," she said.
"No."
"You're not a liar."
"No."
"Then you are either telling the truth — or you believe a lie no one else can disprove."
"Does it matter?"
"Only if you intend to stay."
Alec took a slow breath. "I do."
Vaelora's hand tightened slightly on her glass.
"Then I must ask — why here? Why now? Why my lands?"
"I didn't choose them," Alec said. "But I intend to improve them."
"For whose sake?"
"For the sake of what's possible."
Vaelora's gaze sharpened. "That's a dangerous answer."
"It's a true one."
The Demand
She stood again.
"Knowledge is not enough, Alec. Not here. Midgard does not run on theory. It runs on proof. Blood, sweat, coin, and demonstration."
He nodded once. "I expected as much."
Vaelora crossed the room to a rack of scrolls. She withdrew one, opened it, and placed it on the desk.
It was a map of the southern coast — three fishing towns, one marked in red ink.
"Grendale. Eighty miles south. Sits on a cliff-fed river. The tide has destroyed the main wharf. Their inland farmlands rot due to salt flooding. They've petitioned for help three times."
"Why haven't you helped?" Alec asked.
"Because it isn't worth the coin," she said flatly. "Until now."
She turned the scroll to face him.
"Fix it. Not alone — you may take workers, tools, records. But if you are what you claim — if your knowledge is real, if your mind can build — then show me."
Alec traced the river delta with his finger.
"You're testing me."
"I'm measuring you."
"What do I get?"
"If you succeed?" she said. "A seat at my table. Land. Resources. A voice. No one in Midgard will call you stranger again."
"And if I fail?"
"You'll leave Midgard," she said. "Quietly."
She stepped close again.
"And you will not return."
Alec stood.
He held out a hand.
Vaelora took it, palm firm, eyes unblinking.
"Then we have an understanding," he said.
"For now."
Aftermath
He was escorted out not by soldiers, but by a servant in gray.
The corridors seemed darker this time.
He walked slower.
Not because he feared her.
But because he respected her.
Vaelora was not a tyrant. Not a queen pretending to be wise. She was dangerous because she saw through charm and spoke in results. Alec recognized the type.
He was the same.