Osric's daughter was no longer that gullible child, manipulated by Thulsa Doom's deceitful promises. Her father's death, a grief that had carved bitter lines into her too-young face, had forged her from different stuff. Softness had been burned away in the fires of betrayal and loss, leaving only a cold, unyielding will. She had to be hard. Hard as the steel of the crown she wore, lest she let the legacy her father had left her dissipate.
In the great throne room, bathed in light filtering through the high windows, she stood straight. Dressed not in the sumptuous gowns of her ancestresses, but in an outfit both functional and royal: a fine leather doublet over a white shirt, rider's breeches, and soft boots. Her hair, where a few premature grey strands already mingled with the blond, was pulled into a severe bun. Her beauty, though preserved, had become a weapon, honed by authority and the chill in her gaze.
Facing her, the members of her council, mature and experienced men, seemed to shrink under her attention.
"General Kaul," she began, her voice clear and sharp as a blade. "What is the status of the search for these... serpent's bastards?"
General Kaul, a square-jawed soldier with a scarred face, cleared his throat. "Your Majesty, we are doing what we can. These rats are elusive. This damned cult knows how to hide; it learned from the destruction of its predecessor."
Another man, Steward Morvan, in charge of finances and administration, dared to intervene, his fingers steepled. "If I may, Your Majesty, this entire endeavor is colossal. Perhaps we should... seek external assistance?"
The Queen slowly turned her gaze toward him. "Assistance? From whom?"
General Kaul nearly exploded, flushing red. "Yes, from whom? Who could do better than my men? Your own soldiers, Majesty!"
The Steward remained undaunted. "Calm yourself, General. Your soldiers are doing admirable work, but they are already overburdened. Investigating a clandestine sect, protecting the borders, maintaining order in the city... They only have two hands."
A heavy silence fell. The Queen observed the two men, her face a stone mask. Then, she made her decision.
"The Steward is right," she said, and the General lowered his eyes, defeated. "Issue a bounty. A substantial reward for any information leading to the capture of a high-ranking cult member, or for crucial intelligence on their structure. Have it proclaimed in every tavern and on every square."
She scanned the assembly. "Good. Anything else to add?"
Steward Morvan took a deep breath, knowing he was treading on dangerous ground. "And if... we were to discuss the matter of your heir, Majesty?"
The effect was immediate. All eyes fixed on the Queen, a mixture of hope, worry, and curiosity. The question of succession was a burning issue, a weak point in the sovereign's armor.
The Queen said nothing. She did not move an inch. But an icy chill seemed to sweep through the hall, extinguishing murmurs and freezing smiles. Her gaze, fixed on Morvan, was so intense and so devoid of emotion that the man paled and quickly averted his eyes.
The silence became deafening.
Without a word, without a gesture of anger, the Queen rose. The creak of her chair was the only sound. She turned on her heel and left the throne room, leaving behind a council of silent, terrified statues. The matter of the heir was closed. For now, the kingdom would have only one crowned head: hers. An Iron Queen, seated on a throne inherited from grief.