"A trade partnership between Zolaria and Velmor," Nyssa stated.
King Soren leaned forward, his expression unreadable. "I see… But Zolaria remains under a trade ban, Princess Nyssa." His tone was firm, yet curious. "That restriction remains in effect for another ten years."
Nyssa met his gaze without flinching. "Article 9B, Section 03.5."
A hush fell over the royal hall. Every noble, every advisor, every guard in the chamber turned their attention to her.
She spoke again, calm and authoritative. "Clause One: Any city, village, or sovereign nation subjected to a trade ban shall be permitted to engage in limited trade following a period of seven years from the initial date of enforcement."
Soren's eyes narrowed. "Elaborate."
"This decree allows a territory to resume commerce—under specific limitations—after enduring seven full years of embargo," Nyssa said. "Zolaria has fulfilled that period. By law, we are entitled to re-enter the market. Albeit cautiously."
"What limitations?" the king asked.
"Trade must be conducted through the Arbitrary Trade Model. Under this model, Zolaria's merchants cannot engage directly with foreign markets. Instead, all imports and exports must pass through an intermediary—a designated 'Trade Vendor.'"
She let that sink in before continuing, voice crisp. "Your merchants cannot sell or purchase goods directly. Everything must flow through the vendor, who will handle all trade on your behalf."
Soren studied her with a piercing gaze. "Princess Nyssa… how do you know of this law?"
Silence thickened the room like fog. All eyes locked on her.
Nyssa smiled faintly. "Let's just say I have a knack for trade and commerce."
King Soren exhaled, the breath slow and heavy, like a man suddenly feeling the weight of something far greater than he anticipated.
"Your knowledge is valuable," he said. "But Velmor… is a nation without fertile land, without mines or forests. We have nothing. We run on hope and prayer. You speak of trade, but—"
Nyssa cut in, smooth as silk, sharp as a blade. "A kingdom without wealth. A land with little to offer. Yes, I understand your doubt. And your hesitation is valid, King Soren."
The king paused, trying to read her. She didn't flinch. Her confidence was unshakable.
"I shared the Arbitrary Trade Model with you not because I expect Velmor to be chosen as your Trade Vendor. There are other nations—richer, more attractive, more powerful—who would kill for this opportunity."
"Then what do you want?" he asked, his voice tightening.
Nyssa's smile deepened, her eyes glinting like the promise of a storm.
"I want the chance to present my offer. Nothing more. Grant me the floor, and I'll make my case to you and your council. Let me earn your trust."
The hall was still. Tension tightened like a drawn bowstring. Soren gestured.
"Then speak."
Nyssa nodded, stepping forward.
"Article 9B, Section 03.5, Clause Two," she began. "Upon the conclusion of a twenty-year trade ban, the affected region shall be granted immunity from future trade restrictions for the next forty years—ensuring uninterrupted participation in recognized economic networks."
She looked around the hall, her voice steady.
"In plain terms: if a land suffers two decades of trade exile, the law protects them for the next forty. No more bans. No more blockades. Just open trade and prosperity."
She paused, then delivered the killing blow.
"But—if Zolaria selects Velmor as its Trade Vendor—I will personally guarantee that no trade bans shall touch your kingdom for the next eighty years."
A murmur rippled through the room.
A royal advisor stepped forward. "Princess Nyssa, we do not doubt your knowledge or your position on the High Council of Trade & Commerce… but not even the Emperor or Empress can rewrite trade law. Not a single word."
Nyssa's lips curled in amusement. "Perhaps not them. But the Vice-President of the Seven Seats can."
The advisor blanched. "No—bu—but how would you convince him?"
She stepped forward, confidence radiating off her like heat. "Because I'm his older sister."
Dead silence.
Another advisor stammered. "Wait… what do you mean by 'his older sister'?"
Nyssa turned to him and replied simply, "The Vice-President of the Seven Seats is my younger brother."
"WHAT?!"
The Royal Hall erupted.
Shock rippled through the room like an earthquake. Nobles gasped. Scribes dropped their pens. Advisors looked at one another in disbelief as the full gravity of her words hit them like a tidal wave.
And in the eye of the storm, Nyssa stood—calm, poised, and in absolute control.
***
Raezel stepped into the room, his presence as calm as it was unnerving.
Krios stood near the doorway, arms crossed, cracking his knuckles as he glared down at the three assassins who had dared to strike at King Eldors. One sat stiffly at an old wooden table, sweat beading on his brow. The other two knelt on the stone floor, trembling like prey before a predator, casting desperate side-glances at Krios—whose grin promised violence.
"Thanks for your help, Sir," Raezel said with a polite nod toward the Royal Knight.
The knight stammered, "P-Prince Raezel, I didn't do anything. It was Prince Krios who stopped the assassins. He saved the king's life."
Krios shot a smug look toward his brother. "At least someone around here knows how to show a little appreciation."
Raezel didn't bite. Silent, unreadable, he walked to the table and sat across from the assassin. His gaze bored into the man, sharp as a blade. He said nothing.
"We—we did it willingly," the assassin stammered, the fear plain in his voice.
"Yes!" cried the second, still kneeling. "We hate King Eldors! That's why we did it."
"He… he let us die out there," the third assassin muttered. "When we begged for help, he turned away."
Raezel remained still. Listening. Watching. Not even blinking.
Then finally, he spoke.
"Brother. I need you."
The room tensed as Krios stepped forward, his expression gleaming with malice. He stood beside Raezel without a word.
Suddenly, blood trickled down the edge of the wooden table.
The assassin across from Raezel screamed.
The knight gasped. The assassin's eyes widened in disbelief as he looked down at his mutilated hand—his finger now a severed mess on the table.
"If you don't stop screaming," Raezel said, voice cold and eerily calm, "I'll take the other one."
Raezel held a dagger, freshly drawn from the strap on Krios' thigh. His grip was steady. His expression—ice.
The assassin tried to stifle his cries, clenching his jaw so hard it trembled. His body shuddered with pain.
The other two assassins looked close to passing out, pale as corpses.
Krios watched silently, then spoke—not aloud, but in thought.
"People always mistake my brother's kindness for weakness. They forget he shares the same blood as me… and Nyssa. He's Medusa's son. In Thaimera, we have a saying: If your interrogator is named Raezel, tell the truth before he even asks. Because it's not an interrogation. It's surgery. And my brother… is the surgeon."
Raezel leaned forward, eyes locked on the assassin.
"I'm not here to play games," he said flatly. "I'm here for the truth."
The dagger hovered over the man's second finger.
"Now start talking. That's the only reason I'm still sitting here."
The room's tension snapped like a whip as a knock echoed at the door. A royal guard stepped in, bowing slightly.
"Prince Raezel, someone's arrived at the Royal Hall requesting to meet you."
Raezel didn't look up. "Do you know who it is?"
"He said his name is Roha, Prince."
Raezel's expression softened. His eyes lit up.
"Roha?"
A rare smile crossed his face.
"Take care of him. He's a dear friend. I'll be with him soon."
Krios stepped in with a smirk. "Go. I'll handle the rest. If they're still lying when you get back… they'll wish they weren't."
Raezel nodded once. "Thanks. If they don't give you the truth—call me."
And with that, he left.
***
In the Royal Hall stood a boy clothed in black tunics and wide-legged pants designed for speed and agility. A crimson royal overcoat, gilded with gold embroidery, hung from his shoulders like a second crown. Tiger-like ears twitched atop his head, and his piercing blue eyes shimmered with wild instinct.
"Roha!" Raezel called out, smiling.
Roha grinned. "I'm happy to see you too, Chief."
Raezel sighed dramatically. "That's the 3,756th time, Roha. We're friends. Stop calling me 'Chief.' Or are you saying you don't see me that way?"
Roha blinked. "No, Chie—Sorry. Raezel."
Before the moment could linger—
"Chief!" two voices called in unison from above.
Raezel turned to find two young girls descending gracefully through the air.
One wore a sleeveless black robe, its high neckline trimmed with constellations of golden thread. A thigh-high slit traced her leg, revealing skin kissed by moonlight.
The other glowed with soft starlight, her blue top radiant as dawn, paired with a flowing navy suspender skirt that danced with every movement.
Raezel chuckled. "Lia. Gia. You two showed up too."
"Yes, Chief!" They sang together. "We came to see you!"
He eyed them suspiciously, lips curling into a playful smirk.
"The Gravity Sisters, huh? Wait a second… did you really come to see me—or did you tag along just to spend time with Roha on the way?"
Both girls flushed. "Wha—WHAT?! Chief, no! It's not like that!"
Roha confused:
"What are you talking about, Chief?"
Raezel sighing with a wicked grin:
"You're still as dense as Broxiam, aren't you, Roha?"
Roha smiling awkwardly:
"I don't really get what you're saying, but if you're saying it, it must be true, Chief."
Raezel groaning and rubbing his forehead:
"At this point, you two should just confess already. This human version of Broxiam is a lost cause. Seriously, Roha—how do you not see it!?"
Lia & Gia muttering under their breath:
"We think so too, Chief..."