The southern islands lood in Ravenna’s mind—fertile, strategically positioned, and most importantly, controlling access to the Otto-Bolita Strait.
Her fingers clenched. "I could raise an army and annex them within a season," she admitted to herself, it would allow her to easily get rid of the order of expansion.
"I'd need a justification that the Hilde Kingdom would accept. Sothing more substantial than personal ambition."
The thought crystallized into a decision. "Hughes!" Her voice cut through the study's quiet like a blade.
The door opened almost instantly, as if he had been waiting just beyond it—which, knowing Hughes, he likely had. "Yes, your highness?" He stood at attention, his ever-present sword around his waist, his sharp eyes already scanning the room for clues to her mood.
Ravenna rose from her desk in a fluid motion, the black sheer one-piece she wore clinging to her like a second skin.
"Contact the rchant Association," she commanded, her tone leaving no room for hesitation. "I need intelligence on the current state of the Southern Islands—everything. Current events, political instability, economic conditions, even tavern rumors. If it’s whispered in a port or scribbled in a ledger, I want to know."
Hughes didn’t flinch. "Understood, your highness."
He inquired if she needs anything specific "Shall I prioritize any particular faction? The Hilde-aligned governors, perhaps? Or the local insurgents?"
"All of them," Ravenna said, waving a hand dismissively. "I don’t care who they swear fealty to—if they breathe on those islands, I want their weaknesses laid bare."
Hughes bowed sharply and turned to leave, but Ravenna wasn’t done. "And send for Alice."
Within monts, her sharp-eyed accountant maid appeared, her posture relaxed but her gaze alert.
"Tell High Priest Jas the public execution is to proceed as planned," Ravenna said, her voice cool. "And remind him that if the pyres don’t burn bright enough to be seen from the docks, I’ll consider it a personal insult."
Alice nodded and smirked. "He’ll appreciate the motivation."
Dungeon Under the Lord Castle, Jola City, Jola Island
The criminal dungeon air hung thick with the scent of damp stone and rusted iron, the flickering torchlight casting long, wavering shadows across the moss-slick walls. The newest prisoner stumbled as the guards shoved him into the cell, his chains clanking against the rough-hewn floor.
Blinking in the dim light, the man squinted at the figure slumped against the far wall—a ragged silhouette with dark, matted hair and the bearing of soone who had once known power.
"A-Are you Lord Raymond?" the newcor ventured, his voice hoarse from disuse.
A dry, mirthless chuckle echoed through the cell. "My, my. Even in this pit, I’m still recognized." The figure lifted his head, revealing a face that might have been handso once, before bruises and neglect had taken their toll. "Yes, you lowborn wretch. I am Raymond Heathcliff, cousin to Edward Jola—the forr Duke of Jola." His voice dripped with bitter pride, the na spoken like a relic of a lost era.
The new prisoner cautiously settled onto the grimy straw beside him. "That damn princess," Raymond spat, his chains rattling as he shifted. "Her knights dragged here like so common thief. ! A noble of the blood!"
His cellmate raised an eyebrow. "Aren’t you that child predator they dragged through the streets on the first month of their arrival?" He shrugged at Raymond’s glare. "Don’t look at like that. I’m no saint either, but even I wouldn’t badmouth Her Highness. She’s cleaning up this island."
Raymond’s lip curled. "And what noble cri landed you in here? Stealing bread?"
"Stealing bread? Petty Cris like that are relics of the past in Jola now, I Tried to smuggle a murderer off the island," the man admitted, scratching his unshaven jaw. "One of the forr slaves. Couldn’t set his differences aside. Stabbed a Herptian follower right in the market square."
"Ha!" Raymond barked, the sound sharp in the cramped space. "A slave? This is what happens when peasants forget their place. That princess parades around like so savior, but she’s just stirring the pot. And I’m the one rotting here?"
The cellmate’s expression darkened. "You’re here because you made this island suffer. Noble blood doesn’t wash off cruelty."
"You bastard—!" Raymond lunged, chains snapping taut as his fists grabbed for the man’s throat.
"Enough!" A gauntleted hand slamd against the iron bars, the clang reverberating through the dungeon. A knight stood in the torchlight, his visor raised to reveal cold, impatient eyes. "Raymond Heathcliff. On your feet. You’ve been summoned."
The knight didn’t dignify him with a response. The cell door groaned open, its rusted hinges screaming in protest, and Raymond was hauled to his feet. The two armored escorts fell into step behind him, their presence a silent threat—one wrong move, and they wouldn’t hesitate to remind him of his place.
The dungeon corridors stretched before them, a labyrinth of damp stone and flickering torchlight. The air was thick with the stench of mildew and despair, the occasional moan of another prisoner echoing through the gloom. Raymond’s bare feet scraped against the uneven floor, his chains clinking with every step.
He couldn’t help himself. "So," he began, his tone artificially light, "I heard sothing about slaves on the island now? What’s that about?"
Silence.
Raymond gritted his teeth. Eight months. Eight months he’d been rotting in this pit, cut off from the world beyond these walls. The last he’d seen of the outside, his cousin Edward had been fleeing Jola under the Emperor’s decree, abandoning what he’d called "this wretched backwater" without a second glance.
Raymond had stayed, of course—why wouldn’t he? His mansion had been full of entertainnt, and he’d been certain his noble blood would shield him from consequence.
Then she arrived.
Princess Ravenna had swept in like a storm, and within days, his world had crumbled. His "toys" had been freed, his assets seized, and he’d been dragged through the streets in chains before being tossed into this hellhole.
But maybe… just maybe… A spark of hope flickered in his chest. “Edward must have finally intervened.” It was the only explanation. No noble, not even Ravenna, would dare keep soone of his lineage imprisoned indefinitely. The political fallout would be—
"Shut up and walk." The knight’s voice was a whip-crack in the darkness, shattering his thoughts.
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