The rhythmic banging had faded, leaving behind a silence that felt heavier than the noise it replaced.
The people of Al'Khem filed out of the great hall, their faces set with a new, hard expression. Their shuffling feet and whispered comments were the sounds of a machine slowly, reluctantly, grinding back to life.
Soon, only three figures remained under the dim glow of the giant crystals: Arthur, Queen Elara, and the ever-present Borin.
Elara stood rigid, her hands clasped before her, a perfect statue of deposed royalty. The [Confusion] and [Fear] Arthur's Gaze saw on her had now coalesced into a sharp, brittle [Rage].
"Borin," she said, her voice tight, not looking at the warrior. "Leave us."
The big man didn't move. His eyes, full of simple, unwavering loyalty, were fixed on Arthur. It was a small moment, but it was everything. The power had already shifted.
Arthur gave a slight nod. "Wait outside the doors."
"Yes, Commander." Borin turned and walked away, his heavy footsteps echoing the finality of the exchange.
Now they were alone.
"You publicly humiliated my most senior minister," Elara began, her voice low and trembling. "You tore down the very legends my family used to give these people a reason to endure."
"I gave them a new reason," Arthur replied calmly. He wasn't looking at her, but at the empty hall, picturing it filled with organized squads instead of a hopeless mob.
"You gave them a tyrant."
"I gave them a leader," he corrected, finally turning to face her. The [Rage] above her head was warring with a powerful undercurrent of [Desperation]. She was looking for a weakness, a way to reclaim what she'd lost.
He decided not to give her one.
"Your family's legacy was a century of slow decay. It was a pretty story told to people in a tomb," he said, his voice free of malice. It was simply a statement of fact. "I have no interest in your stories, or your titles."
He took a step closer. "You are their Queen. You are the symbol. A living link to the world that was lost. That has value. I am their Commander. The one who will make sure they live to see a new world."
He saw the flicker of understanding in her eyes. He was offering her a deal.
"A leader needs a sword to command," he said, tapping his own chest. "But he also needs a crown to legitimize. You will be their symbol of hope—the real, tangible hope of a restored kingdom, not the fairy tale of a sleeping hero. I will be the one who forges the sword to make it happen."
He was offering her a gilded cage, and his Sovereign's Gaze told him she knew it. But it was a cage she could live in. The alternative was to become irrelevant, a ghost in her own home.
Her shoulders slumped, the fight draining out of her. "I see," she whispered. She gave him a long, searching look, then turned and walked away, her footsteps a quiet retreat.
Arthur watched her go, the politician in him savoring the clean, efficient victory. When her footsteps faded, he let out a slow breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.
He leaned his head back against a cold stone pillar and closed his eyes for a single second. The adrenaline from the speech and the confrontations began to ebb, leaving behind a profound exhaustion.
My god, he thought, the phrase a simple, secular curse from his old life. I would kill for a cold drink. Something with ice.
The thought was so out of place, so mundane, that a dry chuckle escaped his lips.
Borin entered the hall again, his presence as reassuring as a fortress wall. "Your orders, Commander?"
Arthur straightened up, the moment of weakness gone. The Commander was back. "Get me the heads of the watch, engineering, and the farms. And whoever is in charge of supplies. Meet me in the tactical chamber in ten minutes."
The meeting was grim. Arthur sat at the head of a large stone table, listening to the reports. The three leaders—a grizzled watch captain, a frail-looking engineer, and a stout woman who ran the fungus farms—were used to giving sanitized reports to the Queen. Arthur's sharp, pointed questions cut through their practiced speeches.
His Sovereign's Gaze made it easy. He saw [Exaggerating Patrol Routes] on the watch captain. He saw [Concealing Spoilage] on the farm master. But it was the old engineer, a man named Patrin, that drew his full attention.
The tag above the man's head was a pulsing, bright red: [TERRIFIED: HIDING CATASTROPHIC FAILURE].
"Patrin," Arthur said, his voice cutting through the other reports. "Water. Give me the status of the main purifier."
The old man flinched. "It is… functional, Commander. The flow is stable, as always."
Arthur leaned forward, his eyes like chips of ice. "The truth," he said softly. "I have no time for anything else."
Patrin's face crumpled. He looked like he was about to cry. "The crystal," he stammered, his voice cracking. "The primary geode that powers the filtration system… it's dying. There are fractures all through its core."
A cold dread settled in the room.
"How long?" Arthur's voice was flat, demanding.
The old engineer swallowed hard, unable to meet his gaze.
"At current consumption rates… thirty days," he whispered. "Forty, if God is merciful and we start rationing now. After that, the water becomes poison."