"That sentiment rings rather hollow coming from your lips..." "Thank you for your wisdom, Lord Grand Pip." The queen deftly cut off Duke Snit's barbed remark. "Lord Grace, can your forces be made ready to march?"

  "With minimal preparation, we stand ready to depart immediately." The queen nodded with satisfaction. "Then before we conclude this council, I summon all Royal Knights forward for the oath ceremony."

  "Oath ceremony?!" Rhones Lord nudged Claire's elbow in alarm. "You never mentioned planning this ritual."

  "This rite is meant only for when the Godmans are through the city gates," she murmured close to his ear. "I did not think their wolves would be at our throats so soon."

  "You should have forewarned me, Claire. That interminable oath lies beyond my recollection."

  The Royal Knights traded uneasy looks. Few among them truly knew the ancient ritual, one invoked only when the very heart of Cynthia faced annihilation, a ceremony unseen for generations. In this moment of confusion, Sir Belivid, the venerable sixty-year-old knight, became their salvation, guiding his brethren through the solemn ritual. Twelve knights arranged themselves in a perfect semicircle before the throne, right knees pressed to the floor, both hands clasping sword hilts with blades pointed downward. Then, to universal astonishment, Blancheless Liwendell, still clad in her silken court dress, knelt at the center of the formation, gripping a ceremonial blade. "What in the world are you doing?!" Rhones exclaimed.

  "Your Majesty!" Duke Snit sprang to his feet as if catapulted, "What is the meaning of this unseemly display?"

  Claire Grace serenely disregarded the rising murmurs. "Is it not self-evident?" she replied with tranquil assurance, allowing herself the faintest smile at Snit's theatrical indignation. "I am bestowing knighthood upon my handmaiden, the Mistress of the Robes, Blancheless Liwendell."

  "This borders on impropriety, Your Majesty." The Archmage's voice carried reluctant concern. "Surely Your Majesty has not forgotten—throughout Cynthia's recorded history, never has a woman been elevated to knighthood. Neither in Duviliel, nor Brigar, nor any northern realm has such precedent been established."

  "Then today we establish one." Claire Grace's response brooked no argument. Duke Snit's complexion darkened to crimson; visibly suppressing his outrage, he sank back into his seat. None dared voice further objection—all recognized the queen's immovable resolve, whether born of righteous conviction or royal obstinacy.

  Queen Claire accepted the ceremonial longsword, momentarily acknowledging its solemn weight. "Blancheless Liwendell of Duviliel, firstborn daughter of the Duke of Grandburg," she proclaimed, resting the gleaming blade upon her handmaiden's right shoulder. "By the sacred name of the Goddess Goria, I bestow upon you supreme courage and wisdom. May your conscience serve as Cynthia's impenetrable shield; your righteous anger as Cynthia's unstoppable sword." Then to the left. "Let your justice be Cynthia's true scales; your endurance, Cynthia's deepest shade. And here, before all," the queen's voice rang with formal power, "I dub you Knight." She relinquished the ceremonial blade to her attendant. "Knights of the realm, you may now recite your oath."

  Most Royal Knights found themselves struggling to recall the archaic verses, with only the elder statesmen Sir Belivid and Sir Pawasid possessing complete mastery of the text. Together with the newly-knighted Blancheless, they led the recitation, while their brethren followed with various degrees of success.

  (Guided by the eternal light of Goddess Goria, we stand assembled, pledging our lives to Cynthia's service. In times of peace, we shall be guardians of the weak, protectors of women and children, wielding justice's scales as we journey tirelessly from city to village, ever seeking the welfare of our people. In times of war, we shall stand as the bulwark of our nation, striking down all who threaten our lands, carrying vengeance's sacred flame across blood-soaked battlefields, securing tranquility for our beloved homeland. As dusk descends, we become the vigilant moon above; as dawn breaks, we transform into morning's first light. We shall remain eternally at our sovereign's side: when she rides to hunt, we become the unerring arrows in flight; when she presides at feast, we stand as watchful shadows. Her burdens become our burdens; her triumphs, our triumphs. We shall fight alongside our sovereign, raise victory's cup at her table, or embrace defeat at her feet should fate demand it. We are the Goddess's faithful servants, the sovereign's most trusted heart. We shall become the unbreakable sword, the arrow that never strays, the shield that never yields, the flame of righteous judgment. We fight for our queen, for Cynthia, our resolve unyielding, our loyalty unbroken unto death.)

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  For the first time in his service, Rhones Lord recited the oath in its entirety. He recognized its ancient origins dating to the Ptolemaick era—the battle-cry of Alaxia's legendary knights, once more elaborate still, perfectly embodying the Argonian spirit and divine inspiration. He awaited Claire's signal to rise, his knees protesting the extended genuflection. But Queen Claire Grace did not bid them rise.

  Instead, what came next sent a shock through the hall, a wave of disbelief bordering on alarm. Claire Grace, Queen of Cynthia, took from an attendant the fabled Sword in the Lake—Illutasingēr, the holy blade, legend-sworn to bring victory if a true oath was made upon its steel—and then, before her knights, before all her stunned court, she sank to her knees. The Hall of Glory erupted in gasps and exclamations; Archmage Hamilton nearly toppled backward from his seat. Some courtiers instinctively dropped to their knees, others stood frozen in bewilderment, while a few, Duke Snit among them, remained seated with thinly-veiled contempt. The queen gripped the sacred sword vertically before her and began her solemn vow.

  (I, Princess of Duviliel, Queen of Cynthia, Claire Grace, hereby swear by the divine grace of Goddess Goria, by the sacred power of this blade—Illutasingēr: I shall lead Cynthia's armies into battle, fighting alongside my people. I shall know neither fear nor hesitation, shall never retreat before the enemy, shall never surrender our sacred soil. I shall slay or expel every invader who dares trespass upon our lands, offering mercy where merited, but never misguided pity. From this moment forward, until Cynthia's complete and final victory is secured, I shall not again sit robed in royal finery upon this throne.)

  Claire Grace disregarded the murmurs that followed her unprecedented oath, and graciously signaled for her knights to rise. "Rhones," she addressed her knight-commander, "you shall remain here to safeguard Phyal."

  "Absolutely not!" the knight protested vehemently. "My place is at your side in Kadenford!"

  "This is not a request, but a royal command." Claire's tone remained gentle despite her firmness. "Your duty extends beyond Phyal alone; should emergency arise, you may be required to reinforce Lord Grand Pip at Pafaheim. With Baron Grace and his forces at my disposal, my safety is assured."

  "You have forgotten, Claire—Your Majesty—that King Salt met his end at Crivi precisely because he ventured forth without the protection of even a single Royal Knight..."

  "Which is precisely why I must now step forward in his stead, for Cynthia's salvation." She placed a comforting hand upon his armored shoulder. "Blancheless shall accompany me—she will ensure my wellbeing." The knight cast a momentary glance of barely concealed jealousy toward the newly-elevated Blancheless, who lowered her gaze respectfully. "You should take Nus with you—the young 'Sylvan Spear' out of Crivi. He won that name young, and for good reason."

  "Nevertheless, his duty binds him to Cynthia Palace, where Queen Margaret lies still unconscious. He alone facilitated her escape from Crividsylvan; she has no other guardian or companion."

  "Queen Margaret has lost her wits; she mistakes every child, regardless of gender, for her lost son."

  "Losing her son broke something deep within her—a sorrow I know too well." The queen sighed. "Nus has his uses here. A Crivian, and a knight of Sylvwood Hall besides. Who better to tend their broken queen?"

  Rhones Lord fell silent, his expression reminiscent of a child denied his heart's desire. "Do not forget Rebecca," the queen whispered into his ear with urgent secrecy. "I require your presence here to ensure her protection. This matter cannot be entrusted to others—you alone have my complete confidence." Rhones' countenance transformed to one of grave understanding.

  "Let us not delay the council further. That concludes the matter." The knight reluctantly stepped aside, his disappointment palpable. "During my campaign at Kadenford, Archmage Hamilton shall serve as Regent. Does any lord present raise objection?"

  "Your Majesty overwhelms me with this honor," the Archmage said quickly. "Yet, if I may speak plainly, Cynthian law—and ancient custom—grants the Regency to one of royal blood, or at least a Duke."

  "What significance do empty titles hold?" the queen countered with unexpected warmth. "I seek competence and loyalty, not hollow prestige. Should you desire it, I could bestow a ducal title upon you this very moment. Would that satisfy propriety?"

  "Such elevation is unnecessary, Your Majesty." Archmage Hamilton bowed deeply. "I stand ready to serve Cynthia with unwavering dedication; my sole concern lies with potential dissent from others."

  "Which is precisely why I solicited objections." Claire Grace swept her gaze across the assembled nobility. "It appears none exist. Therefore, Cynthia rests in your capable hands until my return, Archmage."

  "I am deeply honored, Your Majesty."

  "Blancheless. My armor. My shield," the queen commanded, and now her face shone with a fierce, bright purpose. "This council is ended. May Goria's light shine upon you all."