James leaned back heavily against his chair, releasing a long, shuddering sigh. His hands were trembling, betraying the tension he had held throughout the meeting. The memory of Ravenna’s piercing gaze lingered in his mind, a stark reminder of the sheer authority the young duchess wielded.
“How does someone so young carry herself like a high pope or a battle-hardened duke?” he muttered to himself. The room, once filled with the quiet reverence of clergy, now felt almost suffocating in her absence.
The title of “Unruly Princess” wasn’t just a baseless moniker, James realized. She had more than earned it. He had struggled to maintain his composure during their conversation, and now, away from her intimidating presence, the strain was all too apparent.
Gathering his thoughts, he called for a junior priest. “Bring me a letter kit,” he instructed, his voice steady but low. “I need to write to the headquarters in the Western Continent. Inform them that the Herptian Church will not be withdrawing from the Eastern Continent.”
The young priest’s face brightened at the news, and he hurried to fulfill the request. Many of the junior priests had lived their entire lives in Jola, dedicating themselves to spreading the Herptian faith despite dwindling support. The possibility of retreating had felt like a personal defeat. But now, Ravenna’s intervention had reignited their hope.
When the items arrived, James carefully drafted the letter, summarizing the meeting with the princess and emphasizing her promises of funding and structural support for the church. Satisfied, he sealed the letter using a ceremonial process unique to the Herptian faith. He gathered petals of tiger lilies and white lilies, tying them together to form a floral seal. Then, burning a single rose petal over the letter, he invoked the encryption spell.
The parchment ignited in an ethereal blue flame and vanished into thin air—a secure method of communication used only for messages of the utmost importance.
James leaned back, exhaling again, this time with a small smile. “A new era begins for the Herptian Church in Jola,” he said quietly, his words a solemn promise to himself and his faith.
Imperial Capital of the Ancorna Empire – The Underground Black Market, Slave Auction,
The stage of the auction house was a scene of carnage. Bodies lay sprawled in grotesque stillness—each victim bearing a single, precise wound. Some had been felled by a sword, others charred by fire, but all shared the same fate: they had been overwhelmed without a chance to resist.
The once-rowdy atmosphere of the auction had dissolved into chaos. Nobles and patrons scrambled over one another in their desperation to flee, their elegant garments torn in their panic. The opulent seats of the auction hall, once filled with influential figures, were now abandoned or overturned, their occupants more concerned with preserving their reputations than their possessions.
Backstage, two men worked swiftly amidst the cages and chains that had imprisoned countless souls. Eugene and Prince William moved with deadly efficiency, freeing the slaves and dismantling the infrastructure of the operation. Most of the captives had already fled, but one figure remained—a wounded member of the slave-trading ring, writhing on the floor under their interrogation.
Eugene stepped closer, pulling back his hood to reveal his golden hair, which gleamed like molten light under the dim illumination of the blood moon flower lamps. Prince William did the same, his sharp features and piercing gaze radiating authority.
Eugene held up a rough sketch, its lines betraying the urgency with which it had been drawn. It depicted a young woman, her face etched with a blend of serenity and power—the saintess from Eugene’s past life.
“This is your only chance,” Eugene said, his voice cold and unyielding. “Where is she? The saintess was supposed to be auctioned here tonight!”
The slave trader coughed weakly, clutching his stomach where William’s fire spell had left a searing wound. “I-I don’t know!” he stammered, his voice thick with pain. “She... she was with one of the slaves we pre-sold! Some men in white cloaks—they paid a fortune and took her just an hour before the auction!”
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
William’s expression darkened. “It seems we’ve hit a dead end, Eugene,” he said grimly. “Someone else has already taken the saintess.”
Eugene’s face twisted with frustration, his usual composure cracking under the weight of his desperation. Without warning, he drew his sword and slashed at the trader’s leg, eliciting a bloodcurdling scream.
“Who were they?” Eugene demanded, his voice a dangerous growl. “Where did they go? Answer me!”
“Eugene, stop!” William intervened, grabbing his companion’s arm and pulling him back. “We need him alive. He’s the only one who can testify to our actions here. Killing him won’t bring us praise from the imperial court!”
Meanwhile on Jola Island,
As the sun dipped below the horizon, its last golden rays illuminated the rugged coastline of Jola Island. The air, thick with the scent of salt and sand, seemed to carry the murmurs of a restless populace.. A modest bar stood as a gathering point. Once a lively establishment frequented by peasants during the nobility's reign, it now served as a place for heated debates and quiet commiseration.
The bar was a shadow of its former self. With water scarce and alcohol a distant memory, the cracked wooden tables and dim lanterns bore silent witness to the struggles of its patrons. Still, the citizens gathered here, driven by the need to vent their frustrations, share news, and today, speculate about the sweeping changes introduced by their ruler, Princess Ravenna.
“This is madness! Pure insanity!” A bald man slammed his fist onto the table, his voice echoing through the otherwise subdued room. His sunburnt skin glistened with sweat, and his eyes darted around as if searching for allies in his outrage. “She wants to own everything! Every single business, every field, every trade! And what does she offer in return? Salaries? Barely enough to survive!”
A man across from him, his face etched with deep wrinkles and a lifetime of hardship, raised a hand to quiet him. “Keep your voice down,” the older man muttered, his tone a mix of caution and exasperation. “Even if that’s true, it’s not like you’ve been making a fortune. You barely scrape by as it is. You’re feeding your children thanks to her highness’s food distribution system.”
“Read the proclamation again!” the bald man snapped, waving a crumpled paper in his hand as if it were evidence in a courtroom.
He cleared his throat and began to recite the text, his voice laced with disdain:
Ownership and Business Model
- All major businesses are duchess-owned.
- Small-scale operations (e.g., farmers selling small portions) are allowed privately but are capped at a threshold.
- Businesses that grow beyond the threshold must sell their products to the duchess's administration at fixed prices determined by production costs, market trends, and government policies.
- The duchess sells goods in duchess-run stores at regulated prices, ensuring affordability and fairness.
Salaries and Profits
- The duchess administration collects all profits from duchess-owned businesses.
- Salaries are distributed to citizens based on their roles, qualifications, and performance.
- No taxes are levied as the government directly manages all economic resources.
“You see?” he said, jabbing a finger at the text. “She’ll control everything! We’ll own nothing and be at her mercy!”
A woman with long, unkempt hair spoke up from a nearby table. Her voice was calm, but her eyes burned with quiet conviction. “And what’s wrong with that? Look around you. There isn’t a single thriving business on this island. Half of us would be dead from hunger if not for her food program. She’s going to pay us salaries even when nothing’s making money. Isn’t that better than starving?”
The bald man turned to her, his face reddening with anger. “Maybe now it seems fine, but what about later? When the crops grow, won’t this system rob us of profits? This is authoritarianism, plain and simple!”
The woman crossed her arms, unfazed. “Authoritarian or not, those crops you’re talking about wouldn’t exist without her investment. She’s the one funding the irrigation projects, importing seeds, and training us on new farming methods. Are you suggesting you’d rather take her efforts for granted and pocket the profits for yourself?”
The older man nodded in agreement. “She’s building something out of nothing here. Jola’s been a wasteland for years. If this system gives us even a chance to rebuild, I say it’s worth it.”
The argument rippled through the room, drawing more voices into the fray. Some defended Ravenna’s policies, citing the immediate relief they brought to the struggling island. Others decried them as oppressive and shortsighted, worried about the long-term implications.
The debates grew heated, with chairs scraping against the floor and fists pounding on tables. Yet, for all the anger and frustration, no one spoke of rebellion or protest. Their words were heavy with discontent, but beneath them lay an unspoken acknowledgment: Ravenna was their best—and perhaps only—hope for survival.
As the night deepened, the bar settled into a tense quiet. The citizens drifted back to their homes, their arguments unresolved but their spirits oddly steadied. The stars above Jola Island shone brightly, indifferent to the struggles below, as the people braced themselves for the uncertain future Ravenna’s reforms promised to bring.