Letter From Valethorne

The evening sun cast soft rays across the kingdom. Princess Eryndra Nightveil sat by her small garden, watering her plants with careful hands.

Her gentle voice hummed sweet melodies while she tended to each flower. The roses seemed to lean toward her touch, the daisies bloomed a little brighter. She never noticed things like that though.

Eryndra was nineteen years old and her life had been locked inside these palace walls for as long as she could remember. Well, not always. There was a time when she could run through the marketplace, laugh with the village children, explore the forests beyond the castle grounds. But that was before.

Before her mother died ten years ago in that terrible accident. Before her father's heart broke so completely that he couldn't bear to let his only remaining family out of his sight. Before the world outside became too dangerous, too unpredictable for a princess to wander freely.

"Stay safe, stay close, stay protected." That had been her life ever since.

Her plants and this small flower garden were the only things that kept her sane during all these lonely years. When the palace walls felt too suffocating, when the endless lessons in languages and poetry and diplomacy became unbearable, she came here. The flowers never judged her. They never reminded her of all the things a proper princess should be doing instead.

Sometimes she wondered what lay beyond the garden walls. What adventures waited in the world her father was so determined to keep her from. But wondering was all she could do.

Lately though, her dreams had been strange. A woman with silver hair kept appearing, whispering words Eryndra could never quite remember when she woke. And the animals around the palace the birds, the cats, even the horses in the stables, they'd been acting nervous for weeks. Restless. Like they could sense something coming.

She finished watering the last of her violets and sat back on her heels, brushing dirt from her hands. The evening air was warm, peaceful. Perfect.

She had no idea that while she sat here among her flowers, something terrible was happening in the throne room below. Something that would change her entire life. Or destroy it completely.

---

Throne Room

The royal messenger's face was white as fresh snow when he burst through the throne room doors. King Aldric had been reviewing tax reports, a boring but necessary evening task. Now he watched his messenger stumble forward, hands shaking so badly he could barely hold the black-sealed letter.

"My king," the messenger gasped, falling to one knee. "A letter... from Valethorne."

The throne room fell silent. The few council members present for the evening session went rigid. Everyone knew what messages from Valethorne meant.

Nothing good. Ever.

King Aldric's stomach dropped as he took the letter. The black wax seal bore the mark of a crown wreathed in flames. Malakar's seal. His hands started shaking before he even broke it open.

The words burned into his mind like brands:

To Aldric Nightveil, King of the Fleeting and the Fragile,

Your pitiful realm exists only by my will, a candle trembling before the storm. For too long, Aethermoor has thrived beneath the shadow of Valethorne without paying the price for my mercy. That time is over.

You will deliver tribute worthy of my patience:

Three years of your harvest, grain, livestock, and wine, every ounce you can gather.

All the gold and jewels from your treasury, down to the smallest coin.

Half the iron from your forges, so your soldiers may remain as weak as your courage.

Fail me, and I will not simply destroy your walls, I will unmake your name, your line, your people. Aethermoor will be a memory whispered by carrion birds and devils.

You have seven days to send word of your submission. Defy me, and I will come myself, and your death will be a mercy compared to what your people will endure.

Malakar Veyrath, King of Valethorne

The letter slipped from King Aldric's nerveless fingers and fluttered to the floor. One of his council members, Lord Thalen Ironhart, was already sending for the others. Within minutes, the throne room filled with terrified nobles, all whispering frantically.

"Sweet gods," Lord Cedran Vale whispered, his face gray. "After two years of hiding, staying quiet, not making any trouble... how did we attract his attention?"

"It doesn't matter how," Lord Renwick Halvarn snapped, though sweat beaded on his forehead. "What matters is what we do now."

"Do?" Lord Garrick Thorne laughed, but it came out cracked and desperate. "What can we possibly do? We can't agree to his demands. Give him everything he wants and our people starve to death by winter."

"And if we refuse?" another council member asked. "He'll kill us all anyway."

The room erupted in panicked voices, but Lord Renwick slammed his fist on the table, demanding silence.

"Listen to me," he said, his voice deadly serious. "All of you need to remember what happened to the kingdoms that defied him before. The Eastern Kingdom tried to stand against Malakar three years ago. They had walls twice as high as ours, an army three times our size, and allies who promised to help."

He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in.

"Malakar took one hundred soldiers and himself. That's all. One hundred men against an entire kingdom. Do you know what he left behind?" His voice dropped to a whisper. "Ash. Just ash and bones. The capital city burned for three days straight. They say you could see the smoke from fifty miles away."

Several council members had gone pale. Lord Thalen was gripping his chair so tightly his knuckles were white.

"And Thornwick?" Renwick continued ruthlessly. "When they tried to hide their tribute money? He didn't just kill the royal family. He impaled every noble in the kingdom on stakes around the castle walls. Left them there for the crows. Their screams lasted for days."

"Stop," King Aldric whispered, but Renwick wasn't finished.

"His three previous queens, you all know what happened to them. The first one tried to poison him. He kept her alive for six months, feeding her the same poison drop by drop until she begged for death. The second one tried to escape back to her homeland. He caught her at the border, brought her back, and made her watch while he burned her entire family alive. Then he locked her in the dungeons for two years before he finally got bored and snapped her neck."

"And the third?" Lord Cedran asked, though he looked like he didn't want to know.

"The third one lasted the longest. Five years. They say she went mad from the things he did to her. Found her hanging from the castle rafters with her own bedsheets." Renwick's voice was flat now, emotionless. "That's who we're dealing with. Not a man. Not even a king. A demon who feeds on suffering."

The silence that followed was absolute. Several council members were openly weeping. King Aldric felt like he might vomit.

"So what do we do?" Lord Thalen asked desperately. "There has to be something…."

"Nothing," Lord Garrick said flatly. "We give him what he wants and watch our people starve, or we refuse and watch them burn. Those are our choices."

"Maybe... maybe we could try pleading," Lord Thalen suggested weakly. "Maybe he'd accept partial tribute…."

"Pleading?" Lord Cedran's laugh was bitter. "The man doesn't know the meaning of mercy. Our begging would just amuse him before he kills us."

All eyes turned to King Aldric, who had been silent since reading the letter. The weight of the crown had never felt heavier.

"Your Majesty?" Lord Renwick pressed gently. "What are your orders?"

King Aldric closed his eyes, thinking of his people, his kingdom, his daughter humming in her garden. "I... I don't know. I've been thinking since the moment I read that letter, and I can't see any way out. We're trapped."

The despair in the room was suffocating. Then Lord Cedran cleared his throat.

"There might be one option," he said quietly.

Everyone turned to him, desperate hope flickering in their eyes.

"What if... what if we offered him something else? Something more valuable than gold or grain?"

"What could possibly be more valuable to a demon king?" Lord Garrick asked.

Cedran took a shaky breath. "A marriage alliance. With Princess Eryndra."

The words hit like a physical blow. King Aldric felt the air leave his lungs.

"What?" he whispered.

"Think about it, Your Majesty. He's been without a queen for years now. A political marriage could benefit both kingdoms—"

"Benefit?" King Aldric's voice cracked. "You want me to feed my daughter to a monster? You just told us what he did to his other wives!"

"I know how it sounds—"

"You know nothing!" The king rose from his throne, rage and terror warring in his voice. "She's my only child! My only daughter! You want me to send her to be tortured and murdered by that devil?"

But Cedran pressed on desperately. "If we don't do something, he's going to destroy the kingdom anyway! And when he does, what do you think will happen to the princess then? At least this way, we have some control. Some chance of protecting our people."

"He's right," Lord Thalen said reluctantly. "If Malakar conquers us, he'll take her anyway. Probably make her his concubine, or worse. At least as his wife, she'd have some... some status. Some protection."

"Protection?" King Aldric laughed bitterly. "From the man who tortured his last wife for five years before she killed herself?"

"Your Majesty," Lord Renwick said gently, "I know this is horrible. But we're talking about the lives of fifty thousand people. The princess... she has a duty to her kingdom."

King Aldric sank back into his throne, his head in his hands. The image of Eryndra's sweet face, her gentle smile, her innocent joy in her simple garden—how could he sacrifice that?

But then he thought of the villages that would burn. The children who would die screaming. The families torn apart. Could he save fifty thousand lives by sacrificing one? Even if that one was the most precious thing in his world?

"What if he says no?" he asked weakly.

"Then we pray," Lord Cedran replied. "Because this is our only chance."

The silence stretched on. Finally, King Aldric spoke, his voice barely audible.

"Bring me parchment. And ink."

His hands shook as he took up the quill. Every word felt like a betrayal, like he was signing his daughter's death warrant. But what choice did he have?

To His Majesty, King Malakar Veyrath,

Your ultimatum has been received and understood. While Aethermoor cannot provide the tribute you demand without destroying our people, I offer something far more precious than gold or grain.

I offer you the hand of my daughter, Princess Eryndra Nightveil, in marriage. She is nineteen years old, pure of heart and noble of blood, trained in all the graces befitting a queen. A union between our kingdoms would benefit us both and demonstrate your mercy to the world.

I await your response with humble respect.

King Aldric Nightveil of Aethermoor

His hand was shaking so badly by the end that his signature was barely legible. He sealed the letter with trembling fingers, his heart breaking with every movement.

The letter was given to his fastest rider within the hour. As King Aldric watched the messenger disappear into the evening darkness, he thought of his daughter, still humming peacefully in her garden.

He had just gambled everything on the slim hope that a demon might show mercy.

Now all they could do was wait.