The morning sun hit the high windows of the Roselle Ducal Palace.

It was a sharp, clear light. It promised a beautiful day.

Duchess Catarina Roselle sat at her mahogany desk. She signed a trade agreement with the southern merchants.

Her pen scratched against the parchment. It was a steady, rhythmic sound.

She placed the finished document on the "Complete" stack.

It was perfectly aligned with the edge of the desk.

Catarina checked her pocket watch. She was three minutes ahead of schedule.

A small smile touched her lips. She allowed herself a moment of satisfaction.

The duchy was prosperous.

The harvest reports were promising.

Even the border tensions had quieted down.

She reached for her tea. It was Earl Grey, steeped for exactly four minutes.

The heavy oak doors to her study opened.

Her chief steward, frantic and pale, burst into the room.

He forgot to knock.

Catarina lowered her teacup slowly. She did not spill a drop.

"Breathe, Thomas," she ordered calmly. "Panic solves nothing."

Thomas gasped for air.

"My Lady," he wheezed. "Urgent correspondence. From the Council of Advisors."

He placed three sealed letters on her desk.

Catarina recognized the seals immediately.

Lord Harrow. Baron West. Count Sterling.

These were her three most senior advisors. They were the men who managed her treasury, her laws, and her logistics.

She broke the seal on Lord Harrow's letter first.

The script was hasty. The words were vague.

Resignation effective immediately. Family health issues. Regretful necessity.

She opened the second. Baron West.

Retiring to country estate. Sudden change in circumstances. Best of luck.

She opened the third. Count Sterling.

Cannot continue in current capacity. Apologies.

Catarina stared at the letters.

Three senior officials did not have sudden family emergencies on the same morning.

This was not a coincidence. This was a signal.

"Thomas," Catarina said. Her voice was ice. "Where is the Commander of the Guard?"

Thomas looked at the floor. He looked like he wanted to vanish.

"He... he left an hour ago, Your Grace. He said he was personally overseeing the border drills."

Catarina felt a cold knot tighten in her stomach.

The border drills.

She had authorized those drills herself.

She had sent four thousand of her most loyal soldiers to the eastern edge of the territory.

They were three days' ride away.

The palace was currently defended by a skeleton crew of ceremonial guards.

She had stripped her own defenses. And someone had waited for this exact moment.

"I see," Catarina said.

She stood up. She walked to the window.

She looked down at the courtyard.

A carriage was pulling through the main gates.

It was not a merchant carriage. It was black lacquer with gold trim.

It bore the crest of the Roselle collateral branch.

A man stepped out of the carriage. He adjusted his silk cravat and smoothed his velvet coat.

He looked up at her window. He smiled.

It was her cousin, Victor Roselle.

He held a rolled parchment in his hand like a weapon.

Catarina gripped the windowsill. Her knuckles turned white.

The game had changed.

She wasn't running a duchy anymore. She was defending a fortress from the inside.

✧✧✧

Victor did not come alone.

He brought a retinue of lawyers. He brought scribes. He brought armed mercenaries wearing "private security" liveries.

They marched into the Great Hall like they owned it.

Catarina met them at the foot of the dais.

She stood straight. Her chin was high. She wore her authority like armor.

"Victor," she said. Her voice echoed in the silent hall. "You did not schedule an appointment."

Victor bowed. It was a mocking, shallow dip.

"Catarina," he said smoothly. "Always so bureaucratic. I'm afraid this couldn't wait."

He snapped his fingers.

A lawyer stepped forward. He unrolled the parchment Victor had carried.

"By the authority of the Ancient Statutes of Roselle," the lawyer read. His voice was nasal and grating.

"We hereby challenge the legitimacy of the current seat."

Catarina raised an eyebrow. "I was invested by Royal Decree. You are wasting my time."

"The investiture assumed peacetime conditions," the lawyer countered.

He tapped a specific paragraph on the scroll.

"Clause 47, Section B," he recited. "In Times of Threat, the Ducal Seat must ensure martial stability."

He looked up. He smiled a thin, oily smile.

"The prophecy of the Demon Lord's invasion has been confirmed by the Church. We are officially in a Time of Threat."

Catarina felt the trap snap shut.

The Demon Lord.

They were using the end of the world as a legal loophole.

"And surely," Victor interrupted, "you agree that a martial leader is required? Someone who can lead armies? Someone... male?"

He let the word hang in the air.

"I command my own armies," Catarina said coldly. "I have led cavalry charges."

"From the rear," Victor scoffed. "And without a husband to handle the grim realities of war."

He stepped closer. He lowered his voice.

"The council agrees with me, dear Catarina. That is why they left. They don't want to be on a sinking ship."

Catarina realized the full scope of the betrayal.

Harrow, West, Sterling. They hadn't just quit. They had been bought.

Or threatened.

"You have one week," Victor announced. He turned to face the gathered servants and guards.

"One week to answer the challenge. You must either present a suitable male consort to share the burden of command, or abdicate the seat to the next male heir."

He placed a hand on his chest.

"Which would be me."

"And if I refuse?" Catarina asked.

Victor's smile vanished. His eyes were hard.

"Then the legality of every order you sign will be questioned. The merchants will panic. The taxes will stop."

He leaned in.

"And without your loyal army to enforce order, the duchy will tear itself apart. Do you want that legacy, Catarina? The Duchess who burned her people to keep her chair?"

He pulled back. He signaled his entourage.

"One week, Catarina. Think it over."

He turned on his heel. He marched out.

The heavy doors slammed shut behind him.

Catarina stood alone in the Great Hall.

The silence was deafening.

She felt the eyes of her remaining servants on her. They looked frightened. They looked doubtful.

She kept her face impassive.

She turned and walked slowly back to her study.

She waited until the heavy oak doors clicked shut.

She waited until the lock turned.

Then she grabbed a crystal vase from a side table.

She hurled it at the fireplace.

It shattered with a satisfying crash.

Glass sprayed across the hearth.

She leaned against her desk. She breathed heavily.

She wasn't just angry. She was cornered.

And she was terrifyingly alone.

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