Chapter 405 A Ten-Step Guide To Your Geopolitical Crisis

In Drakenfell, a woman was sitting in a cell praying for a miracle, or for her dragon to break her out, whichever arrived first. A cocktail had absolutely been named after her and she knew it.

Unbeknownst to her, four hundred miles west, a grumpy Alpha was learning in realtime that The Knotty Omega was not, in fact, SMUT.

It was banned in Viremont. His Beta had confiscated it, and he was now reading it for intelligence.

PAGE 3: He’s Pulling Away! A Ten-Step Guide to Making Him Regret It. Step One: Scent-Mark His Best Friend. Yes, that means pee.

PAGE 4:How To Accidentally Be At Every Location He Visits Without It Being Stalking.

PAGE 5:Schedule a Fainting Spell for Maximum Impact: A Guide to Location, Timing, & Which Arm To Drape Across Your Forehead.

PAGE 6:Which Kingdom’s Warriors Have the Best Bodies? Reader Vote Results Inside.

Page seven had a centerfold that Viremont turned past immediately, then returned to, then turned past again, then returned to for context and couldn’t look away from.

Viremont looked up at Reed. “Whoever wrote this deserves to be executed.”

Reed tipped his chin down at the Knotty Omega in Viremont’s hands. “Page nine. Alpha bloodline. A few generations diluted, but present. She is Shadowclaw’s cousin.”

Viremont flipped to page nine. His eyes moved across the page as if he were extracting intelligence from enemy material, which, to be fair, was exactly what the Knotty Omega was to an Alpha who had spent his career trading in information and had never once considered that a gossip periodical might produce something useful.

Alpha bloodline. Shadowclaw connection. Court-trained at the highest level, because the Ashford family did not produce women who lacked social weaponry. Charged with fifteen capital offenses, including assault, attempted forced marking, stalking across two sovereign territories, and filing a false criminal accusation against a member of the Crown. Pled guilty to all of them. Sentenced to death.

Viremont looked up.

“This is a few weeks old. Her trial has already happened.”

“It has.” Reed’s posture shifted from passive to engaged, the Beta stepping forward into the operational space he occupied best: the space between his Alpha’s fury and a workable plan. “Rumor is she was found guilty. But her execution has been postponed. Details are scarce. Everybody is keeping quiet about whatever occurred, but the sentence was delayed. That is probably next month’s—” He stopped mid-word. Recomposed his face. “Regardless. Long-term prisoners are transferred to Maximus South in Drakenfell. It is a fortress, and I am certain it is warded, but the wards will be designed for containment rather than external assault. The castle-grade protections surrounding Drakenfell proper are a different class entirely.”

Viremont’s eyes returned to the publication. He read the charges again. Fifteen counts. A guilty plea delivered with theatrical flair. A woman who had chased a Crown Prince through foreign corridors while unclothed and had considered the pursuit romantic rather than criminal.

The motivation problem solved itself. A woman sentenced to die whose execution had been delayed was a woman with exactly one commodity left: time. And time was a commodity that could be purchased, extended, or revoked, which made it the most effective leash in existence.

“The transport,” Viremont said. His voice had changed. The fury was still present, but it had company now. Calculation had arrived, and calculation was the engine that had built Viremont’s kingdom the first time and would maintain it the second. “Maximus South is far from the castle. Different wards. The transport route passes through territory that is patrolled but exposed.”

“Exactly,” Reed said. “We intercept the transport. Extract the prisoner. Present it to her as a rescue, which is technically accurate from her perspective, given that the alternative was execution.”

“And now I have a woman from an Alpha bloodline who owes me her life,” Viremont finished. He set the Knotty Omega on the desk. His hand remained on the publication for a moment, fingers spread across the page that contained Guinevere Ashford’s name and charges and illustration, and the gesture was proprietary in a way that had nothing to do with the publication and everything to do with the woman described in it.

“Court-trained,” he repeated.

“Extensively. The Ashford family is one of the oldest in Shadowclaw. Their women are raised on politics and social warfare from childhood. Guinevere, by all accounts, is exceptional at both.” Reed paused. “Her trial testimony alone suggests a woman who is capable of commanding a room, reading an audience, and improvising under pressure. Those are consort skills.”

“She is Shadowclaw’s cousin. Finnick Shadowclaw’s blood relative.” Viremont turned the page. Read further. “The Emperor will find that interesting. A woman connected to one of the Alpha Kings opposing him, delivered to his court as a gift. The insult alone has political value.”

“And she is motivated,” Reed added. “A woman facing execution does not need convincing. She needs an alternative. We provide the alternative and the alternative comes with conditions, and the conditions are compliance, and compliance is guaranteed because the leverage is her life.”

Viremont walked to the window. Looked out at the grounds of a keep that had been returned to him by a foreign emperor whose patience was running thin. The favor he was operating under had an expiration date that was approaching at a speed he could feel in his chest. Until he delivered, the crown on his head was borrowed.

He needed to deliver.

“Find out when the transport moves,” he said. “I want the route, the guard count, the mage complement, and the ward configuration. If we do this, we do it clean. No survivors from the convoy. Nobody reports what happened until we are long gone and the prisoner is in my custody.”

“And if they have already executed her?”

Viremont turned from the window. He had built and lost and rebuilt a kingdom on the principle that problems were obstacles and obstacles were temporary and temporary things did not survive contact with Reginald Viremont’s persistence.

“Then we find another name in your confiscated publication, and you explain to me, at length, why your first suggestion was a corpse.”

Reed accepted the conditional threat with the equanimity of a Beta who had been conditionally threatened on a weekly basis for two decades and had survived every one.

“I will have the transport details by morning.”

“By tonight, Reed.”

“By tonight.”

Viremont looked at the Knotty Omega one more time. Guinevere Ashford. Shadowclaw’s cousin. Fifteen charges. Sentenced to die. Court-trained, Alpha-blooded, and currently sitting in a cell waiting for an execution that had been mysteriously delayed.

The mystery of the delay was irrelevant. The delay itself was the opportunity. Whatever had stayed the axe had bought Guinevere Ashford time, and Reginald Viremont was about to buy it from her at a price she could not afford to refuse.

He rolled the publication and tossed it back to Reed.

“And burn that when you are finished.”

Reed caught it with a nod. But, he had no intention of burning it and they both knew it.