Everyone I’ve spoken to is a member of Thayaria’s rural population, where the decline is most impactful. This fae lost his livelihood transporting the flower from the refinery in Arberly to the southeastern region where he lives. With less thayar comes less need for it to move throughout the kingdom. While I don’t condone their violence, I empathize with my people’s fear. Rebellion leadership, whoever they may be, have preyed on that fear and used it to bring people into this who are just looking for a solution. Paired with misinformation and outright lies about the support the Crown has in place for those impacted by the decline, rural Thayaria is a tinderbox just waiting for someone to strike the match.

“For now, you’ll stay in the cells until the Council of Advisors decides when your trial will be,” I inform the rebel before me, my voice taking on an icy and emotionless tenor. The male collapses, in relief or fear I’m not sure. I don’t wait to find out, exiting this room and nodding to the Royal Guards who stand watch outside the interrogation chamber to deal with him. Then I walk to the identical room across the hall where the final rebel waits for my questioning.

The red-headed fae who spoke for the group of attackers is chained to the wall in iron cuffs, his eyes darting around the room in fear. When I approach him, he cries out. “Please, Your Majesty, have mercy.”

It’s always the same. Have mercy. Don’t kill me. I didn’t know. I wonder if Mazus’s prisoners plead their case to him in the same way, or whether those found guilty of treason in Velmara know not to bother. Before speaking, I carefully study the male in front of me, looking for any clues about him. Red hair and blue eyes give him a striking look, a unique set of features in Thayaria. He wrings his calloused hands, his dirt-lined nails catching my attention. He does manual labor. It looks like I’ve found yet another layperson. As my assessing look travels up and down his body, he trembles, unwilling or unable to meet my gaze.

“You seemed sure of yourself when you had a blade in your hand and a group of rebels at your back,” I hiss. The male swallows in fear, eyes darting everywhere but at me. “You spoke for the group. Was it you who organized this attack? Tell me the truth, and I’ll consider your request for mercy.” My words are a command, though not with the aether-voice. I don’t need it to strike fear into the hearts of my people.

“N-n-oo, Y-y-your Ma-majesty.” He’s shaking so hard now he can barely speak, his words a quiet stutter.