Bound To The Dead: The Deceptive Class-E Farmer-Chapter 68: The Feast and The blade

Inside the throne hall, the throne looked nothing like those from fairy tales.

Aiah stood before it, arms resting loosely at her sides. Her eyes traced the lines of darkwood and steel, each piece reforged, not for beauty, but for meaning. There were no gemstones, no ornate carvings. Just sturdy joints, burnished grain, and metal darkened by heat.

It wasn’t uncomfortable. It was honest.

Built by the people. Shaped by pain, fire, and resolve.

Her fingers brushed the edge of the armrest. She hesitated, then slowly sat.

"It’s not beautiful," she whispered, almost to herself. "But it’s real."

The weight wasn’t just physical. It settled across her shoulders, down her spine.

A door creaked open behind her.

"Why do you sit like it bites?" came a familiar voice, half-teasing, half-concerned.

Aiah glanced back, lips curling faintly. "Didi."

Her younger brother walked in, hair still a mess from training, face flushed with energy. He grinned and leaned against a pillar.

"You make that chair look like it’s cursed."

"Maybe it is," she murmured. "Or maybe I’m just not used to sitting still."

Didi tilted his head. "Do you miss it? Running, hiding, fighting?"

Aiah didn’t answer right away. She stared ahead, at the long stone path leading to her feet.

"I miss knowing what to do," she said quietly. "When you’re running, you just keep moving. When you’re fighting, you hit until something stops breathing. But ruling..."

She looked down at her hands. They had held weapons for years. Now they held a kingdom.

"I’m not used to power. But I won’t run from it again."

Didi’s smirk softened. "Good."

Footsteps approached from the entrance. The steward bowed low.

"Your Majesty," he said, voice clear but gentle, "the visitors are gathered in the east hall for the coronation feast."

Aiah nodded and stood. The throne creaked behind her but held firm.

—-----

The east hall was open to the breeze. Sunlight filtered through broken arches. Workers had cleaned the floors and draped fresh cloth over the long tables. It wasn’t luxury, but it was honest.

Wooden benches. Iron platters. Roasted vegetables, hard bread, smoked boar. No gold. No jewels. Just effort and pride.

The guests were seated, dressed too richly for the surroundings. Silks brushing stone. Rings clinking on pewter cups. Diplomats, lords, merchants, some smiled too easily. Some watched too closely.

Aiah sat at the head of the table, Mira at her side. Broner stood behind her, arms crossed, eyes tracking every whisper.

The wine was sour. She drank anyway.

Then, a voice rang out. Cold, composed.

"A remarkable rise, Your Majesty."

Lady Veyra of Rookheim stood across the table, her armor matte black, eyes sharp behind silver hair. She did not raise a cup.

"But what happens when the other kingdom decides to test your crown with steel instead of applause?"

Silence fell.

Aiah set down her knife. Slowly. The sound echoed too loudly.

She looked up.

"Then I’ll serve them Bulcan’s hospitality," she said, "cold, and from the blade."

Somewhere, a chair scraped back. A noble coughed into his sleeve. A few heads nodded. Others turned away.

Veyra smiled faintly. "I see."

Further down the table, Mikaela lifted her wine cup with delicate fingers. She had heard the exchange. Her lips curled into a small, private smirk before she took a sip.

—-----

Meanwhile, outside the palace, the capital still bore its wounds. Walls were half-repaired. Scaffolding framed the main tower. But there was life in the streets again.

Merchants called out prices. Children darted between carts. Smoke rose from bakeries and smithies. The scent of sweat and bread mixed with dust.

Isaac stood at a fruit stall, silver in one hand, apples in the other.

"Here," he said, handing them to a group of dirty-faced kids. They took them without speaking, then ran.

Behind him, Nai stretched and yawned. "You’re getting soft."

"I’m buying fruit," Isaac replied, not turning around.

"That’s what I mean," Nai grinned. "You’re more feared than the queen. But here you are, feeding orphans."

Isaac’s tone didn’t change. "Let them fear her. It’ll save her life one day."

Ben leaned against a post, arms folded. "Have you noticed? More people are moving in. Traders, builders, even farmers."

"Bulcan’s growing," Nai added. "It’s weird. In a good way."

Isaac’s eyes scanned the crowd. He nodded slowly, but his gaze lingered too long on a figure near the alley.

He didn’t speak. Just moved.

When Putol turned to say something, Isaac was gone.

The others looked around.

"Oh," Putol sighed, "Isaac left us again?"

From the shadows of the alley, Arthur took a sharp breath. His hands trembled slightly as he stepped forward, eyes fixed on where Isaac had stood.

"...It can’t be."

—----

Back to the feast.

Aiah’s hand resting lightly beside her cup. Her shoulders were still adjusting to the heaviness of her new mantle, but she held her expression with quiet strength.

Then came the sound of slow, deliberate footsteps.

An elderly man, with a beard like winter snow and a wooden staff taller than himself, approached without ceremony. His robe was plain. No crest, no gold.

He stopped before her and gave a respectful bow.

"May I?" he asked, gesturing to her hand.

Aiah blinked, caught off guard, but not alarmed.

There was something in his manner... gentle, unthreatening. Almost familiar, like the warmth of a hearth long forgotten.

She nodded.

His hand was cold but steady. He held hers with a strange tenderness, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

"My name is Simon," he said quietly, eyes kind. "I represent Spawnhold. Right hand of King Rody."

Aiah’s expression softened. She’d heard little of Spawnhold beyond whispers, it was a small kingdom to their north, often overlooked. But this man... he didn’t carry himself like someone overlooked.

Still holding her hand, Simon leaned forward just slightly, lowering his voice to a whisper only she could hear.

"If Her Majesty allows, I would like to request a private audience. Whenever you are free."

Aiah’s brows drew together, faint tension gathering at the corners of her eyes. Not suspicion, just calculation. Then she smiled, a calm and measured expression.

"Of course, Elder Simon. After this, I’ll let you know."

Simon bowed deeply, letting her hand go with care, as though it were something precious. "I thank you, Your Majesty," he said, and then slowly turned, walking back to a modest table near the rear of the hall.

No one seemed to notice. No one, except for Elder Peter, whose eyes had followed the entire exchange in silence.