Without saying a word, Priscila took one of those hands in hers. She wrapped it gently, as if afraid of breaking it.
—Don't look at me like that, sweetheart... — whispered the queen, with a fragile smile that barely curved her lips. — I'll be better in a few days.
Her voice was barely an echo, but the words floated between them like a lie wrapped in perfume. Maximus stood at the back of the room, watching silently. His eyes moved from Priscilla to the queen, trying to read what was being said in the unsaid.
The princess did not respond. She squeezed that bony hand a little tighter, feeling the cold rising through her grandmother's fingers. But it wasn't the cold that made her shiver. It was that look, still alive, still calculating... that seemed to hide a secret that refused to die.
—The doctors say I must rest... — continued the queen, her voice weak but still calculated. — And you know how much I hate to rest.
Priscila did not respond. Her hands remained clasped to her grandmother's, but her heart was filled with a mixture of mistrust and fear. The queen had always been an indomitable force, someone who never showed weakness. But now, that fragile body on the sheets seemed strange to her... almost like an impostor.
—Until I recover, the Council will recognize you as regent. —said the queen, breaking the silence with her usual authority, though no longer with the same strength.
Maximus raised his head. Surprise crossed his face, but he said nothing.
—Regent...? — Priscilla whispered, as if the word did not yet belong to her.
The queen slowly turned her face toward her.
—You're not ready. — she admitted, — but the kingdom can't be left without a visible face. Without a symbol.
—What if you don't get better...? — Priscilla asked, her voice lower.
A slight tremor crossed the queen's face. But she did not answer that. Instead, she narrowed her eyes, as if calculating one last move.
—The kingdom needs continuity. — she finally said. — And whether you like it or not... now everything depends on you.
Coral, standing in the doorway, lowered her gaze. Maximo took another step closer, placing a hand near Priscilla's back in a gesture of support.
She remained silent, staring at her grandmother for what seemed like an eternity.
—Then I'll do it. — The decision rose from her throat like a sword being drawn from its sheath. — But I'll do it my way.
The queen did not respond immediately. A shadow of displeasure crossed her face, barely perceptible.
—Do whatever is necessary. — she murmured at last. —Because if you fall... we will all fall.
Priscila pressed her lips together, kissed her grandmother's hand with a mixture of respect and distance, and stood up. Máximo followed her without saying a word.
That night, the castle was colder than ever.
And the next morning, the kingdom awoke with a new regent.
Priscila was awakened earlier than usual. The morning chill still clung to the palace walls, and a mantle of responsibility already weighed on her shoulders. Now that she was in charge of the kingdom, she had to adapt to the queen's routine... one she had always feared.
She ate breakfast in silence. Coral accompanied her, attentive to every detail without speaking more than necessary. After finishing the warm bread and some fruit, Priscilla rose decisively. Her first duty of the day: to review the taxes.
The accounting room was gloomy and stuffy. There were stacks of parchments, wooden tables covered with calculations, and cloth bags filled with coins. When they saw her enter, the managers stood up and bowed their heads. No one called her “queen,” but neither did they call her “girl.”
She was now the regent.
They introduced her to the three pillars of the kingdom's economy:
- Security taxes, to maintain soldiers, walls, and weapons.
- Health taxes, which supported healers, hospitals, and medicines.
- Crop taxes, used for irrigation, storage, and use of the kingdom's lands.
Each tax had its own rate, adjusted according to the area and level of production.
The monetary system was complex but efficient. The coins in circulation were:
- Aureus (gold): 25 denarii.
- Denarius (gold): the gold standard of trade.
- Quinarius (silver): half a denarius.
- Sesterce (bronze): 2.5 asses, later adjusted to 4 asses.
- Dupondius (copper): 2 asses.
- As: base coin, divided into 4 quadrans.
- Quadrans: the smallest fraction, used among peasants and beggars.
The rates were clear:
- Security Tax
— Per adult: 1 denarius per year
— Per large family (5+): 2 denarii
— Exempt: children under 12 and those certified as sick by the district healer.
- Health Tax
— Per person: 2 quinarii per year
— Poor villagers: only 1 quinarius
— Exempt: widows and orphans registered at the temple.
- Crop Tax
— Per hectare: 3 sesterces per year
— Farmers with less than 2 hectares: 1 dupondius
— Producers with more than 10 hectares: up to 5 sesterces
— Fine for hidden crops: 1 aureus
Priscila listened, took note, and said no more than was necessary. It was her first day as regent, and she had already learned that power was not shouted about.
—Taxes have been maintained, but with difficulty. Many farmers have fallen on hard times, and the number of sick children is increasing week by week. — reported one of the managers, his voice weary.
—The cold season is approaching. — added another. — We need to increase production in the next two months, before the snow covers the southern areas.
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—Fishing has remained stable and there have been no attacks on the kingdom. — interjected a third, in a slightly more cheerful tone, though without breaking the formality.
A brief silence fell over the room. All eyes turned to Priscilla, who continued writing on her parchment, her head bowed, her lips pressed together in concentration. After a few seconds, she looked up.
—Is that all?
The councilors reviewed their papers. They nodded almost in unison.
—Good. — she said firmly. — The security tax for large families will be reduced to one denarius. The crop tax will be reduced by two-quarters for small farmers and will remain at three sesterces for larger producers.
As he spoke, he crossed out lines decisively on the parchment.
—In compensation, the health tax will rise by three-quarters of a quinarius, for this month only. We need to keep the farmers on their feet for the next harvest, or there will be no reserves for the winter.
He paused. Then he added:
—Organize groups to collect firewood in the forests before the ground becomes muddy. We will pay one sesterce for each cartload. Three-quarters of that firewood will go south; the rest will be stored here.
He drew another line on his sheet, quickly, almost angrily.
—The fishermen must return to land for the next three months. They should start hunting animals to feed their families. Don't exterminate everything: focus on the older ones. The boxes of meat and grain must be ready before the first ice.
She looked up again. Her tired eyes did not flicker.
—And... that's it. Is there anything else to discuss?
The councilors exchanged glances. Some were surprised, others impressed. There was a mixture of respect and bewilderment in the air. They did not expect a young woman—newly appointed, with no experience on the council—to speak so clearly or make such precise decisions in such a short time.
The oldest of the group, a man with a white beard and a trembling voice, was the first to speak.
—Your Highness... your analytical skills are admirable. Rarely have we had such quick and... such balanced resolutions.
Another, younger man, his fingers still stained with ink, nodded with a half-smile.
—Adjusting taxes without destabilizing the crown's income while strengthening production is... skillful. No one here can deny that.
—I just hope the queen recovers son. — murmured another in a low voice, though there was no hostility in his comment. Perhaps a hint of fear.
—Your Highness, if I may. — another advisor interjected cautiously. — Have you considered that some nobles might reject the reduction in cultivation for the little ones? They might see it as a threat to their position.
Priscilla looked him straight in the eye.
—If the nobles cannot maintain their power without relying on the hunger of others, then they are building on mud. If they want to complain, let them do so to my face.
Silence. No one replied.
The meeting ended shortly thereafter. One by one, the advisors left the room. Some murmured among themselves. Others simply left with their heads bowed, deep in thought.
Priscilla remained alone for a few more minutes, her fingers still stained with ink and her heart beating fast.
Priscila let out a long sigh before turning to her next task: receiving the people in open audience. This was one of the most valued practices in the kingdom, a tradition that had kept trust alive between the monarchy and its inhabitants. However, it was also one of the most demanding, as it was expected that the problems presented would be resolved on the spot.
It made him uncomfortable to have to sit on the throne to do so. It still felt foreign, cold, belonging to his grandmother. It seemed like an unnecessary way to impose distance, especially when his intention was to listen and help.
Even so, she took her seat. The hall was ready, and the guards allowed the villagers to enter in an orderly fashion. The line was long, structured, and silent, as custom dictated. Many of them brought offerings: fruit, bread, dried flowers, or small handmade objects.
Priscila observed the faces approaching. Some smiled nervously at her, others looked down, as if the solemnity of the place weighed heavily on them. She sat up straight, her eyes attentive, her hands in her lap, fighting the feeling of being an impostor that crept into her thoughts.
She had accepted this duty. Now she had to act like it.
—Let the first one come forward. — she said in a firm but low voice.
The first to approach was an old man with a face weathered by the sun and the years. He walked with difficulty, aided by a twisted wooden cane. He bowed awkwardly and placed a small basket of wrinkled apples on the ground.
—Your Highness... my granddaughter fell ill two weeks ago. The healer in our district has no more remedies, and the dispensary says there aren't enough herbs for everyone. — He coughed softly. “I only ask for help for her. I have no other family left.”
Priscila looked at him closely, then turned to a nearby scribe.
—Write down his name and address. We will send a court herbalist and assign him an apothecary to supervise the treatment. — She turned her gaze back to the old man. — You will also receive a weekly food basket for the next month. Your granddaughter will not heal if she does not eat well.
The old man looked at her with misty eyes, put a hand to his chest, and stammered his thanks before being led out of the hall.
Next was a young woman with mud-stained clothes and a serious expression.
—My plot was ravaged by a plague. I have no way to pay the crop tax this month. — she said bluntly. — I'm not asking for charity. I'm asking for a little time. With help, I can replant before the first frost.
Priscilla nodded gravely.
—Do you have children? — she asked.
—One, still small.
—Good. You will receive seeds from the royal storehouse. In exchange, you will work in the northern greenhouses for two weeks. Your tax will be reduced this month, and you will be given a quinario for your work. Use that pay wisely.
The woman looked at her as if she did not expect understanding from the crown. She bowed awkwardly, her hands trembling.
Then came a young fisherman, his hands rough and his skin still smelling of salt and wind.
—My boat is damaged. I can't go back to sea. My family lives off what I catch, and we barely have enough to eat. Could I ask for a loan to repair it?
Priscilla interlaced her fingers, thoughtful.
—No. I won't lend you money to repair an old boat. — There was an immediate, tense silence. —I'll give you a new one from the ones stored in the north shipyard. In exchange, you'll teach five orphans from the port orphanage how to fish. You'll do this throughout the winter.
The young man opened his mouth in surprise.
—Can I... do it right now?
—Starting tomorrow. Find the orphanage caretakers. They'll know who to teach. — Priscilla smiled slightly. — Children can't learn to swim when the sea has already swallowed them.
The line moved slowly. A pregnant woman arrived asking for a coat. A ten-year-old boy who had traveled across the kingdom just to ask for the bridge in his village, which was about to collapse, to be repaired. A man who offered to work without pay if it meant he could feed his sick sister.
Priscilla listened attentively to everyone. She took notes. She made calculations in the margins of her parchment, checked names, asked for details. She didn't solve everything with money or charity; she offered fair exchanges, reorganized tasks, delegated responsibilities intelligently and, above all, humanely.
And although she still felt small on that throne, the looks she received were not of doubt, but of respect. Each problem solved was another brick in the construction of her authority. Not through power, but through will. Through conviction.
That day, Priscilla was not just the heiress. She was hope.
Night fell like a heavy blanket over the palace, and Priscilla could barely stand. The day had been exhausting, and although her body craved rest, her mind could find no peace. Something had been silently haunting her all day: a persistent feeling of being watched. Invisible eyes following her from the shadows, barely audible footsteps in the corridors, sudden chills like icy breath on the back of her neck.
When she reached her room, she asked Coral to retire earlier than usual.
—Rest. — she said in a voice that tried to sound calm. — I don't need you anymore today.
She locked the door and pressed her forehead against the wood for a second. Then she collapsed onto the bed, exhausted. But sleep was not a refuge, but a trap.
She found herself walking through an unfamiliar forest. The air was thick, and a silvery mist covered the ground. Priscila moved forward slowly, pushing aside branches that hung like fingers. She felt no fear, only a strange calm... until the wind began to speak.
—Thirty-one... thirty-one... thirty-one...
—Twelve... twelve... twelve...
—One... one... one...
—Seven... seven... seven...
The numbers repeated themselves, like an obsessive echo among the trees. Priscilla turned around, searching for the source, but found nothing but shadows.
Then the sky opened with a roar that shook the ground. As if the gods themselves were shouting from above, a deep, omnipresent voice resounded above her:
— Numbers where the fire will fall.
Everything will be destroyed.
The towers will fall.
Everything will disappear.
The daughter of fire... must escape.
A brutal roar covered everything. The earth cracked beneath her feet, the forest caught fire in a single second, and an overwhelming heat enveloped her.
Priscila woke up with a start, drenched in sweat. She sat up abruptly, breathing heavily, as if she had been running for her life. Her heart was beating so hard she could hardly hear anything else.
—Thirty-one... twelve... one... seven... — she murmured, her voice trembling.
She fumbled for a scroll, unfolded it on her desk, and wrote the numbers with a shaky hand. Her handwriting was clumsy but clear. She stared at it for a few seconds. Then she sat back down on the bed, her eyes fixed on it.
Another prophecy.
Another warning disguised as a nightmare.
Another sign that something was coming.
And this time... it seemed closer than ever.