The King of Eldenbrass, most noble and good, sat upon a modest oaken chair, its legs carved with lions and laurels, though he preferred to imagine them cats and cabbages. His crown tilted slightly askance in the midmorning sun, glinting just enough to blind the scribe to his right, who bore it in silence. Two guards flanked the stone archway behind, halberds in hand and glances exchanged with increasing unease.

Before the king stood the candidates.

The first, a thin and greying man in black robes, bowed with a flourish that was more slither than sweep. His name, as he had declared with a hiss of satisfaction, was Lord Vellum of the Bleak Mire.

Beside him stood Lady Cravenhurst, cloaked in velvet so dark it swallowed the light. Her smile was slight, her hands folded in a way that suggested they had only recently been scrubbed of blood.

“A pleasure, Your Majesty,” Lord Vellum said, rising like a spider from his bow. “Might I say, your lands are lush, your fields fertile… an exquisite canvas for discipline.”

The king clapped his hands together. “Ha! Discipline! A most excellent virtue. I’ve oft said a lazy field grows naught but weeds. Do you till your people well, Lord Vellum?”

“I whip them until they gleam,” he said, tone oily. “The gleam of fear, Your Grace, is the most efficient polish.”

Sir Aldric, the captain of the guard, took a sharp step forward. The king waved him off.

“Easy, Aldric, the man means metaphor. ’Tis the fire in the belly he speaks of, I think. Drive! Zeal! Am I right, Lord Vellum?”

Vellum inclined his head. “Precisely, Sire. And in the Mire, nothing motivates like the snap of purpose.”

Lady Cravenhurst stepped forward, her boots making no sound despite the marble beneath.

“I have governed the Red Hollow for five winters,” she said, voice cool and careful. “During my tenure, we have eliminated crime entirely.”

“Impressive!” the king declared.

“There is no one left alive to commit it,” she added, in what could only be described as a purr.

The king paused, blinked, and then nodded sagely. “Aha. A woman of thoroughness. Marvelous. Many rulers would stop at halfway measures—fines, stocks, stern talking-to’s. But you went the full furlong!”

She smiled again, and one of the guards shivered.

Lord Vellum interjected, “I, too, have reduced dissent. My scribes no longer require ink, as the villagers willingly provide it in... red.”

There was a choking noise from the scribe.

“How resourceful!” the king beamed. “I knew I liked you, Vellum. Not afraid of a bit of economizing. No waste. That’s the spirit.”

“Your Majesty,” Sir Aldric began again, clearing his throat, “I must object—these two—”

“Sir Aldric, you are ever on edge,” said the king, waving his hand as if brushing a fly. “We must look beyond first impressions. Viceroys are not chosen for their gentle hands, but their firm grip. Think of them as… blacksmiths for the soul. Yes, that’s good. Write that down, Marnin.”

The scribe did not move.

Lady Cravenhurst stepped closer, holding out a scroll.

“Here is a map of my latest infrastructural project. A pit. A very large one. It keeps the people from climbing over one another with ambition. Downward thinking, if you will.”

The king unrolled the scroll with delight. “A pit! How novel! Aldric, have you heard of such innovation? I say, the folk must feel so grounded.”

“Yes,” Lady Cravenhurst said, “they are deeply connected to the earth now.”

From the corner of his eye, Lord Vellum scowled. “And I have recently abolished doors. Locks breed secrecy. My subjects now enjoy the peace of knowing nothing belongs to them.”

“A communal spirit!” the king exclaimed, standing in joy. “These are exactly the qualities I sought! A viceroy must be decisive, innovative, and unwavering. You both show such promise, such… force of will.”

Lady Cravenhurst and Lord Vellum glanced at one another, a silent war of daggers passing between their eyes.

“I shall have to decide,” the king continued. “But know this—whichever of you I do not select shall be assigned a different post. Perhaps in the West, where the trees keep whispering. We could use your… methods there.”

Both bowed, their expressions unchanged.

As the two walked away, escorted by the ever-tense Sir Aldric, the king turned to his scribe.

“Marnin, did you see? I think we’ve finally found someone who’ll keep the peace.”

Marnin looked up, pale as chalk.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” he said softly. “They’ll keep something, surely.”