Even Ankavern and Silverwall, places far from the onslaught, had badgered her for more men and supplies. Why could these places not organise their own defences? Had they not recognised that this massive wave of death and devastation had little interest in their cities? Its goal was to stab at the heart of the Free States – to destroy Steelhaven itself.

The weight of all this had almost crushed her, but Janessa had been determined to suffer it. She was lucky enough to be safe, for now, here in Skyhelm, while the people of the Free States, beyond the walls of the nation’s capital, were being butchered by a merciless enemy. Her brave troops were laying down their lives to buy time for the city’s defences to be bolstered before the inevitable attack.

And everything she did was subjected to the scrutiny of her court. For three hundred years the business of the Crown had been conducted in public – or at least as public as the great throne room got. It was always thronging with courtiers, nobles minor and major, an endless line of chancellors and chamberlains and stewards, most of whom Janessa did not recognise.

There was one face she did know, however. That of a woman who always seemed to be lurking, assessing her every decision, judging her and finding her wanting at every turn. Baroness Isabelle Magrida.

Oh, for the days of the Sword Kings, when they could execute their enemies, and sometimes their friends, with impunity.

Janessa sat patiently, trying to appear regal. She was relatively confident she looked the part, and did not expect to be told otherwise. Her short time as queen had shown her the sycophantic depths to which any man could sink and she had observed changes in the attitude of many who surrounded her. Only Odaka Du’ur remained the same; stern and stalwart, her constant rock. Without him she wasn’t sure how she would have coped. But at this moment, in Odaka’s absence, her only advisor was Rogan, the Seneschal of the Inquisition, who stood at her side, presiding over the throne room like a vulture over a rotting carcass.

Rogan usually kept himself to himself. His was a grim business, gathering information on the enemies of the Free States and acting upon it accordingly. Janessa was under no illusions how he gathered his information, and there were rumoured to be hidden chambers around the city, and elsewhere in the Free States, dedicated to the art of interrogation. Seneschal Rogan himself was said to have forgotten more about the history and techniques of torture than most men could ever learn in a lifetime. Janessa could barely stomach the man, but her father had felt the need to keep him and his Inquisition around for reasons that were increasingly obvious.

A grey-haired figure came striding through the archway to the throne room. His jacket was green, emblazoned with the crown and swords of Steelhaven, and under the crook of one arm he carried a battered helm. Despite his advanced years his back was straight and his chin raised proudly.

Seneschal Rogan leaned in as the man approached and whispered, ‘High Constable of the Greencoats, Majesty.’

Janessa made no acknowledgment. Though she found it annoying she had to rely on the inquisitor for such information, she was grateful for it. No sooner had the High Constable knelt before the throne than she beckoned him to stand.

‘Majesty,’ the High Constable began, his voice gruff from decades of barking orders, ‘this is the third day we have had serious unrest in the Warehouse District. Our grain stores are still intact, but the rabble seems intent on smashing them open and helping themselves. Add to that the recent influx of Free Company mercenaries, and it’s all we can do to stop the chaos consuming the city. Twelve of my men have been wounded stopping brawls in the street and damage to property is in the thousands of crowns. We need more men, Majesty.’

We need more men. Always the same words. We need more men. We need more supplies. We are starving. We are dying.

‘As you know, High Constable, no men can be spared,’ she replied.