Absolute Cheater-Chapter 268: Fantasy Dungeon VII

He moved to her side, close enough to touch but still giving her space.

"You want them to rise up."

"I need them to rise up," Valeris said, her voice like velvet and flame. "Mimir rots because its enemies hide in shadows and whisper behind fans. I will give them no shadows. No fans. Only fire."

Asher grunted in approval. "They think you're still playing by their rules."

"They think wrong," she said. Then, softer, glancing at him from under lowered lashes, "And besides... I have an advantage they never will."

He raised an eyebrow, amused. "Oh?"

She stepped closer, close enough he could feel the electric pull of her.

"I have you," she said, smiling, dangerous and full of promise.

Without hesitation, Asher reached out and gently captured her wrist, pulling her the final inch between them.

"And you have me until the very end," he said.

For a moment, the war, the blood, the weight of a kingdom—it all fell away.

There was only them.

Valeris's free hand slid up his chest, fingers brushing the line of his armor.

"Then let's give them a war they'll never forget," she murmured against his throat.

Meanwhile — Elsewhere in the City

In the deep cellars of House Verrian, far from prying eyes, lords and ladies gathered in secret council.

A map of Mimir was spread across a long oak table. Tokens were already being moved—red for the Queen's forces, black for their own.

"We strike now," hissed Lady Verrian, her jeweled fingers tight around a glass of bloodwine. "Before she roots herself deeper."

"Not yet," said a masked figure at the far end of the table. His voice was dry, ancient. "We must strike not her—but her foundation."

"And how do you propose we do that?"

The figure smiled behind his mask.

"We kill her knight."

The chamber went still.

Someone whispered:

"Kill the Queen's sword... and the Queen will bleed herself dry trying to avenge him."

Plans began to form. Assassins were named. Coins promised. Poisoners hired.

The first true move of the hidden war was set.

And back at the Palace, neither Valeris nor Asher knew yet how close the blades had already drawn.

The Next Morning — Palace of Mimir

The dawn broke pale and sullen over the city, thin sunlight barely cutting through the heavy mists hanging over the river and rooftops. Mimir wore its anxiety like a second skin today; the marketplace bustled, but the laughter was too loud, the songs too short, the greetings too stiff.

Inside the Palace, everything gleamed — polished marble, brushed silver, embroidered banners of House Sarraneth — but the air crackled with something invisible. The courtiers smiled too readily. The stewards bowed too deeply. And every whisper seemed to pause when Valeris walked past.

She knew it.

She wanted them to fear her.

Dressed in regal black with crimson accents — the colors of a conqueror, not a ruler — Queen Melina of House Sarraneth (Valeris) moved through the grand hall like a blade sheathed in silk.

Asher followed at her side, a half step behind her, armored and armed, the perfect image of the royal guardian. His gaze never stopped moving — taking in every twitch of a noble's hand, every glance that lasted too long, every servant that lingered near a wall.

Already today, three separate "accidental" encounters had been arranged — a spilled tray near Valeris's path, a veiled woman with a hidden dagger woven into her hairpins, and a servant boy carrying a scroll soaked in a subtle hallucinogenic powder.

All three had been quietly… dealt with.

Now, they entered the Council Atrium — a massive circular chamber of glass and green marble where the high lords and ladies of Mimir convened. A shallow pool surrounded the center table, its surface still as glass, reflecting the ornate ceiling where an enormous mosaic of the founding gods loomed.

Waiting for them were the heads of Mimir's great houses.

House Verrian.

House Faelen.

House Nostor.

House Karrin.

And half a dozen lesser banners fluttering like vultures circling a feast.

All rose as she entered. Protocol demanded it.

She did not tell them to sit.

She let them stand there. Waiting. Uneasy.

Finally, she spoke, voice cutting the silence like a honed blade.

"Let us begin."

Asher took his place behind her right shoulder, silent, a wall of iron and will. His eyes locked briefly with a man across the table — a 'merchant prince' of House Verrian, whose ring bore a symbol only those trained in death arts would recognize.

The merchant smiled thinly.

Asher smiled back, even thinner.

The Council Session — Slow Poison

For an hour, they danced in words.

Discussions of tariffs.

Border patrols.

Winter grain reserves.

All hollow subjects, all meant to stall.

But beneath the surface, the real war simmered. Every offer dripped with hidden threats. Every agreement was a test.

"Of course, my Queen," purred Lady Karrin, "We are grateful for your return and... firm hand."

"Such decisive leadership is rare these days," said Lord Faelen, his voice oozing false admiration.

Valeris answered them all with the calm of a predator at full hunger.

But the longer the talks stretched, the more Asher noticed it — subtle shifts in movement. Knights moving to block exits. Servants exchanging coded glances. Small things: a decanter being passed to Valeris's seat... one that hadn't been poured before.

Poison?

He caught a servant's wrist as they approached with a goblet, his hand like iron.

"Allow me," he said coolly, taking the wine instead and pouring it out on the marble floor.

It sizzled as it touched the stone.

A ripple of murmured surprise moved through the room.

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Valeris did not even blink.

She smiled.