Bound To The Dead: The Deceptive Class-E Farmer-Chapter 57: It’s A Girl Thing

The throne room of Carreon was quiet. Sunlight streamed through tall windows, falling on polished marble floors.

King Belmont sat on his throne, an open letter in his hand. His golden robes rested neatly over his shoulders. A royal seal from the Kingdom of Bulcan was broken at his feet.

He read the last line again. Then he leaned back, eyes narrowing.

"So, King Geoffrey is dead," he said softly.

A few advisors stood nearby, watching him closely but saying nothing.

Belmont tapped the letter against the armrest.

"I know Geoffrey was not the rightful heir," he continued, "but he had power. Real power."

He glanced at his generals.

"What is it in this princess that let her take back the throne? That’s what I want to know."

No one answered.

Belmont looked back at the paper. His jaw tightened.

"She won," he said. "Somehow."

The hall remained silent.

"We could take Bulcan," said one general finally. "It’s a small kingdom."

Belmont didn’t respond at first. He looked out the window.

"Yes. We could invade. And we would win," he said at last. "But Geoffrey... even if he ruled poorly, he wasn’t weak. If someone killed him, that force is not to be ignored."

He stood up.

"I want more information about this ’Princess Aiah.’ Find out how she won. Who helped her. What weapons or powers she used."

He looked at his advisor.

"Send spies. I want reports as quickly as possible."

The advisor bowed.

Belmont turned to face the throne again.

"She took the crown," he said, almost to himself. "Let’s see if she can keep it."

Princess Mikaela sat quietly at the long table, watching her father.

King Belmont didn’t look at her right away. He was still holding the letter from Bulcan.

Then he spoke. "Mikaela."

She straightened. "Yes, Father?"

"You will go to Bulcan as my representative."

The room grew still.

Mikaela blinked. "Me?"

A few nobles exchanged confused glances. One of them spoke up. "Your Majesty, she... she’s never been sent on official visits before."

Belmont raised a hand to silence him. His gaze stayed on Mikaela.

"I know she’s... strong-willed," he said. "But this time, she’s the one I want to send."

Mikaela didn’t speak. She looked more surprised than anyone.

Belmont continued, "Bulcan’s new ruler is a young woman. I think it’s fitting that we send someone who can understand her better."

He gave a small shrug.

"It’s a girl thing."

The nobles didn’t argue, but their faces showed confusion.

Mikaela’s lips parted slightly. It wasn’t like her father to say something like that.

But something else was in his voice. A deeper reason. Maybe he wanted her to see what a female ruler could look like. Maybe he wanted her to learn something.

Or maybe he just wanted to see what she would do.

Mikaela stood.

"I accept," she said. "I’ll prepare my contingent at once."

Belmont nodded. "Good. Leave within two days. And Mikaela..."

She turned back.

"Observe her. Learn what gave her the crown."

Mikaela gave a small bow, then left the room without another word.

Inside her chamber, Sheena, her personal maiden was folding clothes. The girl looked up quickly. "Your Highness?"

Mikaela sighed, "I’m going to Bulcan. Father just named me his envoy."

Sheena blinked, then dropped the cloth she was holding. "What? But... why you?"

"Exactly what I asked." Mikaela sat on the edge of her bed. "But I’m going."

Sheena bit her lip. "Do I go with you?"

"Yes. I’ll need you."

Sheena nodded without question. She was only sixteen, with short black hair and soft brown eyes that still held pain she never spoke of. A survivor of the Calumpit massacre, the same village Mikaela had visited months ago. The same village that no longer stood.

Mikaela looked over at her. "We’ll bring Arthur too."

Sheena’s eyes widened slightly. "Arthur? But.."

"He’ll come," Mikaela cut in. "Tell him to ready my horse. We leave in two days."

Sheena hurried toward the door, then paused. "Which horse... Gaspar?" freewёbnoνel.com

Mikaela gave a small smile. "Yes."

Gaspar, the old albino draft horse, had been with her for almost three months. But he hadn’t started with her. He’d belonged to someone else once, someone from Calumpit. A boy who used to ride him to the market with a cart full of crops and mud on his boots.

Neither Sheena nor Arthur ever spoke his name.

But they all remembered him.

Mikaela glanced at the window. "Make sure Arthur knows. Pack only what we need."

"Yes, Princess," Sheena said softly and slipped out the door.

Mikaela stood and placed a hand on the saddlebag resting near her armor rack.

"Let’s see what kind of queen she really is," she whispered.

—-----

Meanwhile in Bulcan kingdom, the palace courtyard echoed with hammer strikes and shouted orders.

Banners were unfurled and scrubbed of ash. Stonecutters worked day and night to restore the scorched statues. Every window in the palace was either boarded or being replaced.

Servants carried trays of ink and scrolls, while the nobility, those who returned, watched everything from shaded balconies, whispering behind fans.

Isaac stood near a balcony overlooking the main square. He watched laborers clear rubble, watched knights drill, watched commoners peek beyond the gates as if unsure whether they still belonged.

"Word travels fast," Broner said beside him, arms folded. "Caravans from the southern duchies arrived this morning. And two foreign emissaries are expected by tomorrow."

Isaac gave a nod but said nothing.

Broner hesitated. "They’ll expect her to be regal. Untouched. She’s neither. That will anger some of them."

"She’s what they need," Isaac replied, voice low. "They’ll either follow or fall behind."

Down below, Aiah sparred against three knights in the training yard, no ceremonial robes, just a short blade in hand. Her strikes were sharp, her stance fierce. Every movement said: I earned this crown, not inherited it.

From behind, Mira and Elder Peter approached.

"She’s training harder than ever," Mira said, half-smiling, half-worried. "Hasn’t slept more than two hours in days."

"Her way of bracing for politics," Peter murmured. "This crown isn’t made of gold. It’s made of thorns."

Isaac kept watching. "She’ll wear it anyway."

Across the palace, the grand tailor arrived.

A sharply dressed man with coal-black hair tied in a ribbon, his posture straight as a blade. His assistants, all dressed in uniform gray, trailed behind him carrying seven trunks of fabric.

He gave Mira a polite bow. "You asked for something traditional, practical, and powerful," he said.

"A warrior-queen’s armor fit for a coronation. I’ve brought threads reinforced with stormsteel threading and a lining of duskweave. It will shine under the sun like forged royalty."

Mira blinked. "That... works."

"I’ll need two full days," the tailor added. "And her presence for at least five hours daily."

Mira winced. "She’ll try. She might fight you."

The tailor gave a small, knowing smirk. "Let her. I once stitched armor for a rebel warlord who broke my nose for making the collar too tight. I survived."

Peter glanced at Isaac. "Will you be standing by her during the coronation?"

Isaac’s eyes didn’t leave the yard. "Where else would I be?"