“National treasures that happen to sit on billions in mineral resources,” mutters one of the mining executives.
Matua Hemi’s eyes narrow dangerously at the comment. “Our ancestors’ bones rest in that soil you so eagerly wish to excavate,” he says, his voice low but carrying. “Would you speak so callously of digging beneath your own grandfather’s grave?”
The executive has the grace to look abashed, but the damage is done. The atmosphere in the room has shifted from tense negotiation to something approaching hostility.
“You asked for compromise,” I say, focusing on Jane. “We’ve offered it. Scaled back protection zones, phased implementation, tax incentives for the mining companies. But you keep moving the goalposts.”
“I’m being realistic,” she insists. “The bill as written would never pass Parliament.”
“You haven’t even tried.”
Jane’s expression hardens. “I don’t appreciate the insinuation that I’m not doing my job, Your Highness.”
“And I don’t appreciate being placated with empty promises.” The words slip out before I can stop them, my frustration finally cracking through the royal composure I’ve maintained for hours.
The room falls silent. Jane straightens in her chair, her eyes narrowing at my breach of protocol. As Prime Minister, she’s accustomed to deference, even from royalty.
Elder Kiri claps her hands once, the sharp sound cutting through the tension. “Perhaps,” she says, her voice mild though her eyes are anything but, “we should take a moment to remember why we gather.” She turns to the Prime Minister. “When the first settlers came, did they not sign treaties promising to respect the sacred lands?”
“That was centuries ago,” Jane begins, but Elder Kiri raises a hand.
“Time does not diminish truth,” she says simply. “The promises made by your ancestors bind you still, just as the promises of mine bind me.” She looks to each person at the table in turn. “We do not ask for charity or special consideration. We ask for respect of agreements made in good faith.”
Her words hang in the air, powerful in their simplicity.
Victoria clears her throat, glancing at her tablet. “Given the hour and the complexity of the issues we’re discussing, perhaps it would be best to adjourn for the day. We can reconvene tomorrow morning when everyone has had time to review the latest proposals.”
Jane looks momentarily relieved at the diplomatic out. “I think that’s wise. We all need time to consider our positions.” She gathers her papers. “We’ll resume at nine tomorrow.”
As people begin to rise, Matua Hemi’s voice stops them. “Before we leave,” he says, his gaze fixed on the Prime Minister, “I must ask, do you intend to honour the treaties signed by your predecessors? Or shall we tell our children that the word of the government means nothing?”
Jane hesitates, clearly caught off guard by the direct challenge. “Of course we honour our treaties,” she says finally. “But modern circumstances require modern interpretations.”
“Convenient,” Matua Hemi comments, rising to his impressive height. “That these ‘modern interpretations’ always seem to favour those who already have power.”
With that parting shot, he and the other elders file out, their dignity palpable despite the obvious dismissal they’ve just experienced.
As the room empties, Jane gestures for me to remain. “A word, Your Highness?”
I nod tersely, waiting until we’re alone before speaking. “Prime Minister.”
“You’re undermining me,” she says without preamble. “This project was always going to require compromise, Leo. You know that.”
“What I know,” I reply, “is that you promised your full support during your campaign. That the protection of sacred sites was, and I quote, ‘a moral imperative for modern Astipia.’”
She sighs, suddenly looking tired. “Politics requires nuance. What sounds good on the campaign trail isn’t always practical in governance.”
“So it was just a convenient slogan? A way to secure the tribal vote?”
“That’s unfair,” she says, though she doesn’t quite meet my eyes. “I’m trying to find a path forward, but you’re digging in your heels on every point. The Valley of Whispers alone would cost?—“
“The Valley isn’t negotiable.” My tone makes it clear this is a line I will not cross.
“Nothing is non-negotiable in politics,” she counters. “That’s the first rule of governance.”
“Then perhaps we need new rules.” I gather my papers, my patience exhausted. “Because I won’t be part of a process that values profit over heritage.”
“Leo—”
