Fewer smoke plumes from burned homes.
More lanterns in windows.
More lines outside bakeries—not because there was nothing, but because there was finally something worth lining up for.
The Harvest Festival banners had already begun to appear on the streets. Traditionally, they meant one thing:
A week of feasting for the nobility.
A single night of opulence in the palace ballroom.
And the faint, bitter hope that some scraps would trickle down to the people.
Esther stared at the banners and felt her jaw tighten.
Not this year.
Not anymore.
The council chamber smelled of ink and old arguments.
Esther sat at the head of the table—not on the raised throne, but in a plain chair beside it. Her father had insisted on the throne. She had insisted on the table.
“We have always held the Harvest Ball in the palace,” one noble droned, flipping through his notes. “Invitations, performances, a seven-course meal—”
“For nobility,” Esther said.
He faltered. “Well. Yes. That is how it is done.”
“How itwasdone,” Esther corrected.
Murmurs rippled around the table.
King Arcturus sat to her right, watching quietly, letting her speak. Lupin hovered beside Arietta on the other side of the room, trying to look supportive and mostly looking like he wanted to faint.
Esther folded her hands on the table. “This year, the Harvest Festival will be held in the city. In the lower plazas and market streets. No ballroom. No private feast.”
Several nobles blanched.
“The people have barely survived raids and famine,” she continued, voice firm. “We are rebuilding. We cannot celebrate while pretending they don’t exist.”
“That’s not how this works,” a countess said tightly. “The Harvest Ball is a tradition.”
“So is ignoring starving children,” Esther said. “We’re ending at least one of those.”
A few councilors drew back as if she’d slapped them.
Her father’s mouth twitched—the ghost of a proud smile he quickly hid behind his hand.
Esther continued before they could regroup. “We will use what we already budgeted for the Harvest Ball—but instead of crystal chandeliers, we’re funding food, shelter repairs, and winter supplies. The festival will be open to everyone. Free meals at the crown’s expense, funded in part by a new initiative.”
There it was—the word that would cause trouble.
“Initiative?” one baron repeated suspiciously.
“A Harvest Tithe,” Esther said. “Every noble house in good standing with the crown will contribute—food, coin, or materials—proportionate to their estates.”
Gasps, sharp as snapping twigs.
