Whispers in the Forest
Copyright© 2025 by Jody Daniel
Chapter 12
The Palace of the Old Crown, Elena’s office.
The Prime Minister was kept waiting exactly seven minutes.
Not as an insult. As a reminder.
When the doors to the Princess’s office finally opened, he was ushered in alone—no aides, no note-takers, no press. Just a long table of dark wood, tall windows rimmed with frost, and Elena sitting at its head.
She did not rise when he entered.
That, more than anything else, told him the Regency was already over in spirit.
“Your Highness,” he said carefully, bowing his head.
“Prime Minister,” Elena replied. Her voice was calm, precise. Not unkind—but not negotiable. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”
He gestured faintly. “The country is ... moving quickly.”
“Yes,” she said. “It is. Lord Prime Minister, please—sit.”
She turned and picked up a single document from the table. Cream paper. Heavy. The seal of the Crown already impressed in red wax.
“I have issued a Royal Decree,” she said, holding it out to him. “An administrative appointment within the Royal Household.”
The Prime Minister accepted the document with both hands. He read quickly—but not casually. His brow tightened almost immediately.
“Chief Pilot of the Royal Flight,” he murmured. “Director of Aviation Modernisation.”
He looked up.
“This does not require Parliamentary assent,” he said slowly.
“No,” Elena agreed. “It does not.”
A beat.
“But,” she continued, “it does require the government to recognise it. To ensure access, funding continuity, and coordination with Defence and Transport.”
The Prime Minister exhaled through his nose. Not frustrated. Impressed.
“You are moving faster than your advisers, Your Highness,” he said.
“I am not ruling by advisers,” Elena replied. “I am ruling by responsibility.”
She rose and stepped closer now—not looming, but present.
“Captain Ruan Venter has already protected the Crown in ways no statute could have ordered,” she said. “This decree simply aligns the law with reality.”
The Prime Minister studied her for a long moment.
Then he nodded once.
“I will countersign acknowledgement,” he said. “And issue a formal notice to Cabinet.”
He hesitated.
“You understand,” he added carefully, “that this places Captain Venter in close proximity to the Crown by reporting directly to the Crown.”
Elena met his gaze without flinching.
“Yes,” she said. “That is precisely the point.”
She gestured to the pen on the table.
“If Parliament wishes to debate aircraft procurement later,” she continued, “they are welcome to do so. Until then, the Crown flies safely—or it does not fly at all.”
The Prime Minister allowed himself a thin smile as he signed.
“You are not asking permission,” he said.
“No,” Elena replied softly. “I am informing you, my Lord.”
The decree was no longer just a document.
It was policy.
When the Prime Minister stood to leave, he bowed again—lower this time.
“Volynia is adjusting to you quickly, Your Highness.”
Elena inclined her head.
“They will adjust faster once the Crown stops wobbling,” she said, a faint smile touching her lips. “The people need better lives—better food on their tables, secure jobs, stable incomes. They need to feel safe and secure in their homeland. That will be the objective of the Crown.”
“Your Highness, I take it you are open to discussions for Volynia to join the European Union?”
“The Crown will be in favour of anything that improves the economy and benefits the people. If adopting the Euro brings stability and growth, then we will pursue it. A better life for all,” Lena replied firmly.
“I will convey Your Highness’s sentiment to the Treasury, if it pleases Your Grace?”
“Just understand, my Lord Prime Minister: The Crown will always prioritise the security, welfare and development of the people.”
The Prime Minister paused, testing the waters. “And the oil and gas exports to Russia?”
“You can notify the Russian Ambassador that the treaty is under revision,” Lena said, her voice cooling. “The Crown will convey the outcome shortly.”
“If I read between the lines, Your Grace, you are not in favour of it?”
“You read correctly, my Lord,” Lena replied. “The Euro holds value; the Ruble holds risk. With current international sanctions imposed on the Russian economy, Volynia must seek more profitable—and stable—avenues to exploit. We will not tie our future to a sinking anchor.”
The Prime Minister chuckled, a sound of genuine relief. “As you wish, Your Highness. I see a great future for Volynia. But this discussion we just had ... let us keep it strictly off the record for now.”
“I respect your discretion, my Lord. Thank you for your counsel on the decree. I will let you now go attend to more urgent matters.”
Lena dismissed the Prime Minister.
The doors closed behind him.
As he walked away, a warmth settled in his chest—unexpected, but welcome.
This Princess was not merely a symbol. She was intelligent. Resolute. A force the Kingdom had lacked for far too long.
Elena remained standing for a moment longer, staring at the sealed copy on the table.
Then—quietly, almost to herself—she said:
“Fly safe, Captain of the Falcon.”
The Royal Hangar, Velyngrad.
I stood in the glass-walled office overlooking the main apron. Below me, the ground crew was already at work, moving with quiet efficiency as they polished the Falcon 50. Floodlights washed the aircraft in white light, turning the aluminium skin into a mirror. She gleamed like she was brand new again, sporting a fresh decal on the tail—the Royal Crest we’d dug out of that battered wooden box like some forgotten relic. Gold, crimson, and black. Old symbols, newly dangerous.
My jet.
No—our jet now.
I pulled my phone from my pocket. It was a new secure handset, hard-encrypted by Volkov’s people, the kind of thing that made intelligence agencies nervous. Still, I didn’t need a contact list. I knew the number by heart.
It rang three times.
“Executive Charters, George speaking.”
The familiar voice hit me like a punch to the chest. For a split second I could smell it—the Highveld after rain, hot tar, cut grass, and avgas baking on the apron at Grand Central. Home. Or what used to be home.
“Howzit, George,” I said.
There was a pause. Then a sharp intake of breath.
“Ruan?” His voice jumped an octave. “You alive, boet? I haven’t heard a peep since you vanished off the radar near Oudtshoorn. The news here is going mad—some coup in Eastern Europe. Tell me you’re not involved.”
I chuckled, leaning my shoulder against the cool glass, watching a technician wipe down the Falcon’s nose with reverence.
“I’m not just involved, George. I’m employed.”
“Employed?” he scoffed. “You own half this company, Ruan. You can’t be employed somewhere else.”
“That’s what I’m calling about,” I said, my tone shifting, the humour draining out. “I’m selling, George. My fifty percent. The aircraft, the client list, the hangar lease at Grand Central—everything. It’s all yours.”
Silence.
Then I added, “But I keep the Falcon.”
More silence. Then a low, slow whistle.
“Hell,” George said quietly. “You’re serious. You’re staying there.”
“I’m staying,” I confirmed. “I’ve got a new job. Director of Aviation Modernisation for the Crown of Volynia. Comes with a uniform, diplomatic plates, and a headache that never switches off—but the view’s decent.”
“And the girl?” he asked. His voice softened, careful now. “The ‘Medical Cargo’?”
I turned my head toward the window. Across the tarmac, a motorcade was rolling in—black vehicles, polished, precise. Too clean for a country that had just survived a revolution.
“She’s not cargo anymore,” I said. “She’s the Queen-to-be, George. The people want her crowned. Parliament’s scrambling to keep up.” I hesitated, then smiled despite myself. “And I ... I want her as Queen of my heart. Literally.”
“No shit,” George laughed. The disbelief melted quickly into something warmer. “Well, I always said you punched way above your weight. What about the assets down here?”
“I’ll trade you all of it for the Falcon,” I said. “Keep the King Air flying—she’s still a solid bird. The Land Cruiser in Knysna and the Land Rover up in Gauteng—keep them maintained for me. And tell Boetie and Giles I’m doubling their budget for the renovations.”
There was a pause.
“You’re not selling the Chateau,” George said, more statement than question.
“No,” I replied. “Everyone needs a sanctuary. Even a Queen.”
He laughed again, shaking his head—I could hear it in his voice.
“Stick a fork in, you’re fried. Done. I’ll draw up the papers. And Ruan?”
“Ja?”
“Fly safe, partner. And don’t start any more wars.”
I smiled.
“No promises. Venter out.”
I ended the call.
Just like that, the line to my old life went dead. No regret. No panic. Just a strange, clean sense of release—like lifting off through a cloud layer into clear air.
I looked down at the tarmac again.
The lead car of the motorcade had stopped. The door opened by a bodyguard, and Lena stepped out into the sunlight. She wore a dark coat now, tailored and unmistakably royal, but she still moved like herself—unpretentious, alert. She looked up toward the office windows, squinting against the glare.
She spotted me.
She smiled. Lifted a hand. Waved.
I raised my hand and waved back, feeling something steady settle in my chest.
The Falcon waited below us, engines cold, ready.
So was I.
Cathedral of St. Stephan, Velyngrad three weeks later.
The Cathedral smelled of frankincense, freezing stone, and a thousand years of history. The scent clung to the back of my throat—sweet, bitter, ancient—like something you weren’t supposed to breathe too deeply. I stood in the front row of the congregation, shoulders squared, squeezed into the dress uniform Volkov’s tailors had somehow conjured in forty-eight hours. Dark blue. High-collared. Stiff as armour. Gold braid traced the seams and cuffs, catching the candlelight in a way that made me acutely aware I hadn’t earned any of it.
Technically, I wasn’t standing with the nobility. I was positioned with the Household Staff and Royal Security—close enough to power to feel its gravity, far enough to remember I didn’t belong to it. Chief Pilot of the Royal Flight. The title looked formidable on parchment. In this moment, it felt like an expensive costume I was terrified of wearing wrong.
“Stop fidgeting,” Volkov whispered beside me without turning his head. He looked completely at ease in his dress blues, medals aligned with ruthless precision, gold braid sitting on his shoulders like it had grown there. “You look like a cadet at his first parade.”
“This collar is trying to strangle me,” I muttered, subtly tugging at the stiff fabric. “And I’m ninety percent sure I’m going to sneeze during the holy oil part.”
“Hold it in,” Volkov murmured. “Sneezing on the Archbishop is treason.”
Before I could reply, the organ swelled.
The sound wasn’t music so much as architecture. A deep, chest-vibrating chord rolled through the nave, silencing the whispers of diplomats and generals behind us. The floor itself seemed to vibrate. The cathedral held its breath.
The heavy oak doors at the far end opened.
She entered.
She walked alone at the centre of the procession, framed by guards and clerics led by the Archbishop. No father at her side. No Regent guiding her steps. Just a young woman walking sixty metres down a red velvet aisle laid over stone worn smooth by centuries of kings and conquerors.
She wore white silk embroidered with silver thread, the Silver Falcon motif woven subtly into the fabric—visible only when the light struck it just right. A heavy mantle of crimson velvet flowed behind her, carried by four pages whose arms were already trembling under its weight.
She didn’t look at the crowd.
She looked straight ahead at the altar.
Her face was pale, composed, carved from stillness. The Ice Princess mask was back—but this time there was steel beneath it. Purpose. Resolve forged under pressure.
When she reached the altar, she knelt.
The Archbishop—so old he looked like he’d been carved from parchment and prayer—blessed her, his voice fragile but unwavering, then lifted his hands in an invocation that echoed up into the vaulted darkness above us.
As the organ shifted into a hymn and trumpets cut through the air like sunlight, she rose and was guided to the great chair. Royal aides removed the crimson mantle and replaced it with a heavier one: deep purple velvet, edged with thick white fur spotted with black and red. Ancient symbols. Old power.
She was helped into the chair—oak, massive, carved with generations of heraldry—and for a moment she sat still, framed by candlelight and shadow, looking impossibly young and impossibly alone.
The Prime Minister stepped forward and handed the Archbishop a golden sceptre. It was blessed and placed into Lena’s right hand.
Then the Chief Justice presented the golden globe. Again, it was blessed. Again, it was placed into her grasp—this time her left.
Power balanced carefully. Tradition made tangible.
She was helped to stand, and under the direction of the Chief Justice, she recited the Oath of Kings. Her voice carried clearly through the cathedral—strong, steady—but I caught the faintest tremor beneath it. A fault line of emotion.
She was thinking of her father. I knew it. Of the man who had walked this same path before her. The weight of memory pressed harder than any crown.
Then the Archbishop lifted the crown.
From where I stood, it looked impossibly heavy—solid gold, set with emeralds and rubies that caught the light like trapped fire. He lowered it onto her head.
She did not bow.
The weight settled. She carried it.
“I present to you,” the Archbishop proclaimed, his voice quavering but magnified by the cathedral’s vast lungs, “Elena Sofia Alexandra, by the Grace of God—Queen Alexandra the First of Volynia.”
The sound that followed was not a cheer. It was a wave.
“Long live the Queen!”
She turned to face us.
Her eyes swept the front row—past the Prime Minister, the generals, the ambassadors. Then they found mine.
For a fraction of a second, the mask slipped.
No smile—protocol forbade it—but her eyes softened. A tiny, almost imperceptible nod. The girl in the hoodie. The woman who drank coffee in a château kitchen.
“I see you,” her gaze said. “I am here because of you.”
Then the Queen returned, distant and untouchable, gazing out over her people.
I let out a breath I hadn’t realised I was holding.
“Long live the Queen,” Volkov murmured beside me.
“Long live the Queen,” I echoed.
But in my head, I was already checking the weather for the flight to the Chateau.
Because I knew that under that crown, beneath all that gold and history, she was just waiting for the moment she could take it off and relieve the pressure on her neck. She did not need a crown on her head to have the power or authority. She was Queen Alexandra the First of Volynia in body and soul.
The night of the Coronation Ball.
The Great Hall was a deafening ocean of violins, chatter, and clinking crystal. Chandeliers blazed overhead, throwing light across silk gowns, polished medals, and faces flushed with power and champagne. I had endured two solid hours of it—standing stiffly in my dress uniform, nodding at generals who studied me like an interesting but poorly labelled exhibit, and politely declining vodka shots from the Minister of Transport, who seemed determined to test my liver and my loyalty in equal measure.
I needed air.
Or at least, I needed silence.
“You look like you need fresh air,” Volkov said beside me.
“Is there somewhere I can slip out and just breathe for a minute?” I asked Volkov.
“The side door over by the left side. The catering staff use it so stay near the fire extinguisher so you will be out of their way...” He answered and winked. The is a small bench next to the fire extinguisher. Go sit on it. Take the weight off your feet...” Then he smirked and walked off.
I slipped out through a side door used by the catering staff, trading marble and music for shadow and wool runners. The West Wing corridor beyond was dim and hushed, lined with ancient tapestries that smelled faintly of dust and old smoke. Back here, the roar of the ball was reduced to a distant thrum beneath the floorboards, like a heartbeat heard through stone.
I leaned against the wall and loosened the high collar of my tunic, rolling my shoulders and finally breathing.
Click.
The wall panel beside me didn’t creak or protest—it simply swung inward.
A hand shot out—slender, pale, wearing a massive diamond ring that caught even the low light—and grabbed my lapel with surprising strength.
“Get in here,” a voice hissed.
I didn’t have time to protest. I was yanked forward into darkness, the panel sliding shut behind me with a soft, decisive thud. The corridor vanished, replaced by the close press of shadows and familiar warmth.
“Lena?” I whispered, my hand instinctively finding her waist to steady us both.
“Shh,” she breathed.
A small light flared—the glow of her phone screen. Blue light washed over her face, flushed and unmistakably pleased with herself. Her hair had come loose at the temples, and she’d kicked off her heels, now dangling from one hand like contraband.
“These shoes are killing me. Follow me.”
“Follow you where?” I murmured. “Into the plumbing?”
She smiled, wicked and conspiratorial. “Better. To your room.”
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