Grand Chancellor Cassius knelt quietly beside the king’s bed, his eyes stirring with a sea of emotions as they lingered on the monarch’s pallid face.
For a long moment, he remained there in silence, his thoughts unreadable. Finally, he rose to his feet, his expression composed once more, and turned his gaze toward the elderly man standing a few steps away.
“Thank you for your hard work, Doctor,” he said, his tone carrying a faint air of finality. “Please continue to care for the king—your expertise is a rare beacon of hope in times as grim as these.”
The doctor bowed respectfully, his nerves barely hidden. “You honor me, Your Excellency. I will do all in my power to ensure His Majesty’s recovery.”
With a slight inclination of his head and a flick of his cape, the chancellor turned on his heel and left. The knight commander fell into step behind him, silent and dutiful.
Unbeknownst to them, a court official lingered behind the corner of the corridor, eyes narrowed as he discreetly observed their departure.
Back inside the chamber, the royal physician was in the midst of checking the king’s vitals with a magic tool when the door creaked open.
He barely had time to react before the familiar weight of a shadow loomed over him. His head snapped up, eyes widening as a cold sweat broke across his brow.
“L-Lord Vaerythos,” he stammered, his voice trembling.
The tall man, broad-shouldered and imposing, had the entirety of his gaze fixed on the king’s frail form. After a long moment observing the monarch—whose condition had noticeably improved—he slowly turned his cold, dissatisfied eyes onto the quivering doctor.
The healer’s panic was immediate, hands flailing defensively. “I—I increased the dosage as instructed,” he sputtered, his gaze dropping fearfully. “But somehow… despite that, the king appears to be building immunity. It’s as if… as if he’s healing himself.”
Without warning, Vaerythos’s heavy backhand sent the elder sprawling across the floor, his glasses skittering out of reach.
“And you expect me to believe that nonsense?” Vaerythos snarled venomously, a vein pulsing in his temple as he loomed closer, his shadow swallowing the man like a predator circling wounded prey. “Do I need to spell it out for you to understand?” he scoffed coldly. “A brilliant man such as yourself?”
Terrified, the elder let out a yelp, scrambling backward until his spine pressed against the cold, unyielding wall. But there was no escape—
WHAM!
The brutal truth of that was carved into his flesh with the first devastating blow, rattling his skull like a death knell.
Vaerythos reared back, his fury boiling over as another iron-clad fist shot forward.
“It doesn’t take—”
CRACK!
“—a genius—”
THUD!
“—to figure out—”
SMASH! SMASH!
Blood splattered across the king’s face.
“—that we’re trying to—”
SPLURCH!
“—get rid of this… pathetic excuse for a monarch.”
The room reverberated with the sickening sound of breaking bones, tearing flesh, and muffled gurgles of agony.
When Vaerythos finally stepped back, his chest rose and fell in ragged breaths. He gazed down at the aftermath of his wrath, his knuckles dripping with crimson, his handiwork a grotesque testament to his unbridled rage.
Without a word, the man’s female assistant nonchalantly stepped forward and offered a towel, her expression a canvas of stoicism.
The Marquess took it with a grunt. “What a fool,” he scoffed, wiping his hands clean. “One would think a man of his intelligence would’ve taken the initiative and secured proper poison—but no matter.”
With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the soiled towel onto the corpse, casting a fleeting glance at the motionless king before striding toward the door.
“Clean up this mess,” he murmured to his subordinate without so much as a backward glance. “And this time, hire a specialist who knows how to finish the job.
As much as I’d relish wringing the life out of him myself, his death needs to appear as nothing more than the natural course of his illness.”
***
The council chamber bristled with tension.
The air was charged with the scent of incense from modified mana crystals, old parchment, and barely concealed ambition.
Beneath the grand chandeliers and towering stained-glass windows, the realm’s most powerful men sat in a semicircle, their voices a discordant blend of hushed murmurs, sharp accusations, and clashing wills.
At the head of it all stood Grand Chancellor Cassius, his expression calm, composed, and righteous. Draped in robes of gold and deep blue, he exuded an air of solemn authority. He steepled his fingers, waiting for the discord to dull before he spoke.
“Adventurers are fleeing the kingdom in droves,” a man said grimly. “At this rate, the monsters will overrun us before the war even begins.”
“Yet another consequence of the looming conflict,” another replied. “It’s obvious they have no intention of lending us any aid.”
“Even if we reinforce our ranks with slaves, they have no experience in battle. We’d be sending them to their deaths.”
“At the very least, they’d serve as decent distractions while our soldiers deal a deadly blow.”
“The absence of the Court Magister is most troubling,” a portly man muttered to another. “Is she still secluding herself within the Magic Tower?”
“Indeed,” Cassius took the initiative to respond. “A regrettable but necessary measure. Until we are certain of her loyalty, she remains where she is best contained.”
A few exchanged uneasy glances, but none dared press the matter further.
“What of the event with the Zepharion Church?” asked the Keeper of the Seals, his beady eyes flicking toward the chancellor.
Cassius gave a placid smile. “The arrangements have been seen to. The bishop has been most accommodating, and the event will proceed in several days as planned.”
Murmurs of approval—or, at the very least, compliance—spread through the chamber. But then, a voice, dripping with resentment, cut through the discussion like a dagger.
“You make it seem as though you alone move the hands of this court, Chancellor.”
Heads turned toward Marquess Vaerythos. His dark eyes gleamed with barely contained hunger, the rings upon his fingers clicking as he folded his hands before him, fresh blood still clinging beneath his fingernails. “Surely, you do not intend to wield authority indefinitely.”
Cassius did not so much as blink. “I do only as His Majesty would command.”
“Yet His Majesty does not command, does he?” Vaerythos countered, tilting his head. “He is bedridden. Unmoving. Silent.” His words slithered through the room like an asp. “And what of succession? Of course, we must speak of it.”
A heavy silence fell.
It was Lord Zerbst who first leaned forward, thin lips curling into a sultry smile. “Princess Lumielle is much like her father.” His voice was low as he spoke, eyes shining with hunger. “Headstrong, clever, resourceful, and beloved by the people.”
“A fine queen she would make,” the High Justiciar agreed with a firm nod.
“A queen?” Viscount Palisson scoffed, his laughter cold. “A woman at the helm of war? Laughable.”
Lord Ignatius let out a derisive chuckle. “Her kindness will be her undoing. The crown demands a ruler of iron, not silk.”
“I’ll have to agree,” the Lord General added sternly. “We need a ruler who can make the hard decisions. A king, not a sentimental girl.”
“Then what of Prince Reneal?” the Warden of the Gates suggested, though hesitation laced his tone.
“The prince is the rightful heir,” the Royal Steward affirmed. “He only needs the right guidance, proper training—”
Palisson and Ignatius both burst into mocking laughter.
“Prince Reneal?” Palisson sneered. “That meek little lamb? He has no stomach for ruling.”
“Spineless,” Ignatius added with a smirk. “Were he to sit on the throne, he would drive this kingdom to ruin in a fortnight.”
A murmur of uneasy agreement spread through the chamber. Some nodded; others simply lowered their eyes.
And then, Vaerythos struck.
“There is… another option.”
Silence.
All eyes turned to him.
“As a contingency,” he mused, “we could consider… legitimizing young Stynx.”
The reaction was immediate.
“Bastard!” someone hissed.
“That child is a disgrace to the bloodline!”
“A stain upon the throne!”
Yet others whispered among themselves in a positive light.
“Well… for one, he’s a man,” one noble murmured. “And very strong-willed and charismatic at that.”
“And formidable with a blade,” another added. “He’s quite gifted with fire magic, as well.”
“He could be shaped,” said a third, his voice low. “Molded to serve our purpose.”
“And he’s already popular among the soldiers,” a fourth man informed. “Regardless of his circumstances, he’s undoubtedly the more appealing choice.”
Vaerythos’s grin stretched wider as the murmurs rippled through the chamber. His gaze flicked to the man presiding over the meeting, already envisioning himself in that very seat. Enjoy your reign while it lasts, Cassius. It’s only a matter of time before you—and everyone else in this room—is bending the knee before me.
The Grand Chancellor finally spoke, his voice measured, his expression unreadable. “This is treasonous talk. His Majesty still lives.”
“Yet we sit here debating as if he does not,” Vaerythos countered, his grin widening.
“It has been many moons and still, the king shows no sign of recovery,” declared the Keeper of the Seals. “We must prepare for the worst.”
“Agreed,” the Master of Coin chimed in. “Is that not why the royal siblings are vying for the throne?”
“This matter must be resolved before the war commences,” the Lord General urged. “The soldiers’ morale depends on it.”
Silence.
Cassius exhaled slowly, his gaze sweeping over the gathered men. “If the council is in agreement… I will entertain a vote.”
“You assume the people would accept him,” the Archminister challenged.
Vaerythos leaned back, a slow, predatory smile stretching across his face. “That, dear ministers, is where I come in. I have a plan.”