In the heart of Balmount Kingdom's castle, the council chamber stood in quiet tension. The room was grand, built to command respect, with towering stained glass windows casting shifting colors across the polished ebony table. The twelve high-backed chairs around it signified power, but the throne-like seat at the head belonged to one alone.
King Thorn Balmount sat in that seat, his fingers tapping against the armrest, irritation flickering in his piercing amber eyes. His raven-black hair, tinged faintly with purple, framed his sharp features. Dressed in black and amber, with a crown inlaid with rubies resting on his head, he looked every bit the ruler he was—powerful, commanding, and impatient.
To his right sat Kael Dravenhart, the High Chancellor, ever composed with his slicked-back black hair and piercing gold eyes. Next to him, Theron Raventide, the Minister of Trade, cut an imposing figure—tall, broad-shouldered, with stormy gray eyes and a shrewd air. Magnus Emberbane, the Minister of Agriculture, was of sturdy build, fiery red hair matching his no-nonsense approach. Lucian Ironshade, the Court Mage, carried himself with quiet intelligence, his ice-blue eyes gleaming with knowledge. Alaric Greymoor, the Treasurer, had a calculating gaze, his presence unassuming but sharp. And Dorian Vexthorne, the Commander of the Royal Guard, clad in polished ceremonial armor, radiated an unwavering sense of duty.
To the king's left, Eryndor Shadowflame sat with his auburn hair tied loosely behind him, his fiery orange eyes observant. Next to him, Varian Duskwind, the diplomatic envoy, was composed, his raven-black hair streaked with gray, his silver eyes sharp. Cassian Darkridge, the kingdom's spymaster, had a shadowy presence, his midnight-blue hair tied in a small braid, his emerald-green eyes unreadable. Orin Frostveil, the Minister of Justice, carried a quiet authority, his snow-white hair flowing past his shoulders, his violet eyes unwavering. And lastly, Serphina Mariposa, the Minister of Civil Affairs, stood out with her cherry-pink hair and striking amber-gold eyes, a hint of amusement playing in them.
The council chamber was thick with tension, each member seated with files before them, their expressions ranging from restrained irritation to silent contemplation. The air carried the weight of unspoken grievances and clashing ambitions, making the atmosphere feel stifling.
King Thorn exhaled sharply, leaning against the armrest of his throne-like chair, his fingers tapping idly. His patience, already worn thin, threatened to snap.
"Why do I have to attend these meetings?" he muttered, voice low but laced with irritation. His sharp amber eyes scanned the room, resting briefly on each council member before he leaned further into his hand. "I should be with my dear wife, not wasting time listening to a room full of bickering greedy fellows."
Despite his words, no one dared respond. Instead, an uneasy silence settled until Thorn shifted his gaze to his left, locking eyes with Eryndor.
"Alright, Eryndor," his tone was clipped, brooking no delay. "Give us the latest developments, and make it brief."
Eryndor rose with a composed grace, his expression calm, unreadable. Gathering his files, he took a moment to straighten them, his fingers brushing against the parchment as if sorting his thoughts. When he finally spoke, his voice was measured, carrying the weight of careful deliberation.
"Yes, Your Majesty," he began, inclining his head slightly. "The kingdom's external affairs remain precarious. Our strongest ties remain with the Imperial Kingdom and the Dreadholm Dominion. The former is stable, but the latter remains unpredictable, given its recent restructuring. Our diplomatic overtures toward the Dwarf Kingdom have yielded no response. Their king's ongoing illness has stalled communications entirely."
At this, a murmur of dissatisfaction rippled through the chamber, though no one openly voiced their discontent.
Eryndor continued, his tone subtly edged with concern. "This silence is more than a mere inconvenience—it is a liability. Without clarity on the Dwarven throne's stability, trade agreements remain suspended, and our strategic positioning in the region weakens. Their hesitation leaves us vulnerable to external pressures, particularly if the Dominion seeks to strengthen its influence in the north."
He paused, letting his words settle before moving to the next matter. "Our attempts to engage with the Elven Kingdom have seen similar difficulties. They remain as insular as ever, neither rejecting nor welcoming our propositions. Their patience outmatches ours, and they are in no hurry to acknowledge external concerns."
King Thorn scoffed, rubbing his temple. "What a surprise," he muttered. "And the Witches' Dominion?"
Eryndor barely had time to open his mouth before Kael Dravenhart, the High Chancellor, cleared his throat meaningfully. Thorn's gaze flickered toward him, and with a brief nod of permission, Eryndor resumed his seat.
Kael rose smoothly, his expression impassive, though his golden eyes held an edge of calculation. "Your Majesty, negotiations with the Witches' Dominion are ongoing. Their Queen remains neutral, as she always has, and remains... difficult to sway."
The King's lips curled into a frown. "Difficult to sway? And yet, they've allied with the Dreadholm Dominion. Explain that contradiction."
Kael clasped his hands behind his back, maintaining his composure. "That, we do not know for certain. However, it is no secret that the Reaper and the Supreme Witch shared a unique connection. Their alliance stems from that relationship, whatever the nature of it may have been. It was not forged through conventional diplomacy, nor through force. Their unity was personal, built on something beyond politics, and that is why it remains unshaken even after his death."
Cassian Darkridge leaned forward slightly, his emerald-green eyes glinting with intrigue. His tone was calm, yet each word carried a sharp, deliberate weight. "The Reaper dead? Why should we concern ourselves with a ghost? His presence, or lack thereof, should not dictate our diplomatic concerns. The Supreme Witch is the true threat, not a specter of the past."
Kael did not flinch. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, as though considering how best to respond. "Even in death, the Reaper's shadow lingers," he said, his voice as steady as ever. "The Dreadholm Dominion was shaped by him, molded under his vision. His death did not weaken it—it strengthened it. His followers did not scatter like a leaderless army. Instead, they consolidated their power, driven by his legacy. Ignoring that reality would be an unforgivable miscalculation."
A brief silence followed, thick with unspoken tension.
King Thorn's gaze darkened, though his expression remained unreadable. Inwardly, his thoughts churned with frustration. If only Subaru would reveal himself to the world, I wouldn't have to endure this tiresome charade.
King Thorn exhaled slowly, fingers drumming against the armrest of his chair. "Then what of the Elven Kingdom? What excuse do we have for our lack of progress there?"
Kael did not hesitate. "The Elves are notoriously difficult to approach, Your Majesty. Their pride is woven into their very identity. They do not seek allies, nor do they recognize foreign authority. They view human kingdoms as transient, ephemeral, and thus, beneath their concern."
At this, Lucian Ironshade scoffed, an unmistakable smirk curling his lips. "What do we expect from elves?" he said, his voice laced with disdain. "They're insufferably haughty, prideful, and far too self-satisfied. They isolate themselves from the world, unwilling to lower their heads to anyone."
Serphina Mariposa turned toward Dorian, her amber-gold eyes gleaming with a knowing sharpness. A smile, both sweet and laced with venom, spread across her lips. "And why should they trust us?" Her voice rang through the chamber, pointed and deliberate. "Our own country secretly enslaves their kind. Are they supposed to overlook that and form an alliance with us as if nothing has happened? If anything, I wouldn't blame them if they declared war against us instead. Or perhaps the esteemed Commander of the Royal Guard has an explanation for such matters?"
Dorian's face darkened instantly, his crimson-red eyes burning with barely contained rage. He rose to his feet with force, his voice echoing across the chamber. "What do you take me for?" His anger crackled in the air like a storm waiting to break. "I have heard nothing of elven slaves in this kingdom! Neither I nor my men are involved in such reprehensible actions! You dare throw such an accusation at me?"
Serphina's smile widened ever so slightly, as if she relished the outburst. Her voice remained smooth, her words laced with mockery. "Oh, did I strike a nerve, Commander? How unfortunate." She tilted her head slightly, letting the weight of her words settle before continuing. "But tell me, then—how do we explain certain... incidents from the past? Surely, we aren't going to pretend they never happened. Or would you prefer that I remind everyone here in detail?"
A ripple of unease spread through the chamber. Some council members shifted uncomfortably in their seats, others merely observed, their expressions unreadable.
Dorian's fists clenched at his sides, his mind seething with anger. Damn this woman. If not for her survival after that disaster—if not for the queen's backing—I would have made sure she never had the chance to speak in this chamber again.
Before he could retaliate, Kael intervened, his voice carrying an edge of authority. "Enough," he said sharply, his golden eyes fixed on Serphina with clear disapproval. "Accusations without evidence are forbidden in this chamber. You know that as well as I do. If you wish to speak of crimes, present proof or hold your tongue."
Serphina's expression flickered for just a moment, her brow knitting together before she masked it with indifference. "Evidence," she muttered under her breath, her mind whirling with frustration. If only those wretched councilors hadn't destroyed the evidence I had... How foolish of me to leave it in my office.
Dorian, sensing the shift in control, exhaled sharply, his anger still simmering but now tempered by Kael's intervention. "Yes," he said coldly, his tone carrying a dangerous edge. "If you have no proof, Serphina, and yet you dare blame me for something I have no part in, I promise you will regret it."
Kael finally returned to his seat, his gaze never once leaving Serphina, as if daring her to test his patience any further.
A tense silence fell over the chamber once more.
King Thorn, watching the exchange with growing irritation, rubbed his temples, exhaling through his nose. His patience was wearing thin. A den of liars and schemers, each too occupied with their own grievances to see the bigger picture. Petty squabbles. Veiled threats. Corrupt fools grasping at power.
His fingers tapped against the table as a single thought echoed in his mind.
When the time is right, I will eliminate every last one of them.