While Vera Commanded the Military… Solomon Was Playing a Different Game.
If Vera fought with fists and fire, then Solomon fought with words and intelligence.
While Kairo was locked in brutal training and Vera was reshaping the military, Solomon was navigating a battlefield just as dangerous—Fantasia's council chamber.
Here?
Strength didn't matter.
Information did.
The council chamber was an opulent, towering hall—a relic of Fantasia's past leaders. Massive stone pillars stretched toward the ceiling, and banners depicting the kingdom's insignia draped along the walls.
But Solomon wasn't here to admire architecture.
He was here to tear apart the lies hidden in this room.
He took his seat at the large, circular table, where a dozen council members were already gathered.
At the head of the table sat Lord Marek, the same bureaucratic parasite that had tried to block Vera's military restructuring.
Solomon leaned back in his chair, arms crossed.
"Alright," he said. "Let's get started."
The first discussion centered around Fantasia's alliances with bordering nations.
Lord Marek cleared his throat. "Our negotiations with the eastern territories are progressing well. Their leaders have agreed to a trade agreement beneficial to both sides."
Solomon raised an eyebrow.
That was a lie.
He had read the real report earlier.
And it said the complete opposite.
The eastern territories weren't cooperating. They were stalling negotiations, likely as a way to buy time for something else.
Solomon tapped his fingers against the table.
"That's interesting," he said. "Because the last report I read said their diplomats have been delaying responses for weeks."
The room went silent.
Marek's expression didn't change, but Solomon could see the faintest flicker of discomfort.
"Perhaps there was a misunderstanding," Marek said smoothly.
"Or perhaps," Solomon countered, leaning forward, "you assumed I wouldn't read the full report."
Marek's jaw clenched.
The other council members exchanged looks.
One lie exposed.
Solomon smirked.
This was going to be fun.
Next on the agenda?
Fantasia's resource distribution.
One of the older councilmen, Lord Rylas, presented an updated allocation request.
He claimed that more resources were needed for agricultural development.
That sounded reasonable.
Until Solomon noticed a specific discrepancy in the numbers.
Something wasn't adding up.
He picked up the parchment, scanning the details.
Then, his eyes narrowed.
"Wait a minute," Solomon muttered, flipping through his own notes.
He cross-referenced the supply chain reports from last month.
And there it was.
A clear manipulation of funds.
Too much was being diverted—and not where it was supposed to go.
Solomon placed the report down and looked directly at Lord Rylas.
"Tell me," he said. "Why is there a 30% increase in supply shipments to the western region when our records show their output hasn't increased?"
Rylas stiffened.
The other council members shifted uncomfortably.
Marek spoke up first. "Perhaps a miscalculation—"
Solomon tilted his head. "A 30% miscalculation?"
No one said anything.
Then Solomon dropped the killing blow.
"I ran my own checks this morning," he continued, voice calm but sharp. "Turns out, those extra supplies? They're being redirected to private estates. Estates owned by certain council members."
The room froze.
Marek's hand tightened around the edge of the table.
Lord Rylas looked like he had just swallowed poison.
The other council members?
They were suddenly very, very quiet.
Busted.
Solomon knew how this game worked.
When powerful people get exposed, they don't just admit defeat.
They plot.
Which meant Lord Rylas and Marek wouldn't take this humiliation lightly.
They would look for a way to strike back.
So before they could?
Solomon made his move first.
He leaned back, stretching his arms.
"Of course," he said lazily. "I'm sure it's all just a misunderstanding. But just to be safe, I've already arranged for an audit of all supply routes."
Marek's eye twitched.
"And," Solomon continued, "if anything is off… well, I'm sure the King would love to hear about it."
Checkmate.
Marek exhaled slowly, forcing a smile.
"Naturally," he said. "We all want what's best for Fantasia."
The other council members?
Some looked genuinely impressed.
Others looked worried.
And Lord Rylas?
He looked like he was considering having Solomon assassinated.
Solomon simply smirked.
That's exactly what he wanted.
By the time the meeting concluded, one thing was clear.
Solomon wasn't just some outsider anymore.
He wasn't just a new political figure.
He was a threat.
The whispers started as soon as he left the chamber.
"He's dangerous."
"He's too smart."
"We underestimated him."
Solomon heard all of it.
And he grinned.
Good.
Let them fear him.
Because in this game of politics?
Fear was power.
The moment Solomon stepped out of the council chamber, he knew things had changed.
There was a shift in the way the guards stood at attention, the way certain council members whispered behind their hands as he passed. The weight of exposing corruption had already started reshaping the battlefield.
He had known from the beginning that this wouldn't be like fighting in an arena, where strength dictated the victor. Here, victories were measured in subtleties—who controlled the flow of information, who influenced the right people, who set traps without their opponents realizing.
He had just thrown the first punch.
Now?
He had to see who was still standing.
The Political Landscape of Fantasia
Fantasia's council wasn't built for efficiency. It was built for control.
The ruling body consisted of twelve key members, each overseeing different aspects of the kingdom's infrastructure. Some held military power, others controlled trade, while a select few influenced diplomacy with neighboring regions.
Lord Marek, the head of economic resources, was one of the most powerful voices in the room, controlling the allocation of supplies, funding, and trade agreements. He was also the one Solomon had just humiliated.
Lord Rylas, who had tried to quietly manipulate resource shipments, had clearly been working with Marek or someone else. That meant there were hidden alliances within the council, networks of influence that Solomon had only just started to uncover.
If he wanted real control, he couldn't just win fights.
He had to own the playing field.
The first person to seek him out wasn't a politician.
It was Captain Rhyker.
Solomon wasn't surprised.
The veteran officer leaned casually against a stone pillar outside the chamber, arms crossed, his expression unreadable.
"Not bad for your first day in the pit," Rhyker said.
Solomon smirked. "Didn't take much. Just some common sense and basic math."
Rhyker let out a low chuckle. "You just made yourself a lot of enemies."
"I'd be worried if I hadn't."
Rhyker studied him for a moment before speaking again. "You handled Marek, but he's not the real threat. Not yet. The council's divided into factions, and you just put yourself in the middle of a cold war you barely understand."
Solomon's smirk didn't fade. "Then educate me."
Rhyker nodded. "You've got three real power players to worry about. First, Marek's faction. Bureaucrats who want to keep their grip on Fantasia's economy and military spending. They control funding, which means they think they control the army."
Solomon leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "And the others?"
"The second faction is the Old Guard, led by Berrick. They don't care about politics, just keeping tradition intact. You're a problem to them because you represent change."
Solomon scoffed. "So Marek wants to keep control, Berrick wants to keep things the same. What's the third faction?"
Rhyker hesitated. "There isn't one."
Solomon frowned. "What?"
"Not officially," Rhyker clarified. "But a handful of us—officers, military strategists, some minor council members—don't belong to either camp. We've been waiting for something new."
That caught Solomon's attention.
"You saying you want an alliance?"
Rhyker smirked. "I'm saying you might not be alone in this fight."
Solomon didn't trust easily, but he knew an opportunity when he saw one.
"Good to know," he said. "I'll keep that in mind."
Rhyker gave a small nod before walking away.
Solomon exhaled.
So that was the playing field.
Marek had economic control.
Berrick had military influence.
And there was an unofficial third group—waiting for something new.
It wasn't balanced.
Which meant he could break it.
Solomon knew the next move wouldn't come in a council chamber debate.
It would happen in the shadows.
That's why, when an anonymous note appeared in his quarters later that evening, he wasn't surprised.
It contained one sentence.
We need to talk. Midnight. The old archive hall.
There was no name.
Solomon turned the note over between his fingers, a slow smirk forming.
Someone was making a move.
Good.
So was he.
The Old Archive Hall was a forgotten relic of Fantasia's past.
Once a place of scholars and historians, it had long since fallen into disuse, its grand stone corridors now nothing more than dust-covered reminders of an era long gone. The torches that once lined its walls had burned out, leaving only darkness and the faintest slivers of moonlight seeping through fractured stained glass.
It was the perfect place for a secret meeting.
Solomon stepped inside, his senses immediately sharpening.
Silence. No footsteps. No rustling of robes.
Whoever had called him here was either waiting in the shadows… or watching him already.
Solomon didn't hesitate. He walked further into the hall, his eyes adjusting to the dim light.
"You wanted to talk," he said into the darkness. His voice was even, controlled. "I'm here. Start talking."
A pause.
Then—
"Smart of you to come alone."
The voice was male, smooth, but laced with something sharp underneath. It echoed off the stone walls, making it difficult to place where it was coming from.
Solomon kept his stance relaxed, but his mind was already calculating.
No direct approach. No visible figure.
Solomon smirked. "Smart of you to hide. But I don't do conversations with ghosts."
A chuckle. Then, finally—movement.
From the shadows, a figure stepped forward.
A man, cloaked in dark robes, his face half-hidden by a hood.
But what caught Solomon's attention first wasn't the disguise.
It was the ring on his finger.
A small, unassuming band of silver—marked with the insignia of the council.
This wasn't some rogue outsider.
This was a member of the Twelve-Seat Council.
A Deal is Proposed
"I'm not your enemy," the man said, his voice calm. "But I can't say the same for the others."
Solomon raised an eyebrow. "And which 'others' are we talking about?"
"Marek and Rylas."
No hesitation. No pretense.
This man was either bold, reckless, or desperate.
Solomon crossed his arms. "So you brought me here to gossip?"
The hooded councilman let out a quiet laugh. "No. I brought you here because Fantasia is shifting. And I need to know—are you the one shifting it?"
Solomon didn't answer immediately.
This was a test.
A baited question.
Admitting too much made him look like a threat.
Admitting too little made him look like a fool.
So he chose his answer carefully.
"I don't play games," Solomon said. "If I make a move, I make it for a reason. So tell me—what reason did you have for calling me here?"
A pause.
Then the councilman finally spoke.
"Because I want Marek gone."
Solomon didn't react, but his mind moved fast.
Marek was one of the most powerful men in the council. He controlled resources, trade, and economic policy. Taking him down wasn't just a power shift—it was a declaration of war in Fantasia's political landscape.
And yet, here was a councilman willing to risk everything to make that happen.
Solomon stepped forward slightly, studying him.
"And what do you gain if Marek is gone?"
A beat.
"I take his seat."
There it was. The real motive.
Solomon smirked. "Ambitious."
"Necessary." The councilman's voice hardened. "Marek has been bleeding this kingdom dry for years. You exposed just a fraction of his corruption in today's meeting. But there's more. I have proof—records of illegal deals, hidden accounts, off-the-books supply chains."
Solomon's smirk faded slightly. That was more than he expected.
This man wasn't just looking for power.
He was looking for an execution.
"If you have proof," Solomon said, "why come to me? Why not take it to the council yourself?"
The councilman exhaled slowly. "Because Marek controls the auditors. The judges. Even some of the military oversight. If I make a move alone, he buries it."
He took a step closer.
"But if you—the king's closest advisor—stand behind me?" His eyes gleamed in the darkness. "He can't stop it."
And there it was.
The first real political alliance.
If Solomon backed this, he wouldn't just be playing defense anymore.
He'd be on the offensive.
He could rip Marek out of power, install someone new, and start reshaping the council himself.
But it was a risk.
A dangerous one.
And Solomon never made a move without knowing all the angles.
Solomon was silent for a long moment.
Then, finally—he gave his answer.
"You want my help?" His voice was steady. "Then give me your proof. All of it. Unedited. Unaltered. No missing pages."
The councilman hesitated. "That's—"
"Non-negotiable." Solomon's voice sharpened. "I don't move unless I know exactly what I'm stepping into."
A long pause.
Then—a slow nod.
"You'll have it by morning."
The deal was set.
As the councilman disappeared back into the darkness, Solomon exhaled.
This was bigger than he expected.
Taking Marek down wouldn't just shift power.
It would change the foundation of Fantasia's ruling structure.
And if he played this right?
He wouldn't just win a battle.
He'd win the whole damn game.
Solomon turned toward the exit, stepping out of the Archive Hall and back into the moonlit streets of Fantasia.
For the first time since he entered the political arena—
He wasn't just playing defense anymore.
He was going to war.