It takes every ounce of restraint I have to keep my anger in check as I stare into the eyes of the silver-eyed man. That smirk on his face, so casual and mocking, is a constant reminder of how close he came to ending my life. My fists clench at my sides, nails digging into my palms. My instincts scream at me to keep still, to wait; they know that if I let my emotions loose now, if I even take a single step toward him, I won't make it out of this room.
"Yet another headache," Xavier mutters under his breath, the irritation in his voice unmistakable. I don't look away from the man in the doorway, not for a second, but I catch the edge of Xavier's tone. His annoyance feels almost grounding in the thick tension, like the only honest thing in this room.
"Don't be a meanie, Xavvy," the man replies, his voice laced with mock cheerfulness. He turns to Xavier, but I keep my gaze steady, fighting the urge to lunge at him. Every muscle in my body coils, ready to spring, but I grit my teeth and hold myself back.
He steps further into the room, his long silver sleeves shifting as he slides his hands beneath them, resting them on Xavier's shoulder. The touch seems casual, but there's something unsettling about it—like a snake coiling, biding its time.
"More importantly—" He trails off, his eyes sharpening as they leave Xavier and find me again. Our gazes collide, and for a split second, everything around us fades. The air turns cold and sharp, so tense it feels like the room could shatter with one wrong move. I'm frozen, every breath burning my lungs as if the very air could cut me.
His expression shifts subtly, a flicker of recognition sparking in those silver eyes, before he tears his gaze away from mine and returns it to Xavier. "Why is the outsider here?" His voice is deceptively calm, but the underlying edge is as sharp as a blade.
Every nerve in my body screams, the barely contained rage sparking like fire beneath my skin. But I stay seated, my fists clenched under the table, my jaw tight as I hold back the storm surging inside me.
"Oh, Saxon," Clandestina's voice cuts in from the corner, drenched in amusement. The sudden interjection eases the tension in the room just a fraction, enough to make me shift my gaze toward her. She looks pleased, like she's relishing the chaos. "Did you know that this little boy, Chiaro, is going to join your unit?"
"Saxon? Join his unit?" The thought jolts through me, and before I can stop myself, I rise from the chair, the legs scraping against the wooden floor with a harsh sound. My fists clench as I process the reality that I'm being thrown into the hands of the man who knocked me unconscious.
But before either Saxon or I can say anything, Xavier's movement is sudden and sharp. He shoves Saxon's hand off his shoulder with a violent flick, the sound slicing through the silence like a whip. "Hey, Silverfox," Xavier's voice is as cold as ice, his eyes narrowing into something dark and fathomless, almost threatening. "If you don't want me pulling the strings of your life, show some respect."
The atmosphere crackles with energy as he steps forward, his shoulder connecting with Saxon's in a forceful nudge that pushes him aside. "Chiaro will join the Nightstalkers," he states, each word carved with certainty. "You said he can fight, and he's an outsider. We need every force we can get, and your unit is perfect for him." Without waiting for a response, Xavier turns on his heel and storms out of the room, each step heavy, determined, leaving behind an echo that feels final.
I sink back into the chair, a storm of thoughts churning in my mind. My teeth grind together as I grasp the reality—there is no room for objection. I'm bound to this, to them, whether I like it or not.
Xavier is almost out of sight when Saxon calls out, his voice a mixture of concern and urgency but there's still that lace of mocking tone he's known for. "Xavvy, about Princess Luciel—"
Xavier doesn't pause, his stride unbroken as he tosses his reply over his shoulder, the words clipped and distant. "We'll talk about that later. The outsider is here; go deal with him first." He disappears through the doorway, the echo of his footsteps fading down the hallway, leaving a silence that seems to weigh heavier than before.
Saxon's silver eyes flick back to me, assessing, amused, and dangerous. The realization settles like a stone in my chest—I'm now under the command of a man who embodies everything that feels like a trap.
Saxon chuckles, a low, mocking sound that grates against every nerve in my body, as he steps fully into the room and turns the lock with a slow, deliberate click. The sound echoes, sealing us in this confined space. I force myself to sit, knowing that any aggression will lead nowhere. Across the room, Clandestina remains standing, her expression serene and unsettlingly detached, one hand resting under her chest, the other cupping her cheek, watching us with a serene curiosity as if this were a theater for her amusement.
Saxon drops into the chair opposite me, leaning back with an infuriating air of ease. I press my clenched fists beneath the table, my gaze fixed on him. Keeping the fury out of my eyes is a challenge I'm barely managing; the anger is a fire simmering just beneath the surface, ready to ignite.
"Your name is Chiaro, right?" he asks, staring at me with that smug look, his head leaning against his right hand, his posture mirroring Clandestina's insufferable nonchalance. His tone has the same mocking playfulness, as if he's holding all the cards and enjoying every moment of it.
"Mhm, mhm, his name is Chiaro," Clandestina chimes in from the corner, her voice light and amused, watching us under the dim, flickering bulb like we're characters in some scene she finds endlessly entertaining.
Saxon doesn't wait for my response. He lifts his head, his expression shifting to something sharper. "From now on, you'll join the Nightstalkers." The words hang in the air, final and unyielding. He stands, leaning across the table, his eyes narrowing, his face so close I can feel the weight of his presence pressing down on me. "And I am your Captain."
His voice is low, almost a whisper, yet laced with authority, each word hitting like a nail driven deeper into my fate.
My fists clench harder under the table as my eyes meet his in a steady, defiant gaze. The way he says it—it's as if he owns me, as if I'm a piece on his board he can move wherever he wants. The heat of my anger rises, coiling tight in my chest. I close my eyes for a beat, forcing myself to take a deep breath, pulling the fire back under control. This man—this infuriating "captain"—is my ticket to survival, whether I like it or not. He could've ended me back in the grassland, and I won't let my emotions make me foolish enough to push him into finishing the job now.
I exhale, steadying myself, forcing the tension in my muscles to ease as I open my eyes and look at him. I'll play this game for now. For survival.
"I'll be in your care then, Captain," I say, forcing the words out through a tight throat, my voice trembling slightly from the strain of holding back my anger.
Saxon's smirk widens, clearly satisfied with my submission, though his amusement still lingers, irritatingly evident in his expression. He leans back in his chair, draping his arm over the backrest like he owns the room, his silver eyes glinting with that smug, arrogant light. "But don't get mistaken~" he drawls, letting the words hang between us. "An outsider is an outsider." He lounges, completely at ease, as if making it clear that no matter what I say, I'm still beneath him.
I meet his gaze, my voice steady, calm as steel. "As long as I get to live, I'll serve."
The statement rings out, solid and unyielding. My goal is clear: survive, adapt, learn the rules of this twisted game. Drawing unnecessary attention, making foolish moves—those are paths I can't afford.
Saxon's eyes flicker with something close to approval, though his amusement never fades. "Well then," he chuckles, turning his head to glance over his shoulder at Clandestina, who's still observing us with that faint, entertained smile as if we're actors in her personal play. "Sister, kindly take Chiaro to the Nightstalker's Bastion."
The word "sister" hits me like a puzzle piece sliding into place. The familiarity between them, the shared air of arrogance—it all makes sense. They're siblings.
A chill runs through me as I gulp down a sudden tightness in my throat. I'm being sent to the Nightstalker's Bastion, their base, where I'll be under Saxon's command. Every instinct screams caution, but I press down the anxiety, narrowing my focus to the task at hand.
Clandestina pushes herself off the wall with a slow, deliberate grace, her movements fluid as she crosses the room and approaches my side of the table. The soft echo of her steps fills the dimly lit space, where shadows play against the walls, deepening the unsettling feel of this so-called "interrogation." When she reaches me, her hands settle on my shoulders, sending a cold, metallic sensation rippling down my spine. I tense under her touch, every muscle coiling with instinctive resistance.
"Inform me about Princess Luciel too, alright~ Saxon~" she purrs, her voice a sickly-sweet lull as she leans in, resting her head on my shoulder. Her hands slide slowly down to my elbows, each movement calculated, possessive, as if testing just how much she can push.
I clench my fists under the table, every fiber of my being fighting to stay in control. I close my eyes, forcing a deep breath to stop myself from doing something reckless. Wait for him to leave, I tell myself. One step at a time.
Saxon flashes a cryptic smile, unreadable, before he finally exits the room, leaving only Clandestina and me in the stifling quiet. The door clicks shut behind him, and the second it does, I spring up, twisting around and shoving her away by her waist. My face contorts in disgust as I put distance between us, my voice tight with barely restrained anger.
Clandestina chuckles, a sound laced with flirtation and amusement, as a white handkerchief materializes in her palm as if summoned from thin air. Her laughter is soft, taunting, and I can feel her eyes on me, studying every reaction.
"Now, now, don't men like this to happen to them~?" she purrs, taking a step forward until she's so close that I can feel the warmth radiating from her, our bodies nearly touching. Her presence feels suffocating, her words dripping with mockery, testing my patience, prodding for a reaction. With a delicate, almost reverent touch, she raises the handkerchief, and in one smooth motion, slips it around my eyes, the world plunging into darkness.
"Or," she whispers, her breath brushing against my skin, "are you telling me that you're not 'manly enough'~?"
"Those who are easily swayed by your actions are the ones who aren't manly enough," I reply, forcing my voice to remain steady, though I can barely mask the disgust that claws its way through each word. Her presence, the darkness—everything about this moment feels like a trap, every instinct warning me against her.
I can almost feel her smirk, sense the satisfaction oozing from her silence. She's enjoying this, savoring every second of my resistance.
"Alright then, real man~" she whispers, her voice close, lingering, dripping with playful mockery.
Blindfolded yet again. The darkness is suffocating, and frustration bubbles under my skin. This day has been nothing but shadows, bindings, and Clandestina's endless games. I grit my teeth as she takes my hand, her grip light yet inescapable, and begins guiding me out of the room.
As soon as we step outside, the familiar weight of countless stares descends on me, prickling against my skin like a thousand needles. I can't see a thing, but their gazes are almost tangible, pressing against me, assessing, dissecting. Each step is slow, heavy, as I wade through their silent scrutiny, the blindfold amplifying every unsettling sensation.
After what feels like a small eternity, I hear the creak of another door. We cross the threshold, and instantly, the stares dissolve, replaced by an eerie silence that feels thick and loaded. Our footsteps echo in this space, a stark contrast to the earlier tension. Clandestina's hand is my only anchor as I move forward, sightless, trusting her only because I have no other choice.
Finally, we reach a door that feels different, final. I hear the faint click of a doorknob turning, and then it swings open. Warm light floods over me, a sudden embrace that melts away the chill of the dim interiors. I take a deep breath, letting the light soak into my skin, grounding myself in its warmth as the cool cement underfoot contrasts with its heat.
Clandestina's arms snake around my shoulders, and I tense as she leans in, her presence pressing against me. "Say, Chiaro~" she purrs, her voice a whisper that slides uncomfortably close to my ear, her breath warm against my skin. She presses her chest against my shoulder, her words dripping with suggestion. "If you tell me who you really are, we could skip the Nightstalker's bastion and go to my place instead~"
"I already told you what I know," I say, my voice steady and calm, though underneath, irritation simmers, clawing at my restraint. Being around this insufferable woman feels like wading through quicksand, and it's taking everything in me not to snap.
I take a deep breath, letting the fresh air and warmth of the outside steady me. "You can stop your advances now," I add, sharper, firmer. "We both know you won't get any information from me, even if you strip down right here." My gaze doesn't waver; from the start, I saw through her games.
Clandestina responds with a loud, melodic laugh, her grip loosening around my shoulders, but she doesn't pull away. Her arms remain draped there, a soft but inescapable weight, as if this is all just a pleasant distraction for her.
"Oh, fascinating young man~" she purrs, her tone playful yet laced with intrigue. "But I can't help but doubt you."
"Why is that?" I ask, though I can already sense where she's going, the words tinged with mock innocence as I wait for her answer.
She leans in, her breath brushing close as her voice drops, low and taunting. "You claim you have no memories of your past, and yet, your actions feel so… alive~"
Her question freezes everything inside me. She's right. Why do I want to live so badly? Why am I here? Why am I even feeling this fire of determination when I don't know who I am? She's struck something deep, something raw, and it's like she's pulled a thread that unravels every thought I've been trying to hold together. I feel like a nobody—no memories, no identity, just instincts and fragments.
Blindfolded, I lift my right hand to my face, letting my fingertips trace along my cheek, feeling the reality of my existence, as if trying to anchor myself. My left hand opens, reaching out to meet the warm air, grounding me. "I guess you could say I've forgotten who I am, but my body remembers," I murmur, the words spilling out with a quiet vulnerability I didn't know I held.
Clandestina's voice softens, though the playful edge lingers. "So that's why you want to live so badly, huh~?" she purrs, her tone suggestive, taunting, but there's a hint of something else beneath it, something almost understanding. "Your body knows it has a reason to fight~"
Maybe she's right. Maybe that's why I've been clinging to survival so fiercely. I've been running on instinct, on a pulse that beats without reason, but it's there, pushing me forward.
As her words settle over me, I hear the faint creak of wooden wheels approaching. The familiar groan of a transport weight pressing against the road reaches my ears, and I turn my head in its direction, every sound magnified in the darkness behind the blindfold. The steady rhythm of its approach pulls me back, grounding me, pulling me out of the strange spell her question has cast.
The transport halts with a crackle of wood on stone, and I feel Clandestina nudge me forward. I step up onto the slightly raised platform, the shift in height making me momentarily unsteady. I climb inside, the warm light fading as I enter the cramped, shadowed space. The warmth lingers on my skin for a brief moment before giving way to the cool dimness within. Blindly, I reach out, my hands searching for a place to sit. Finally, I find a seat and lower myself onto it, feeling the hard surface beneath me.
In one swift motion, Clandestina removes the handkerchief from my eyes. I blink, my vision adjusting to the dim light, and find myself sitting across from her. Her eyes are locked onto mine, her expression playful yet intense, as if she's peering deep into my soul.
"Where are we going now, Lady Clandestina?" asks a familiar masculine voice from outside the cramped wooden transport—the same voice I remember from earlier.
Clandestina replies without breaking eye contact with me, "Take us to the Nightstalker's Bastion, Levkov~"
Levkov, the same man who dragged me into this place they call the Inquisitorium, hesitates, his silence heavy with unease. "Don't tell me—"
"Indeed, this young man will join them~" Clandestina confirms, a note of satisfaction winding through her words like poison.
A shiver races down my spine. The Nightstalkers. Just from the name, I can feel the weight of it, a unit that feels like it thrives on shadows, that probably plays with lives as if they were pieces on a board. My skin prickles with a mix of dread and defiance as the transport lurches forward, moving smoothly despite the jostle and creak of its wheels against the rough road.
Clandestina's gaze sharpens, her eyes never leaving mine, their focus unrelenting. She licks her lips slowly, almost as if savoring something I can't see, her look piercing, like she's stripping away layers to see what's hidden beneath. The intensity of it crawls under my skin, unsettling, almost invasive.
"They'll love you, Chiaro~" she purrs, her voice soaked in anticipation, layered with something darker, something hungry.
I narrow my eyes, refusing to give in to her satisfaction. "But I sure won't," I reply, my voice steely, cutting through the tension like a blade.
Xavier Stein's Point of View
News of Princess Luciel's absence, whispers of rebellion simmering just out of sight, the appearance of a fifth outsider within our kingdom's borders, and the King's latest cryptic message—all these thoughts turn over in my mind as I stride through the royal capital's grand hallways. Each matter presses against the other, demanding attention, but I keep my expression composed, steeling myself. This is my duty, my responsibility as a courtier, and my way of serving Princess Luciel, even in her absence.
My steps echo lightly in the hallway, the sound sharp against the wooden walls. Far from plain, each wall is carved with intricate designs, symbols of Verdara's proud history, while tall windows line the hall, draped in velvet that falls like liquid dusk. The architecture is a reminder of the grandeur and weight of this place, and I let it anchor me, let it sharpen my focus as I walk.
But then, of all things, I spot him—an unwelcome figure at the end of the hall. Razor, with his messy brown hair, his formal attire half-askew, walking with a careless, jaunty stride as he hums to himself. He's looking around, taking in everything with that smug, casual gaze that sets my teeth on edge.
I turn quickly, pretending to study the view outside a nearby window, hoping against all odds that he won't notice me. I halt, my eyes fixed on the scene beyond the glass. The kingdom of Verdara stretches before me, bathed in the warm glow of the setting sun. The sky is painted in rich hues of orange and purple, and as twilight deepens, street lamps begin to flicker on, one by one, casting a gentle glow across the winding streets below. For a moment, the sight calms me, reminding me of everything we protect, everything I serve.
But then, the peace shatters as I hear that voice—the one I had desperately hoped to avoid.
"Oh! Xavier!" Razor's voice, too loud and far too cheerful, rings out down the hall. I clench my teeth, my shoulders tensing as the irritation flares. Of course, I didn't really think I could avoid him, not someone like him. But still, I suppress a quiet, frustrated "tch," keeping my face turned to the window for a moment longer, forcing myself to take one last breath before facing the annoyance that is Razor.
"This kingdom is beautiful, isn't it?" Razor's voice comes closer, too close. I barely have time to nod before he casually drapes his arm over my neck, leaning in beside me to share the view as if we're longtime friends.
"What isn't beautiful is your etiquette," I reply, flicking his arm off with a quick, sharp motion. I turn to face him, irritation slipping through the cracks in my composure. "Why are you here? Aren't you supposed to be waiting in the meeting room?"
He just grins, leaning back with his usual lack of formality, both arms thrown behind his head. "Well, well, well, five of the Head Courtiers are already there, but my lord isn't there yet. So, I figured I'd, you know, fetch him."
So, all Head Courtiers received the King's message. I narrow my eyes slightly. That means Clandestina got it too. Of course, she didn't act on it—because she knew I would. A frustrated "tch" escapes me before I can stop it, and Razor raises an eyebrow, clearly entertained.
"Hmm? What's that?" he asks, voice dripping with mock curiosity.
"Nothing," I say, quickly masking my expression as I prepare to cut this interaction short. But, as if on cue, he interrupts with yet another pointless question.
"Where is Lady Clandestina, anyway? Why isn't she with you?" He grins, his eyes lighting up with ridiculous enthusiasm. "Seeing her and Lady Flora in the same room—now that's a dream come true!"
I stifle an eye roll. Only Razor could be so oblivious, so cheerfully indifferent to the gravity of today's meeting. The King rarely summons the Head Courtiers like this unless it's crucial, yet Razor's mind is set on fantasizing about two ladies being in the same room. My patience is wearing thin.
"You know what?" I say, brushing past him with a cool look, "be on your way and stop wasting both of our time."
He chuckles, unfazed, and gives me a mock salute as I pass. "Good idea! You're always so reliable, Xavier!"
I hear his footsteps trailing off behind me, and I sigh, shaking my head as I try to refocus. This meeting has to be significant, and I have no time for Razor's distractions.
After a few more steps—finally free of Razor's interruptions—I reach the tall double doors that separate me from the most influential figures in the kingdom. I pause, taking a deep breath to steady myself, making sure my face is a mask of calm, betraying nothing. I press my palms against the doors, pushing them open down the middle. The heavy wood swings inward, and as I step through, the doors close behind me with a muted thud.
In front of me stretches a long wooden table, meticulously set with wine and a scattering of light snacks. The table is flanked by eight high-backed chairs, four on each side, each chair carved with intricate red patterns that speak of Verdara's legacy. The room feels formal, weighted, as if every piece of furniture knows its role in the kingdom's hierarchy.
Seated around the table are five of the Head Courtiers, each one distinct, accompanied by assistants who stand silently, almost like statues, behind them. The courtiers' postures and expressions vary—one sits with regal elegance, another reclines in a more casual manner, and a third has an aggressive posture, gaze hard and unyielding. Each of them represents a powerful figure, each one a voice for their liege. I can feel the weight of their presence, the silent power radiating from them as they glance up, some with curiosity, others with scrutiny.
I step forward with measured precision, moving toward the fourth empty chair on the right. As I walk, Lady Clara, seated in the first chair on the left, turns her gaze toward me, her expression warm with a hint of playful fondness.
"Here I am, looking forward to seeing the beautiful Clandestina," she says with a dramatic sigh, her voice carrying across the room. "But I suppose a handsome Xavier will suffice."
I pause briefly, meeting her gaze with a polite nod, my voice steady yet laced with forced familiarity. "I appreciate the remark, Lady Clara. I'm glad my appearance meets your expectations." I don't let my tone betray the effort it takes to keep this exchange diplomatic as I lower myself into the seat.
Before I can fully settle, Lord Lucas, seated directly beside me, speaks up. His tone is neutral, though his words carry a trace of quiet confidence. "You look far more civilized than that lady, Xavier," he remarks, gesturing vaguely toward the absent chair meant for Clandestina. "I'd much rather have you here. You make this feel like an actual meeting, while she does the opposite."
I let out a forced chuckle, inclining my head slightly as I respond. "Well, Lord Lucas, a more cheerful energy can be refreshing on occasion. But," I add, letting my voice dip slightly as I lower myself fully into the chair, closing my eyes briefly, "it certainly becomes an issue when it happens too often."
When I open my eyes, I meet his gaze, holding it for a moment before glancing around the room. Most of the Head Courtiers are already present, their assistants standing silently behind them like watchful shadows. Only two seats remain empty now, a testament to the lateness of this assembly. The air hums with tension, each of them waiting, their minds likely calculating and posturing for whatever news has brought us together.
"Speaking of cheerful energy," Lord Lucas continues, his voice calm but with a trace of amusement, "Flora won't be joining us again, will she?"
Lady Clara, still seated at the head of the left row, leans forward slightly, her tone marked by exasperation as she sighs. "Well, she never does, so this time, I imagine she won't again."
She sighs again, more dramatically this time, as her elbows rest on the table, and her fingers lace together. "Must be nice, being so careless," she muses, her voice drifting as if to herself. Meanwhile, Lady Mathilda, seated beside her, remains quiet, her eyes sharp and observant, taking in every word without offering any of her own.
Sitting at the head of the same row as me, Lord Daniel cuts through the light banter with a plain yet authoritative tone, his arms crossed tightly as he stares at the table. "Maybe it's wise to keep the conversation focused on why we were called here."
The weight of his words lands heavily, his no-nonsense demeanor shifting the energy in the room. I glance at him briefly, appreciating his focus but noting the rigidity in his posture. He doesn't speak often, but when he does, his words demand attention.
Beside him, Lord Charles breaks the tension with a light pat on Daniel's shoulder. "Now, now," he says, his voice warm and gentle, almost disarming. "This meeting only happens almost every quarter of the year. Isn't it nice to have a little casual chatter here and there?" His tone is calm, even approachable, but I don't let it fool me. Of all the courtiers present, Lord Charles is the one I'd least want to cross. His words may seem harmless, but they carry an undercurrent of calculation.
He continues with a faint smile, shifting his gaze toward the door. "And, of course, this meeting won't start unless Tyson graces us with his presence—"
The doors swing open as if on cue, cutting his words short. Lord Tyson strides in, his sheer presence commanding the room. His muscular frame fills the doorway, the red formal attire only accentuating his authority. Behind him follows Razor, his energy in stark contrast to Tyson's imposing figure. Razor's eyes catch mine instantly, his face lighting up in that obnoxious way, and I swear he's mouthing something to me— "How does it feel sitting in a Head Courtier's chair?" I roll my eyes, turning my head slightly and ignoring him completely.
Without acknowledging anyone, Tyson marches forward with steady, deliberate steps, each one echoing through the room. He takes the seat next to Lady Mathilda, his movements precise, almost mechanical. His deep voice rumbles through the air as he settles. "So when are we starting?"
Before anyone can answer, Lord Charles chimes in with a sly grin. "In three… two… one."
As if summoned by his words, a strange black ash begins swirling above the head of the table. The air grows colder, heavier, as all eyes shift toward the forming shape. Razor leans forward slightly, clearly intrigued, while the rest of us watch in silence. I sit perfectly still, hiding the unease curling in my chest as the ash condenses and darkens. Within moments, the figure of Minister Eldric materializes from the swirling mass, his presence immediately commanding the room.
Minister Eldric settles into the chair as if he'd been there all along, his gaze sweeping over us. The atmosphere thickens, the weight of the room pressing down on me. It's suffocating, but I refuse to show even a flicker of discomfort. The Head Courtiers, by contrast, seem entirely relaxed, their faces unreadable yet calm, as though this suffocating presence is nothing new.
Lady Clara slowly straightens from where she had been leaning lazily against the table, her movements unhurried but deliberate. Her expression carries a faint mix of amusement and irritation as she turns her attention to Minister Eldric. "We're not really going to wait for Flora now, are we?" she asks, her tone light but edged with exasperation. She lets out a dramatic sigh, as though the thought alone drains her.
Minister Eldric doesn't even acknowledge her comment. His piercing gaze sweeps across the room as he begins to speak, his deep voice cutting through the air like a blade. The weight of it presses down on all of us, commanding complete attention.
"His Highness is now planning to select an heir," he declares.
The words hang in the room like a thunderclap, shattering any remaining semblance of casual conversation. The shift is immediate. The once-relaxed demeanors of the Head Courtiers vanish, their postures straightening, eyes narrowing as the gravity of the statement takes hold. Even Lady Clara, moments ago carefree, now sits upright, her full focus locked on Minister Eldric. The silence is deafening, charged with unspoken questions and a tension that winds tighter with every second.
I feel it too, the weight of this revelation settling in my chest like a stone.
"A sudden heir selection?"
"Why now?"
"What's behind this decision?"
My mind races, but I force myself to stay silent, knowing my place here as an assistant. My role is to observe, to understand, not to speak. I breathe deeply, centering myself, and sharpen my focus on Minister Eldric.
"This meeting's purpose," he continues, "is to discuss the method by which this selection will occur."
His tone is unwavering, each word measured, deliberate, and heavy with authority. I notice the Head Courtiers shift subtly, their focus sharpening even further. No idle comments now, no posturing or unnecessary gestures. They've become like Lady Mathilda—silent, intensely observant, processing every word and its implications with precision.
"I will now explain the Royalty Selection process to all of you," Minister Eldric announces.
The air grows heavier still, an almost suffocating tension blanketing the room. Behind each Head Courtier, their assistants, myself included, straighten imperceptibly. The energy shifts, our senses heightened, as though bracing for something monumental.
Seated at the table, I keep my gaze firmly on Eldric, noting every movement, every inflection in his tone. My fingers curl lightly against the edge of my chair as I steel myself for what's to come. This is no ordinary meeting—this moment will ripple across the entire kingdom.