The morning sun filtered through the high windows of the council chamber, casting long beams of light onto the polished marble floor. The rays bathed the room in a warm glow, but the atmosphere was cold, tense, and thick with the weight of unspoken words. The vast chamber, built to accommodate royal assemblies and councils, felt emptier than usual, with only a select group of advisors, nobles, and ministers present. They had all gathered to hear the king's word, but they had long ago stopped expecting him to appear. The council met, whispered, and plotted, while the man who held the crown remained hidden behind the stone walls of his private chambers.
King Harley Pennington, weakened by age and illness, had become a shadow in his own court. The once commanding ruler who had filled this very chamber with his booming voice and iron will was now conspicuously absent. His absence left a void—a vacuum that, slowly but surely, was being filled by the ambitions of those around him. And in the absence of the king, that void had become the focal point of speculation, gossip, and, above all, plans for the future of Ustaria.
The question that gnawed at the heart of the court was succession. Who would take the throne when Harley's frail heart could no longer carry the weight of the crown? The council members all knew that the time was coming. The king was not long for this world, and the decision of who would succeed him was fast approaching. Yet, Harley had remained silent on the matter, frustrating his advisors, nobles, and even his children, who were quietly maneuvering behind closed doors.
At the head of the council table, Lord Thomas Alden, one of Harley's longest-serving ministers, sat with his hands clasped tightly before him. His gray hair was slicked back, and his face was lined with the years of service to a king he had once admired but now quietly pitied. He was a man of quiet authority, respected by most, if not all, in the room. His eyes scanned the faces around the table—each noble, each advisor, each minister, all waiting for the same thing: word from the king.
Around him, murmurs filled the air, voices hushed but not so quiet as to be unheard.
"Still no word from the king?" asked Duke Harry Windsor, his fingers drumming lightly on the table as his sharp eyes darted toward Lord Thomas. Harry Windsor, a man of substantial influence and ambition, had grown increasingly restless in recent months. His once-stoic patience was wearing thin, and the silence surrounding Harley's decision had left him irritated. Ruby, the king's youngest daughter, was still unwed, and Harry had positioned himself as the perfect match for her. If the king remained indecisive, Harry was prepared to force the issue.
"No," Lord Thomas responded, his voice calm despite the tension rising in the room. "The king remains... indisposed."
"Indisposed," Harry muttered with a touch of sarcasm, his lip curling. "That's one way of saying he's too weak to make a decision."
Several other nobles nodded or grunted in agreement. It was no secret that Harley's health was failing, and the longer he delayed naming an heir, the more anxious the court became. Every day that passed without a clear answer was another day of uncertainty, and in politics, uncertainty was a dangerous thing.
At the far end of the table, Baron Torvald, a low-ranking noble who had made a name for himself through his cunning alliances, leaned forward, his voice cutting through the murmurs. "And what of Prince Harris? He is the eldest, after all. The succession should be clear."
"Should it?" came a voice from across the table. Countess Elaine Newmont, one of the more astute members of the court, raised an eyebrow as she spoke. "Harris may be the eldest, but the king has yet to declare him as the official heir. Until that happens, nothing is certain."
"Harris is the only logical choice," Baron Torvald shot back, his tone growing more assertive. "He's led the kingdom's armies. He's proven his strength. Who else could take the throne if not him?"
Several of the older nobles nodded, their loyalty to Harris clear. Harris was, after all, a man who had built his reputation on the battlefield. His military campaigns had brought victories, expanded the kingdom's influence, and secured its borders. His supporters, particularly within the army, believed he was the rightful heir, the one who could lead Ustaria with strength and decisiveness.
But not everyone in the room was convinced.
"The problem with Prince Harris," said Countess Elaine, her tone sharp and precise, "is that he knows how to lead an army, not a kingdom. And this isn't a battlefield, Baron. Ustaria needs more than brute strength."
Her words hung in the air, and the room fell silent for a moment. It was a dangerous thing to question the capabilities of Harris, but the Countess was not one to shy away from speaking the truth, no matter how uncomfortable it made the others.
Duke Harry Windsor, ever the ambitious one, leaned back in his chair with a small smirk. "Perhaps," he said, his voice oozing confidence, "but brute strength may be exactly what's needed in times like these. Strength inspires loyalty. And loyalty is what we need, now more than ever."
His words carried weight, and the room seemed to shift its focus. Duke Harry had long been a supporter of Harris's claim to the throne, knowing that a strong military leader would need allies in the nobility. Harry saw an opportunity for himself should Harris rise to power, and his calculated support was nothing less than self-interest.
Lord Thomas sighed quietly to himself, the weight of the kingdom's future pressing heavily upon him. He had served Harley for many years, and he knew how delicate the situation was. The king's silence on the matter of succession was not only creating tension but also opening the door for more dangerous political moves within the court.
Lord Thomas cleared his throat, bringing the attention back to the matter at hand. "What we must remember is that the king has not yet made his decision. And until he does, it is not our place to speculate on who will sit on the throne."
"We're not speculating," Duke Harry said, his voice laced with frustration. "We're preparing. We all know that the king is nearing the end of his reign. Whether we like it or not, a decision must be made, and soon. Ustaria cannot be left without a ruler."
"There is still Prince David," Baron Torvald suggested, though his voice lacked conviction.
At the mention of David's name, several nobles exchanged glances, and a few even smirked. David, the king's youngest son, had been something of a wild card. Charming, yes. Charismatic, even. But David had gained a reputation for being reckless, indulging in the pleasures of court life while shirking the responsibilities that came with his royal blood. Few took him seriously as a potential ruler, despite the fact that he was the king's favorite.
"The king would be a fool to put David on the throne," Duke Harry said bluntly, his disdain for David clear. "The boy is nothing more than a spoiled child."
"Careful, Duke," Countess Elaine warned, her eyes narrowing. "David may be young, but he has the king's favor. And in the end, that may be all that matters."
The tension in the room grew palpable. David's relationship with his father was no secret, and many suspected that Harley's blind love for his youngest son might cloud his judgment when it came to choosing a successor. While Harris had the strength and Ruby had the people's admiration, it was David who had Harley's heart.
"Favor or not," Lord Thomas interjected, "the decision has not yet been made. Until the king declares his heir, we must remain united in our service to the crown."
"United?" Duke Harry repeated, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "We are anything but united, Lord Thomas. We are a kingdom waiting for a decision that may never come. And in the meantime, the vultures circle."
Silence fell again, the weight of Duke Harry's words settling over the room. He was right, and everyone knew it. The longer Harley delayed, the more dangerous the situation became. Nobles like Duke Harry were already making their alliances, preparing for the inevitable power struggle. And the Pennington children—Harris, Ruby, Lilliana, and David—were no doubt doing the same.
"The vultures may circle," Countess Elaine said quietly, "but the lion still lives."
Lord Thomas nodded in agreement, though he knew, as did everyone else in the room, that the lion's roar was growing weaker by the day.