"Very true, my lord," Fontaine said smoothly. "But leadership is also about trust. Trust in one's advisors, trust in one's allies, and—perhaps most importantly—trust in oneself. Wouldn't you agree?"
Arlon inclined his head slightly. "Trust is essential," he said. "But it must be earned—not demanded or assumed. And it must go both ways."
The tension in the room thickened, the other nobles shifting slightly in their seats. Everson's fingers tightened against the table, though his expression remained composed.
"Earning trust, my lord," Everson said, his voice carrying a faint edge, "requires consistency. A leader who falters, even once, risks losing the confidence of those around them. And regaining that confidence is no easy task."
Dwyer leaned forward, his broad shoulders casting a shadow over the table. "A single misstep, my lord, can have consequences far beyond what you might expect. The Throndsen family's reputation is a delicate thing—easily tarnished, but difficult to repair."
Fontaine's blue eyes gleamed as he added softly, "And once trust is lost, it can be nearly impossible to reclaim. That is why every decision, every action, must be made with the utmost care. There is no room for error."
Arlon allowed the silence to stretch, his gaze steady as he regarded the three nobles. They believed they had him cornered, their arguments carefully constructed to undermine his authority without ever explicitly stating it.
"They're overconfident," he thought, his sharp mind turning over their words. "Believing I'll accept their narrative, that I'll let them dictate the terms of this meeting. But they've underestimated me."
Finally, Arlon spoke, his voice calm but carrying an unmistakable weight. "You're right," he said, his gaze sweeping over the three. "Every action must be made with care. And trust must be earned—not through empty words, but through actions that reflect integrity and loyalty."
"..."
The room fell silent, the tension hanging heavy in the air. The nobles exchanged brief but telling glances, their polished masks beginning to show the faintest cracks.
"Let them wonder," Arlon thought, his calm expression betraying none of the fire burning beneath the surface. "Let them feel the ground shifting beneath them. The moment for truth is coming, and they won't see it coming."
The meeting room was thick with tension, the weight of the discussion hanging over the table like a storm cloud. Arlon sat silently at the head of the table, his purple eyes scanning the room as the nobles' words hung in the air.
Everson, Dwyer, and Fontaine exchanged brief glances, their confidence radiating like a shield. To them, this meeting had been a success—a slow, calculated erosion of Arlon's authority disguised as polite advice.
But before Everson could continue, The heavy double doors swung open with a loud creak that sliced through the tense silence. A line of guards strode into the room, their black-and-silver livery gleaming beneath the chandelier light.
Step— Step—
Each step of their boots against the polished floor rang out sharply, the sound cold and methodical, like the toll of a distant bell.
"...!?"
The nobles turned as one, their earlier composure fracturing into wide-eyed confusion and whispered murmurs. The commanding presence of the guards loomed over the table, their formation precise as they stopped directly behind the three accused nobles.
"What is the meaning of this?" Everson demanded, rising halfway from his chair. His calm, polished demeanor cracked for the first time, giving way to visible confusion.
Dwyer's smirk faded, his broad frame stiffening as he leaned forward in his chair. "This is highly irregular," he said, his voice low and edged with suspicion.
Fontaine remained seated, though his sharp blue eyes darted between the guards and Arlon, his fingers curling tightly against the table's edge. "Lord Arlon," he said, his tone calm but with a faint undercurrent of unease.
"Perhaps you could explain what is happening here."
Arlon didn't respond immediately. He remained seated, his expression unreadable as he let the tension simmer. The guards halted behind the three nobles, their presence looming.
Finally, one of the guards stepped forward, his voice ringing out clearly. "Lord Henry Everson, Lord Earl Dwyer, and Lord Alfred Fontaine. By order of the heir, you are under arrest for conspiracy against the Throndsen family."
"...!"
The room erupted into chaos.
"What?" Everson snapped, his voice rising as he turned toward the guards. "This is absurd! On what grounds?"
Dwyer shot to his feet, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. "How dare you?" he growled, his deep voice booming. "This is an outrage! I demand an explanation!"
Fontaine remained seated, though his hawk-like features tightened into a mask of controlled fury. "This is a mistake," he said coldly. "There must be some misunderstanding."
The other nobles were frozen in shock, their wide-eyed gazes darting between the guards and the three accused men.
Arlon finally rose from his seat, his movements slow and deliberate. The faint scrape of his chair against the floor was the only sound as he reached into his coat and withdrew the black leather-bound folder.
"This is no mistake," Arlon said, his voice calm but carrying the weight of authority. He stepped forward, his presence commanding as he placed the folder on the table.
Everson's cold mask of composure cracked further as his sharp eyes locked onto the folder. "What is that?" he demanded, though his voice wavered slightly.
Arlon let his hand linger on it for a moment, his eyes sweeping the room before he opened it with meticulous care.
"This," he began, lifting the first document and holding it out for all to see, "is a record of financial transactions. Bribes, to be exact. Funds funneled to smaller noble families to secure their loyalty during key votes."
He paused, letting the words settle, as murmurs rippled through the room. His eyes locked onto Everson, whose face had begun to pale. "The sums are significant, and the names listed here are… enlightening. Wouldn't you agree, Lord Everson?"
Everson's face paled, his polished composure faltering as the room turned their collective attention to him.
Arlon set the document down and lifted the next one. "This," he continued, "is a ledger detailing payments made to outside operatives to interfere with Throndsen family affairs. The intent? To destabilize certain operations and shift blame onto the heir." His gaze shifted to Dwyer, who bristled visibly. "Curious, isn't it, Lord Dwyer?"
"That's preposterous!" Dwyer barked, slamming a fist onto the table. "You have no proof—"
"This ledger is the proof," Arlon interrupted, his voice sharp enough to cut through Dwyer's outburst. "The handwriting matches your correspondence exactly."
Dwyer faltered, his broad shoulders slumping slightly as murmurs rippled through the room.
Arlon set the second document down and pulled out the final piece of evidence. It was a forged decree, complete with an imitation of his own signature.
"And this," he said, his voice cold, "is the most damning of all. A forged decree transferring Throndsen family land to outside forces in exchange for financial support—support that would benefit only a select few." His gaze locked onto Fontaine, whose calm mask had shattered completely.
The room erupted again, the other nobles leaning forward in their seats, their shock and outrage palpable.
"Forgery?" one of them whispered, his voice trembling.
"Betrayal," another murmured, her eyes wide with disbelief.
Fontaine stood abruptly, his chair toppling behind him. "These accusations are baseless," he hissed, his voice tight with fury. "I demand—"
"You demand nothing," Arlon cut in, his voice ringing with finality. "The evidence speaks for itself. You've plotted against the Throndsen family for your own gain, twisting the role of heir into a scapegoat for your schemes. And now, your schemes have unraveled."
The guards stepped forward, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords.
Everson, Dwyer, and Fontaine exchanged panicked glances, their once-unshakable confidence crumbling under the weight of the evidence.
"Take them," Arlon ordered, his tone calm but firm.
The guards moved swiftly, seizing the three nobles as they shouted protests and struggled against their grip.
"This isn't over!" Dwyer roared, his deep voice echoing through the room.
"Release me at once!" Everson demanded, his cold composure replaced by desperation.
Fontaine said nothing, his hawk-like eyes burning with fury as he was dragged from the room.
Arlon turned to face the table, his calm gaze sweeping over the room. "Let this be a reminder," he said evenly, "that loyalty to the Throndsen family is not optional. Betrayal will not be tolerated."
"..."
The nobles nodded silently, their faces pale as they processed what had just unfolded.
The heavy doors of the meeting room opened again, this time more hesitantly. The sound drew every head, and the remaining nobles turned to see the Duchess step into the room, her presence regal yet shadowed with visible concern.
She moved with purpose, her elegant gown flowing behind her as she scanned the room, her sharp gaze immediately locking onto the three nobles being escorted out by the guards. Their protests still echoed faintly in the hall as they were dragged further away.
"What is the meaning of this?" Emilia demanded, her tone sharp and commanding as her eyes swept the room.
But when her gaze landed on Arlon, standing calm but guarded near the table, her voice softened, and her worry became clear. She crossed the room in quick, purposeful steps.
"Arlon… are you alright? Did they hurt you?"
Arlon blinked, caught off guard by her question. "Hurt me?" he repeated, unsure how to respond. He had prepared himself for anger, for questions, for demands of an explanation—but not this.