"It's just a suggestion, King Lutheran; you just need to hand over the sea jewel," one of the men at the front said in a cunning tone, his lips curling into a smirk as he pressed a hand to his chest in a theatrical bow.
It was the kind of gesture a jester might make before inviting the audience to laugh—except here, the invitation was to witness a tragedy, not a comedy.
His robes swayed slightly with the motion, the fine embroidery catching the flickering candlelight, casting golden threads of deception against the deep blue fabric.
The air in the chamber was thick—laden with the scent of aged wood, ink, and the faint salt of the sea carried in by the wind through the open windows.
Yet, beneath it all, there was something heavier, something unseen but felt—the weight of a kingdom teetering on the edge of its demise.
A situation where loss was inevitable, where the choice was merely in its method. King Lutheran, seated stiffly on the other side of the table, could read the decree beneath the honeyed words: die later or commit suicide now.
"Does the Empire really want Atlanta to be destroyed—" His voice, steady despite the storm brewing in his chest, was cut short.
"F-Father, c-can you read this story f-for me?"
Dryn's voice rang out, the hesitant words breaking the tense atmosphere like a child tossing a pebble into a still lake. The ripples came instantly.
Heads turned.
Three of the men, their silk robes adorned with golden embroidery, carried themselves with the arrogance of those born into power.
The fourth man, the one opposite the desk—King Lutheran—sat with both hands gripping the desk, his fingers curled so tightly that his knuckles had turned white. His black mustache twitched, his eyes shot red with unspoken fury.
But it all broke when it fell on the small child.
'!?'
"Dryn, what are you doing here?" King Lutheran's brow furrowed. His voice, though calm, carried an undertone of tension.
He could sense his eldest son just standing outside the room, clearly eavesdropping on the conversation happening here.
King had expected that the one to act first would most probably be him, after not being able to control his anger.
Yet here stood Dryn, dressed in something wholly unexpected—an outfit that seemed to belong to a bookworm, not someone who likes to do extensive training regularly.
The King blinked. 'What about his attire?'
It was not the usual rogue-like garb of a warrior-in-training. Today, he looked like a bookworm—an image so foreign to him that it almost made the King question whether he was really his son Dryn or not.
"Oh, so he is Prince Dryn?" One of the men narrowed his gaze, hands clasped behind his back as he gave a sidelong glance at the boy. His eyes, sharp and calculating, trailed over Dryn's delicate frame, the soft fall of his hair, and the frame of his spectacles on his face.
A grin twitched at the edges of his lips.
'He is a crown prince? What a joke.'
The information he had received spoke of a young warrior, a prince in training. But standing before him was a child who barely fit the role of a ruler.
If this was the future of Atlanta, the Empire had little to fear.
The boy looked introverted, fragile—a mere flickering candle in a storm that would soon snuff him out.
"Dryn, we are having an important meeting. You can leave for now," King Lutheran said, his voice firm.
He knew his son. Dryn was not the type to interrupt unless he had a motive.
Usually, it was for things he desired—a new sword, a technique, an allowance of some kind. Given his current appearance, the King could already tell the boy was attempting something.
"H-huh, I-I am s-sorry Fathe—"
Dryn's lips trembled, his golden amber eyes widening, yet something flickered beneath the surface—something unnoticeable to the untrained eye. A smirk tugged ever so slightly at the corner of his mouth before vanishing.
A breath later, the man who had spoken first acted.
"King Lutheran, don't be harsh on this pitiful child...."
The delegate stepped forward, his movements slow and deliberate, as if approaching a stray animal that might bolt at any sudden motion.
His smile was soft, calculated, the kind that had fooled many before. He stretched out a hand and placed it atop Dryn's head.
Ruffle
"As you can see, he just wants to read a book, King," the man said with a smirk, looking down at Dryn. His fingers ran through the boy's soft strands, intending to sow a seed—a small act of kindness, meaningless to adults but unforgettable to a child.
If Atlanta yielded, this boy would one day be king, and this moment would be etched in his memory.
Manipulation, after all, was easiest when the target was still young.
"….."
King Lutheran's expression remained unreadable, yet his eyes betrayed him. He watched Dryn closely, noting the boy's unnatural stillness, the way his shoulders seemed to curl inward.
Then his eyes widened, just slightly, before a small, knowing smile formed on king's face.
A shift.
"Haah? Disrespecting a prince of a kingdom blatantly?"
Dryn's voice carried an unfamiliar weight. His small hand shot up, fingers curling around the man's wrist.
With his other hand, he threw the glasses he was wearing away, as they were causing him a headache and blurred vision, tilting his head enough to give a clear glare.
The sudden shift in the boy's demeanor caught the man off guard.
The calloused feel of a sharp grip on his wrist hitched the man's breath as he turned back toward Dryn, expecting to see fear.
Instead, he was met with golden amber eyes—no longer wide with innocence but sharp with something far more sinister.
Dryn's grin stretched, his teeth parting slightly.
"Cut this arm off, Adrian."
"What—SKCHLT—!?" Man seemed to still not process anything.
A flash of silver.
A wet, meaty sound followed.
The man's brain barely had time to process what had happened before searing agony erupted through his arm. His vision blurred, the edges darkening as he stumbled backward.
Thud
The sound of something hitting the ground barely registered.
Then the pain arrived in full.
"AaaaaRRrGggHhhh!?"
A scream tore through the chamber, raw and animalistic. He collapsed, his good hand clutching at the stump where his forearm had been moments ago.
Blood spurted, hot and sticky, painting the wooden floor in deep crimson.
His snot mixed with the tears streaming down his face as his mind reeled in shock.
"Arggh—my hand?!"
His severed hand lay in the boy's hand a few feet away, fingers twitching uselessly.
Dryn observed it for a moment, the faint pulse of lingering warmth turning cold in the veins—it was still fresh, for now.
Then, with a flick of his hand, he tossed the remaining hand to the ground.
Crnch
He crashed his foot down, the sound of cartilage and bone giving way beneath his heel echoing through the silent room with a metallic stench permeating in the air—he made sure to destroy the hand given that it was possible to reattach it using healing potions or magic.
"You are right; it should have been the head, not the hand," Dryn mused, rubbing his boot against the ruined flesh. The blood clung to the sole of his shoe, thick and glistening.
"Urgh, Argh...." man's gaze lifted to the boy, with a horror-stricken face now becoming pale, his lips trembling.
A few feet away, a fifteen-year-old boy stood beside the little one who crushed his hand, sword in hand. The blade, still dripping with blood, gleamed under the candlelight.
The elder brother cut off his arm, and the younger one destroyed it to leave no chance of healing.
Silence stretched.
Then Dryn tilted his head, his grin widening ever so slightly.
"Adrian, how about cutting off the arms of the other two as well?"
"I am not your servant."
'.....'