Charles's eyes narrow, and he lets out a slow breath through his nose.
"I will make them listen," he says, his voice firm and cold. "Those three Marshalls will have no room to decline. Not this time."
Zing straightens, understanding the weight of that promise.
"Then I wish you success, my lord," the head butler replies. "Let them know that the kingdom is not their personal playground."
Charles nods once, then signals him toward the door.
"Prepare the carriage."
"Yes, my lord."
Zing leaves silently.
A few minutes later, Charles walks through the moonlit palace halls, servants bowing as he passes. The evening air outside is crisp, carrying the distant hum of Celes City—peaceful, unaware of the storm building far away.
A grand black carriage waits at the gate, simple but elegant. No banners. No escorts.
Just one man.
