The chandeliers above glowed like a thousand suns, casting long shadows across the marbled floor of the great hall. The Darnova President shifted uncomfortably in his chair as Classic took the center seat, surrounded by elite Blackwood guards. The hall was lined with ministers, generals, and foreign envoys, all craning their necks to see the young Blackwood prince.
Classic's presence alone commanded the room. His posture was strong, his gaze calm, but within him, he knew—his father was here, in the flesh, though hidden beneath the mask of a soldier's uniform.
The President's voice cracked as he attempted civility:
"Prince Classic… we welcome you on behalf of Darnova. But please… since the King himself is not present, I kindly ask that your delegation limits its stay. Matters of… this magnitude…" He paused, swallowing hard, "…must be discussed with the King himself."
The ministers murmured, some nodding in agreement, others glancing nervously at the rows of B.A.M soldiers posted at every corner of the hall. The air was thick with tension.
Classic leaned forward, his hands clasped, his eyes narrowing.
"My father's presence is everywhere," he said smoothly. "His silence does not mean his absence."
The words made the ministers shift uneasily in their seats. A chill ran down the President's spine. He forced a shaky laugh, trying to regain composure.
"Respectfully, Prince Classic… absence is absence. Your King is not here. We are speaking to his son, not him. If the King cannot step into this hall himself, then this meeting—"
A sound cut him off.
A single clang.
A soldier's boot striking the marble, deliberate, loud, and final.
Every head turned.
Chris—still dressed as one of the anonymous guards—stood at the far end of the hall, helmet shading his eyes, hands clasped behind his back. He hadn't spoken, hadn't moved, until now. Yet that single step echoed louder than any speech.
Classic flicked his gaze toward him, recognition in his eyes but carefully hidden from the world.
The President frowned, irritation mixing with fear. "Guard, stand still!" he snapped. "This is not your place!"
Chris raised his head slightly. A faint smirk traced his lips beneath the visor.
Still, he said nothing.
Classic cleared his throat, drawing attention back to himself. "Mr. President," he said, his tone smooth as silk yet sharp as steel, "you may believe the King is not here. But do not make the mistake of thinking his eyes and will are not upon you."
The President's face hardened. He leaned closer, lowering his voice, though the hall was silent enough for every word to be heard.
"Prince Classic… this is my final word. If the King wishes to speak, let him appear. Otherwise… leave."
A deadly silence fell over the hall. The ministers froze. The B.A.M guards stiffened, their fingers brushing their triggers.
Chris tilted his head ever so slightly, his voice finally breaking the silence—calm, low, and terrifying:
"…and if the King does not leave?"
The President's blood ran cold. He turned toward the "guard," eyes widening, trying to comprehend the audacity of a soldier speaking out of turn—
But deep in his chest, he felt it. The weight. The aura. The unmistakable presence.
The King was here.
Hidden in plain sight.
And no one—not even the President himself—was prepared for what would follow.