At the moment the throne fell and shattered before everyone's eyes, it wasn't the crowd's screams that filled the hall. Instead, there was silence... a heavy, suffocating silence, as if time itself had stopped, awed by this radical shift in Arcadia.
That moment, which some had feared would lead to chaos and collapse, became the beginning of something new... something far greater than a mere change in power. It was not just a shift in authority; it was the reshaping of what had once been thought unshakable.
The hall was drowned in an eerie stillness, as though the world itself had paused, holding its breath for what was to come. It was not a silence of reverence or mourning but a silence charged with tension and unease. The air was thick with a mixture of emotions... shock, dread, and anticipation... each one pressing down on those who stood witness to history unfolding.
At the foot of the shattered throne lay the lifeless body of King Blatir, draped beneath the velvet balcony curtains, hastily torn down and cast over him by Ser Variss in one final, futile act of respect. Yet even with the body hidden, the crimson stain creeping from beneath the fabric seared itself into the minds of all present, a silent proclamation of an era's demise... an era that had crumbled before it could truly begin, buried beneath dust and ruin.
And amidst this ruin, Talia Vanheim moved.
Her steps were slow, hesitant, as if she were walking over the wreckage of a bygone world. She could not bring herself to look at the motionless figure on the ground, for every time she tried, a cold wave swept through her, threatening to pull her under a tide of emotions she was not yet ready to face.
This was her father... the duke whom all had feared. And now, he was nothing more than a lifeless body, concealed beneath a piece of cloth.
Her hands trembled as she clenched them into fists, struggling to steady herself. But she knew this moment was not hers alone; it belonged to the world. There was no room for weakness now.
She lifted her head and slowly turned, meeting the eyes of the gathered crowd.
Nobles, knights, military commanders... even commoners who had slipped into the hall... all watched her intently, waiting for her next move.
Would she crumble?
Would she swear loyalty to another?
Would she retreat?
She did none of those things.
Instead, she slowly raised a hand and drew a folded document from the sash of her gown, her every motion capturing the attention of all present.
The silence in the hall had grown so stifling that even the faintest breaths could be heard. No one knew what the document contained, but everyone could feel that whatever came next would change everything.
Her eyes gleamed with sharp resolve as she unfolded the paper, her fingers steady... despite the slight tremor she could not entirely suppress.
Talia: "This scroll…"
She paused, drawing in a deep breath, then continued, her voice firm and unwavering.
Talia: "This scroll holds the truth that so many have tried to bury. A truth that has remained hidden in the shadows... but now, it is time for it to see the light."
The gathered nobles and knights watched her every movement, as if afraid that the words she was about to utter would alter their fates forever.
And when Talia spoke the fatal words…
Thalia: "This is not just a piece of paper… it is the end of the lie we have all lived with for years… and the end of those who played a part in creating it."
She raised her gaze, her voice unwavering.
Thalia: "It is… a letter written by the late Duke, Lucas Nightover."
The words were not loud, but their weight made the very air in the hall still, as if the entire space had been suspended in a moment between life and death.
A feeling beyond description gripped the crowd... a mixture of shock and horror, as if the walls themselves had suddenly closed in, as if the very ground had betrayed its solidity.
For a brief instant, time seemed frozen, yet hearts pounded wildly, trembling under the weight of what was to come.
Some found their breaths short, as if the air had thickened, refusing to be drawn into their lungs. Fear slithered through their veins, coiling around their nerves like a serpent tightening its grip.
Eyes met in silent distress.
Nobles, lords, members of the royal court... everyone present, from the heads of ruling families to the lowest aides, exchanged uneasy glances. Their gazes were laced with one thing... fear of the truth contained within that letter.
Some turned pale, while others began to sweat profusely, their fingers twitching near the hilts of their swords, as though preparing to flee or fight at a moment's notice.
But there was no escape.
Everything was clear now... this document was not just ink on paper, not just the remnants of a man long gone. It was a ticking time bomb, and its countdown had already begun.
For some, that letter would be their end.
An unseen tremor ran through the air, as if the entire hall braced itself for the collapse of something far greater... something from which not all would emerge unscathed.
This was the moment the world was split into before and after. The old order had fallen, and something new was already creeping forward, leaving no room for retreat.
And one truth stood clear to all:
The old era was over.
And now, they stood on the threshold of a new era... an era where there would be no place for the weak or the fearful… only for those strong enough to face the truth.
Talia, her voice quiet yet as sharp as a blade: "I spoke with Duke Lucas Nightover Since the start of the Battle of Draxul. He told me, in absolute clarity, what would happen if my father took the throne… And it has come to pass."
The silence in the hall was suffocating, as if everyone had stopped breathing for a moment, waiting for the next words to fall like a hammer upon their heads.
Talia, her eyes unwavering as she continued: "He told me that my father ascending the throne… would be the greatest mistake in the kingdom's history."
Faces froze, gazes turned to stone. Some did not grasp the meaning immediately, but the weight of the words seeped into them slowly, like poison coursing through their veins.
Only then did Talia turn toward the large window, where the moonlight reflected off the glass, casting a pale glow upon the hall, as if time itself bore silent witness to this moment. A memory slipped into her mind, pulling her away from this place, back to a day she did not yet know would mark a turning point.
She had been walking in the royal garden, under the moonlight, where the autumn leaves drifted gently around her, as if belonging to another world... one that refused to be part of the coming reality. Her white dress flowed with the breeze.
And when she looked ahead… she saw him.
Lucas Nightover stood beneath a towering tree, watching the leaves swirl in the air. His gaze held no warmth, only something closer to prophecy... a sorrow that precedes the storm.
At that moment, Talia did not yet realize that his words that day would not be a mere warning, but the very truth under which the kingdom would collapse.
Talia, She approached him quietly and announced: "Duke Nightover, it seems fate has brought us together at this moment."
Lucas, responded with cold composure, without turning to her: "Lady Talia."
Talia, offered a slight smile before teasing, "I thought you preferred not to stay around when a Vanheim was present."
Lucas, He replied gently but absently, lost in thought: "You are right. I do… and that is precisely why I am here."
Talia fell silent for a moment, her eyes tracing the ground at her feet, her thoughts scattered.
The golden sun pierced through the dense leaves of the royal garden, casting shifting lines of light and shadow that danced across the earth.
Duke Lucas did not turn toward her at once. He remained gazing at the trunk of the ancient tree, as though reading history etched in its cracked bark. Then, with great grace, he slowly shifted his gaze—not directly to Talia, but to the air between them, as if his words would be born from that quiet space.
Lucas: "The rains fall heavily upon the rocks of Newmark these days…" he began, his voice soft as silk, intimate as a whisper, yet carrying the weight of a mountain. "I was told that the storms there always subside the moment the wooden doors of the hall are shut."
At last, he turned to her. His eyes carried not idle curiosity, but measured intrigue. He smiled faintly, no more than a subtle bend at the corner of his lips: "They say the last council ended… with the smoothness of a river's flow. Rarely does that happen." He paused—not to await her answer, but to let the weight of his compliment settle. "Surely the calm you brought with you, Lady Talia, was contagious… or perhaps it was your wisdom that smothered a fire that was about to ignite in the Council of Fifty."
His question was not about her experience but her true role in that smoothness. He praised her in such a way that to deny her influence would seem like false modesty, and to admit it would be to acknowledge her rising authority. He sought not information, but proof of her political awareness and her ability to wield words with mastery equal to his own.
Talia did not smile. She stared into the horizon where birds soared beyond the palace walls. Then she whispered, her voice quiet yet firm, bearing a trace of weariness and a hidden pride:
Talia: "The rains cleanse only the stones, my lord duke… but what lies beneath remains damp forever."
In the silence of the garden, beneath the sunlight filtering through the leaves, Talia closed her eyes. She did not see darkness. She saw Newmark.
Newmark – To weeks ago – The Skull-Island
It was no mere island, but a colossal mass of stone, carved by an angry hand, rising from the heart of the raging Sea of Zephron. It did not simply lie on the maps of kingdoms—it stood at the crossroads of their blood.
From the northeast, there was proud Arcadia, with its snowy mountains casting a wary glance, like an old knight sipping wine as he watched from his impregnable stronghold.
From the southwest, Evalen, with her bustling ports and uncountable fleets, sent the vapor of her wealth toward its rocks, like a rich merchant tallying coins in the dark.
From the far northwest, where maps ended and tales of dread began, the kingdom of Nightforce cast its long shadow upon the world. It sent nothing but icy silence and frost creeping across glass, a reminder that even the mightiest armies could vanish in the labyrinths of the "Forests of Eternal Winter" that guarded its borders, leaving behind only cries devoured by the Knights of the Frozen Night.
And above all, from the farthest north, where the peaks touched the planets, the kingdom of Aetheria gazed upon the world from its crystal spire. It needed no fleets nor armies; its power was knowledge. They said the "Golden Observatories" upon its mountaintops plumbed the heavens, reading the fates of nations in the stars' movements, sending their warnings and omens upon the wings of white eagles that knew only one path—downward.
Newmark was the stony heart of the world, pulsing not with life, but with the decisions of life and death that converged upon its cliffs from every direction: from the silent snows of Nightforce, from the clear skies of Aetheria, from the wealth of Evalen, and from the pride of Arcadia.
Reaching it was no simple feat. No ports welcomed visitors. The only way was a narrow, sturdy stone bridge, known as the Bridge of Sacrifices, stretching across a yawning abyss where the furious waves shattered. To cross it was a rite in itself—a reminder to every visitor that they were stepping from the realm of narrow interests into the realm of shared destiny.
The Konvirs Palace – Soul of the Forgotten Empire
At the island's heart stood the palace. It was no lavish building adorned with statues and gold, but a fortress of another kind. It seemed a natural extension of the rock itself, built from dark black stone—Newmark's stone—gleaming beneath rain and mist like the hide of a damp dragon. Its towers did not rise skyward to embrace the clouds, but spread low and broad, intertwined with the island's bedrock, like the roots of an ancient tree plunging deep into the earth.
And here, memory flowed like a river…
It had not always been called the Konvirs Palace. Once, it was the Seat of Empress Irina Skydom, wife of the Dragon Father, Karma Dragonov. She was not merely his consort, but the strategic mind behind his throne. It is said she herself chose this remote island upon which to build her retreat—far from the clamor of the Dreamcrown capital—a place to reflect and govern the empire with wisdom and calm. The palace mirrored her character: strong, enduring, practical, and untouched by frivolous ornament.
But with time, after the death of Emperor Nirvos Dragonov and the empire's collapse into chaos following the rise of Asterius Eugen, the palace became a forgotten relic. A symbol of a golden age long ended.
Until Konvirs Skydom. He was no mere vice-emperor. He was a philosopher, a seasoned statesman. In the era of chaos, when the twelve kingdoms tore each other apart—later reduced to nine—he realized power alone would not restore order. He needed an idea stronger than armies. The idea of legitimacy.
Thus came the idea of the Council of Fifty: to gather the sharpest minds and strongest diplomats, not as representatives of their kingdoms, but as guardians of the world's stability. A council where no banner rose above another, but only the voice of reason and collective interest prevailed.
Yet for an idea to be born, it needed a symbol. Sacred ground.
He remembered Empress Irina's palace—the neutral island, the fortress that had witnessed the empire's prime. He offered it as a sacrifice. He renounced his rightful claim and gave it to the new vision. Nothing of him remained but the name. And so, the palace became known as the Konvirs Palace—not in honor of the man, but of the idea he embodied: dialogue, transformation, interaction, and exchange. The place itself became the idea, carved in stone.
The Council Hall
Through memory, Talia stepped into the palace.
The corridors were low-ceilinged, lit by swaying torches casting light upon stone walls carved with ancient inscriptions in the forgotten imperial tongue, depicting dragons and sages. The air was cold and damp, the very breath of history itself.
Then she reached the Hall of the Council of Fifty. Within this chamber, titles vanished.
It did not matter who you were beyond these walls. It did not matter if your crown was wrought of gold or of thorns. It did not matter if a thousand soldiers marched beneath your banner, or if your only strength was the sharpness of your mind.
Here, at the round table where the fates of kingdoms were woven, you were nothing but a mind.
So, lay aside your pomp at the door. Remove the crown. Shed the emblems.
For in this place, where silence is louder than shouts and reason stronger than the sword, there is but one title for all: "Lord"… "Lady."
Not as tribute to nobility, but to elevate the idea. A reminder that power here is not inherited, but earned. That the mightiest of the Nine Kings, within these walls, is but one voice among fifty. Equal in responsibility, if not in strength.
For truth bows to no king, and justice knows no masters.
This was no ordinary hall. It was a perfect circle. At its center stood a vast round table of black wood, hewn from the island's rare trees, inlaid with emerald that gleamed in the dim light. The table was not merely a table, but the "Dragon's Eye," as they called it, symbolizing the sharp and piercing vision required of those who sat around it.
The fifty chairs were carved from the same black stone as the palace, yet cushioned with thick, comfortable hides. Behind each chair, upon the wall, the emblem of the kingdom it represented was engraved—each of identical size. No superiority.
On the walls hung tattered, worn banners: those of the original Twelve Kingdoms. They were not displayed to boast dominance, nor even to dream of their return, but as reminders of cost and frailty. A warning that any kingdom could turn to ash and end as nothing more than a banner on a wall.
And in a place of prominence, carved into the stone above the door, was the emblem of the Council of Fifty:
"From fire, comes concord."
The Konvirs was not merely a building. It was a living being. A moral rock in a sea of chaos. And she—Talia—was now part of its beating heart.
Newmark – The Konvirs Palace – Inside the Council of Fifty
A rainy winter night, with the moon appearing like a pale shard of silver behind curtains of mist.
Rain drummed against the vast glass dome of the hall in the Konvirs Palace, like a ritual rhythm heralding the coming flood. Newmark was not merely an island; it was a gray rock swelling out of a raging sea, as though it were the skull of the world—and within its hollow sat the mind that steered the destinies of kingdoms.
Talia Vanheim, standing at the great window, watched the waves crashing against the rocks below. She did not feel fear. Instead, she weighed the wrath of nature against the stillness of the hall behind her. That stillness was the more terrifying of the two.
The reflection of the chamber spread across the glass: a vast circle of black ebony, ringed with fifty tall-backed chairs, each carved with the symbol of one of the nine realms. There was no head of the table; authority here was circular, outwardly equal. Yet Talia knew some chairs devoured the light more than others.
She turned. The chamber was empty save for the guards standing like statues in the shadows, and for the council's chief scribe, an old, fragile man named Sylas, who was writing something in a massive leather-bound ledger with a hand that never trembled. His voice, when he whispered, was like the rustle of dead leaves.
"My lady Speaker… they are coming."
He need say no more. Talia heard the heavy wooden doors open in utter silence, as if their hinges were padded with cotton. The forty-nine members entered, one by one, like wraiths emerging from fog. No chatter, no greetings, no courteous laughter. Each ascent to a chair was like the steps of some burial rite. They wore plain robes, unadorned, but their eyes… their eyes carried the maps of their kingdoms, their intrigues, their ancient scars.
The last to enter was Marquees Edric Damarion of the Kingdom of Evalen. His appearance was unremarkable, but his mere presence seemed to bind the air in the chamber. He sat, placed his hands upon the table—surgeon's hands, long and pale, capable of dissecting an empire with a single gesture.
The meeting began not with fanfare, but with silence. A full minute of perfect silence, broken only by the rain on the glass and the scratching of Sylas's quill across parchment. That silence was the council's first instrument, a weapon to unnerve newcomers and expose their weaknesses. But Talia knew it well. She had wielded silence as a weapon herself. She understood, and drew a deep breath—not in fear, but to savor the gravity of the moment, to measure the ratio of fear, greed, and curiosity in the air. She watched.
It was Edric who broke the silence—not with a shout, but with a quiet exhalation, barely audible. The topic: a rebellion in the borderlands between two allied kingdoms. It seemed trivial. Yet Talia watched how the discussion shifted at once into something else. It was not about suppression or negotiation. It was about "resource depletion."
"Iron," said one member, Viscountess Lara Yutarion.
"Caravan routes," another replied.
"Debts of the great merchant families," said a third.
Talia observed a great machine at work. They were not debating rebellion—they were dissecting its corpse, extracting resources, and reassembling the economic map of the region. Their resolutions were not "send an army," but terse commands written on small cards that Silas passed around:
"Suspend the credit line of the Kaufmann family until further notice."
"Redirect the shipment of raw iron from Harborn Port to Versailles Port."
"Inform the War Council of the Third Kingdom that their spring campaign funding is suspended pending a reevaluation of priorities."
These were the decisions that would crush the rebellion—not with swords, but with famine. Decisions that would force one king to beg for aid, and place another in the debt of the council. Decisions that built thrones and toppled them from the shadows.
Then her turn came. Edric's eyes turned to her. He did not say, "And what is the opinion of Arcadia's crown?" He asked only: "The southern borders. The cost."
It was a test. They were probing whether the "Tongue of the Throne" was merely a silver-tongued orator, or whether she could decipher the true cipher of power.
Talia fell silent for a moment, exactly as they had done before. All eyes were upon her. She did not look at Edric, but at the Viscountess with the glacial eyes. She had grasped the game.
"The cost is not in quelling the rebellion," she began, her voice clear and cold as a polished blade, "but in who will be awarded the contract for reconstruction afterward. The Kaufmann family is burdened with debt. The redirected iron shipments will be used to manufacture logistical equipment, not weapons. That means the council is preparing for a protracted siege—not in the rebel lands, but in the north… where Evalen holds its own mines. The redirection is a message: your path southward is sealed. And suspending the spring campaign's funding is pressure upon the Third Kingdom to abandon its alliance with Orstan over the northern question."
A deeper silence followed. She had not answered the question of "cost." She had exposed the council's hidden strategy entire, as though she were reading from Silas's secret ledger.
She saw the Viscountess's eyes widen, just a fraction. She saw Edric's hand slow upon the table.
That was her strength. She was not only the Red Owl that struck, but the one that could spot the mouse beneath the snow from a mile away. She struck where none expected—without words of flourish, but with insight.
Edric's voice came as a whisper, carrying a sliver of respect absent before: "Thank you… to the Speaker of Arcadia."
He had not thanked her for the information, but for her understanding.
After the dust of the border rebellion discussion had settled, Talia sensed a shift in the chamber's tone. The conversation was no longer about foreign affairs; it had turned inward, specifically toward the "delicate balances of the subsidiary royal councils." The topic was technical, deliberately tedious, as if designed to lull Talia into distraction or boredom so her guard might drop.
Duchess Caitlyn Frostmoon of Nightforce—the woman with soft silver hair and blue eyes narrow as knife slits—was the first to strike, feigning innocent concern. Her voice was honey laced with venom. "The stability of kingdoms depends on the integrity of their representatives. And here, we trust every member of this hall… blindly." She let the word blindly linger in the air. "But what if that trust… is misplaced?"
She produced a document from within the folds of her robe. She claimed it was an intelligence report showing funds transferred from the treasury of Arcadia to a secret account in the dubious "Arvaidth Bank," intended to bribe members of the economic council of a kingdom. The signature authorizing the transfer? Talia Vanheim.
The accusation was false, of course, meticulously fabricated. But the trick was not in proving guilt; it was political pressure. The goal was clear: force Talia to defend herself aggressively, making her appear weak and reactive, or coerce her kingdom into major concessions—perhaps surrendering part of the northern gold mines or political support for Frostmoon's project in exchange for dropping the charge and keeping the matter secret. They were testing Arcadia's strength through its speaker.
Marquees Edric looked at Talia, a faint smile on his lips. "A serious accusation, Lady Vanheim. It threatens the integrity of the entire council. How does Arcadia respond? Perhaps you need a moment to consult your king?" He was luring her into the trap of implicitly admitting she needed instructions, that she was not fully in control here.
All eyes were on Talia. Even Sylas, the scribe, paused, as if waiting to record the fall of a new bright star.
Talia showed no alarm. She did not glance at the forged document. Instead, she smiled. A small, cold smile, one that did not reach her eyes—the smile of the Red Owl that had just spotted the mouse's fatal mistake.
She was silent for a few seconds, surveying their faces one by one, as if counting the voices against her in advance.
"Esteemed members," she began, her voice calm and assured, as though commenting on tomorrow's weather. "I thank Lady Caitlyn for presenting this document… as it demonstrates beyond doubt that our kingdom's adversaries possess an impressive artistic talent in forgery. But, alas, they lack legal intelligence."
She raised her hand to forestall any objections. "The Konvirs Charter, Chapter Three, Article Twelve, clearly states: 'Any financial transfer exceeding ten thousand gold pieces between kingdoms must necessarily pass through the central clearing chamber in Newmark, and be recorded in the Golden Ledger under the direct supervision of the Chief Scribe.'"
All heads immediately turned to the old Sylas. He said nothing, but opened the massive ledger, covered in gold plates, running his slender fingers along the documentation list. Then he looked to the council and slowly shook his head. No transfer of this size or with this name had ever been recorded or even passed through the chamber.
That was her answer. Talia was not merely defending herself—she was striking with the hammer of the law that they were all supposed to be subject to.
But she did not stop there. She turned toward Caitlyn, her smile widening slightly, sharper now. "The real question, My Lady, is not how Arcadia responded… but how did Nightforce obtain a forged document of such quality? Does this mean your intelligence apparatus operates a forgery workshop instead of an investigative unit? Or is this the work of a third party attempting to sabotage relations between us?" She had transformed a corruption accusation into a charge of violating the council's sovereign law and fabricating evidence.
Then came the coup de grâce. She looked directly at Edric. "Arcadia does not need a pause. But I request, in the name of collective council security as mandated by law, that an immediate investigation be conducted by the Konvirs' independent inspectors into the source of this document. I also request that voting privileges be suspended for any kingdom proven complicit in this forgery until the investigation concludes, pursuant to Article Forty-Five."
A heavy silence fell. Her request was not defensive; it was a hysterical offensive. An investigation meant that Nightforce, and possibly its allies such as Evalen… would be under scrutiny. Suspending voting rights at such a sensitive moment meant losing several influential seats in critical decisions, instantly shifting the balance of power in favor of Arcadia and its allies.
They had not anticipated this. They thought they were hunting an owl, but they had stirred a dragon.
Marquees Edric went pale. He had lost this round humiliatingly, and reluctantly muttered: "No need for an investigation… Clearly, there is… a misunderstanding. We apologize for the inconvenience, Lady Vanheim. We shall not waste the council's precious time further."
But the words had been spoken. Everyone had witnessed their attempt to bring her down fail spectacularly. They had seen that the "Red Owl" not only observes in silence but wields sharp talons carved from their own laws.
In the heavy silence following Edric's defeat, where no one dared breathe, the tension broke unexpectedly.
A faint, dry laugh, containing unmistakable admiration, echoed. Not loud, but it cut through the chamber's stillness like breaking glass.
All heads turned toward the source. It was Duke Darian Arcassel, representative of Aetheria. He showed no discomfort at the defeat suffered by his implicit allies. On the contrary, his ashen-gray eyes, sharp as those in the portraits of his ancestors' halls, studied Talia intently. He raised his right hand and applauded slowly, three quiet taps… the sound light, yet resonant across the silent chamber.
It was not applause for victory, but recognition of skill. As if observing a complex masterpiece completed before him. He smiled thinly, not reaching his eyes, then whispered in his voice always carrying the tone of a man who knows more than he speaks: "Sometimes… small events remind us of the gaps in our great calculations."
He addressed no one in particular, speaking to the air, as though noting it in his mental Golden Ledger. Then he returned to silence, as if nothing had happened—but the message was clear: Aetheria watches, and Aetheria values brilliance wherever it appears, even if it disrupts its temporary interests. A reminder to all that in this chamber, loyalties shift, but pure intelligence earns lasting respect.
It was also a warning, this time to Talia herself: "We have noticed you. We admire you. Be cautious, for our attention may weigh heavier than others' wrath."
At that moment, she was no longer merely the representative of Arcadia—she had become part of the council's mechanism itself. They had accepted her.
As Talia finally left the hall, Duchess Caitlyn approached her in a whisper, her voice tinged with both irritation and reluctant respect: "You will not escape next time."
Talia replied calmly, without even looking: "Konvirs Charter, Chapter Seven, Article One: 'Threats within the corridors of the Konvirs are a crime punishable by immediate expulsion.' Would you like to discuss that as well, My Lady?"
She walked away, leaving the duchess standing there, humiliated and silent, under the eyes of members who now knew that the "Tongue of the Throne" did not merely speak words, but the laws capable of toppling them all.
Yet she knew the records would not note this. Sylas' ledgers would record only the dry decisions: credit suspension, goods transfer. They would never record the silence that preceded it, or the dread these decisions would invoke in the palaces of kings awaiting their fates from this isolated island.
She paused once more at the window. The rain still fell. She looked at the raging sea and remembered the decision to reroute the iron shipment. Those small, quiet decisions were the ones that would create the real storms, the ones that would shake the thrones of kingdoms later. She was inside the storm-making machine, feeling a terrifying and profound weight… aware that the true danger lay not in visible power, but in this calculated silence, and in these fifty minds quietly redrawing the world, behind closed doors, with brutal precision.
Talia's spirit suddenly returned to her body standing in the royal garden. A faint smile touched her lips, tinged with the exhaustion left by heavy memories. She looked at Duke Lucas Nightover, her eyes carrying a depth that had not been there moments ago.
"The experience?" she whispered, recalling her last words. "It is like standing at the center of a storm, my lord duke. Silence that deafens."
Then she turned, letting the golden sunlight reflect in her deep, contemplative eyes: "It was a… rainy council. As Newmark always is."
Lucas nodded in understanding, smiled lightly, and looked away to the tree before him. Talia stood there, between the crisscrossing shadows of sunlight and the fragments of truth that had shattered the garden's silence. Every breath she drew was heavy, every heartbeat echoed like a step across a fragile bridge over an abyss of unknown depth. She felt the weight of history on her shoulders, the weight of an inheritance she had not chosen, and the void that swallowed everything around her.
Talia heard the echo of her own thoughts, each one harsher than the last, seeing the world with eyes that no longer merely observed; they pierced like those of a philosopher, tasted the bitterness of reality, and delved into the depth of human souls wandering between fear, ambition, and betrayal. Everything around her—from the muted colors of the flowers to the towering palace walls—screamed in silence, demanding recognition that all she had lived thus far was but fragments of a larger game, a game neither she nor her loved ones had crafted.
She felt her hand tremble, yet it was not merely a physical quiver—it was the shudder of a soul wrestling with the realization that what was coming would not be just a decision or a word, but a breach of every value she had been raised upon, every illusion she had once believed to be true.
That prolonged silence pressed down on her, forcing her to confront herself, to face desire, duty, and fear all at once.
Then she lifted her eyes, her face becoming a clear canvas of resolve and solemn calm, as though she had drawn her strength from the abyss itself. And from the heart of that silence, from the depths of all those repressed emotions, the words emerged—heavy and unshakable.
Talia, in a calm yet firm voice: "My father wants the throne."
Lucas, his fingers brushing gently against the leaves of the tree, raised an eyebrow in surprise. Then he exhaled quietly, a faint smile forming on his lips—one laced with both irony and wisdom.
Lucas: "Well… thank you for your honesty."
Talia stepped forward, every muscle in her body taut, determination blazing in her eyes like a flame cutting through the darkness. Her voice rose slightly, sharp yet carrying the weight of truth: "I am serious, Duke Lucas. My father will stop at nothing to seize the throne… he will do the impossible to sit upon it."
Lucas nodded with calm understanding, but his gaze remained fixed on the massive tree before him, as though its roots hid secrets no one wished to unearth. His words came cool and deliberate, yet each syllable bore the weight of challenge: "Everyone desires the throne. But are they worthy of it?"
Talia felt a sting within, but she refused to retreat. A silence struck her, as if the very air had grown heavy, before she replied with a voice hard as steel, charged with confidence yet steeped in harsh reality: "But my father is the strongest of them all. He commands the armies, the wealth, the influence."
Lucas smirked, his expression shadowed with both derision and disbelief, as though watching a long game collapse before his eyes: "You are mistaken. Your father… and all the lords of Arcadia… are unworthy of this throne."
Without hesitation, Talia lifted her head and met his gaze directly, facing a painful truth without fear: "And you? Are you worthy of it?"
Lucas lowered his eyes to the ground: "I said all lords. So no. None of us are worthy, especially when hope lies elsewhere."
They both fell silent, the atmosphere growing heavier still. Cold winds swept through the trees around them, as though the world itself had held its breath. At last, Talia spoke again, a faint smile flickering on her lips.
Talia: "Do you still believe in that prophecy?"
Lucas, lost in thought, answered in a tone wavering between conviction and despair: "It is no prophecy. That person will appear… inevitably. The only one capable of uniting the kingdom torn apart by corrupt powers. And if your father ascends the throne…"
He paused, his eyes catching the pale reflection of the moon upon the nearby water.
Lucas: "The kingdom will die. And it will be the greatest downfall in its history."
Talia drew a deep breath before asking: "But you will be there to stop it, won't you?"
Lucas met her gaze with piercing eyes, carrying the weight of the world itself. His voice was low, yet resounded with grim finality: "If your father takes the throne… I will already be dead."
Talia froze, the air around her seeming to grow unbearably dense. Her heart pounded in a strange, uneven rhythm, each beat dripping with a tension and dread she had never known before. Something in his words stirred within her both awe and terror, as though the whole world had suddenly drawn closer to collapse. She tried to make sense of it, but every word seeped slowly into her core, delaying her response.
Talia, her voice trembling slightly though her outward composure remained intact: "Why?… Will you take your own life? Or do you expect my father to execute you?"
Lucas, staring straight at her, replied with quiet firmness, his eyes unyielding:
"Because I will not allow it. I will fight, to my last breath, to keep that man from ever sitting upon the throne of the kingdom."
Talia fell silent for a moment, as though trying to grasp the weight of what she had just heard. Then her eyes widened, her hands trembled slightly—as if she had suddenly realized her role in this very moment. Her voice rose, laced with shock and tension: "…Then what do you want me to do?"
Lucas smiled faintly, but it was a sorrowful smile, heavy with meaning, like one who sees a fate entangled with the destinies of others: " I knew you would understand."
From his pocket, Lucas drew a black Scroll, sealed with a white crest. He extended it toward her slowly, as though each passing second bore more weight than the one before.
Lucas: "When the time comes, this will be your chance… to achieve what you have desired more than anything else in this kingdom."
Talia stopped breathing. She clutched the manuscript in her hands, feeling the weight of the paper in her palms—as though she were not holding a mere document, but the key to a future filled with fear, pain, and a choice with no return. Her eyes caught every detail: the seal upon the page, the shadow of the black mark along the edges, the coldness of the ink… all silent messages from a man who knew the true war had not yet begun.
A brief silence settled, dense with awe. Talia held her breath for a heartbeat. Lucas's words were heavy, cryptic, terrifying.
Talia: "What do you mean?!… If you're speaking of the throne, I have never cared about sitting on that cold stone in my entire life."
Lucas stepped closer and lowered his voice: "No… I meant something else. Your greatest desire in this life… is the fall of Blatir Vanheim's rule… to end the chaos this kingdom has suffered for generations."
Talia's eyes widened with unease. She remained utterly silent, her mind tangled in turmoil and conflicting emotions, unable to fully comprehend what was unfolding.
Lucas: "I know those who do not seek the throne when I see them. And you… I believe you can bring the change you've always dreamed of—not only for your family's name, but for the kingdom itself."
He drew a deep breath before adding, his gaze locking onto hers with a sharpness that allowed no doubt.
Lucas: "This Scroll… could be your key. Keep it, and let it guide you when the fate of the kingdom reaches its turning point."
Talia's heart pounded furiously, but she remained silent—hesitant, unable to escape the burden now resting upon her shoulders. With every glance, every passing second, the world seemed to grow more complicated.
Then reality struck back: the hall before her was on the verge of erupting into chaos. Some present were still stunned, unable to process what they had heard, while every eye… pale, wide, unblinking… was fixed on the black manuscript in her hands. They watched her with an intensity as if she held the power to shatter stone itself, brimming with tension and anticipation—as though each second made their hearts beat with an unbearable rhythm.
Viscount Cameron Varonet spoke, his voice betraying his confusion: "Your Highness… what is within that manuscript?!"
His tone overflowed with undeniable anxiety, yet he could not restrain himself from asking. That moment marked the beginning of the end.
Talia looked down at the manuscript in her hands, her eyes widening unconsciously. Then she looked back at them, her heart racing—but her voice remained calm, cold as ice.
Talia: "I do not know… what if we opened it together?"
The hall was saturated with tension, as though the very walls themselves held their breath, awaiting the next words Talia would speak. She stood at the heart of the shattered throne—the place where no king would ever sit again.
In her hands was the manuscript left behind by the late Duke Lucas Nightover… a mirror reflecting a past stained with betrayal and blood. It was no mere parchment, but a direct confession—a document bearing the ultimate truth that could neither be denied nor escaped.
The page was faded black, its edges scorched as though it had come straight from the depths of hell. Drops of dried ink had hardened into lines that would never fade… words etched by a man who knew his death was inevitable, yet chose to leave the truth behind.
Talia drew in a deep breath, her heartbeat louder than the charged whispers filling the hall. She raised the page and began to read.
Talia: "To the one who will bear the burden of truth after me,
I, Lucas Nightover, former Duke of Frostenov, write these words before death silences me and before the kingdom is swallowed by the darkness that shrouds its history. What I am about to reveal is no speculation, nor whispered rumors in the corridors. It is truth, written in the blood of the innocent, in the silence of the righteous, and in the betrayal of the powerful.
And let it be known… I was not the only one who witnessed the fall of this kingdom. You, ladies and gentlemen, with your own eyes, have led it to this fate."
And thus, the hall remained suspended between ruin and revelation.
The words of Lucas Nightover did not merely echo—they seeped into the very bones of those who listened, binding them to a truth they could neither deny nor escape.
Then the people of Arcadia realized a cruel paradox: "Kingdoms do not collapse when their kings fall, but when their lies are finally dragged into the light."
The shattered throne was no longer merely a seat of power—it was a mirror.
And in its broken reflection, every soul in that hall saw not only the downfall of Blatir Vanheim, but the fracture within themselves.
From that moment, history was no longer written in the language of crowns or banners, but in silence—silence heavier than any cry, heavier even than the dead.
For every ending bears the seeds of a beginning. Yet beginnings, too, demand blood.
And so the question that lingered, silent yet resounding, was not what truth had been revealed… but who among them would survive it.