Dreamcrown – Palace Courtyard – Dawn
The night was surrendering in silence, slipping from its shoulders a cloak of impenetrable darkness, while the first threads of dawn crept in—like dancing thieves at the edge of the world. The sun had not yet risen, but the horizon bled soft hues of violet and pale gold, as if the sky were donning a new gown of timid light. The air still carried the night's last kiss—cold, pure—touching faces the way an unfinished memory brushes the heart. And the silence… it was a different silence, filled with unspoken promises, as though the universe itself were taking a deep breath before beginning a new chapter in its tale.
Marquess Leon Cypher knelt, broken, in the palace courtyard, as though the whole world had shrunk into this single patch of cold earth. The biting air struck his face, yet the chill in his heart was a thousand times harsher.
His eyes—those same eyes that once read the deepest secrets of men's souls—were now fixed upon the scattered remains of the throne. Fragments of blackened gold and gemstones rolled among the dust, gleaming faintly, like the remnants of a mad dream ended in a single blow.
He did not weep. He did not scream. He only stared, as though trying to gather memory from the shards. All his plans, his ambitions, his years of meticulous design… had become nothing more than rubble glistening coldly beneath the faint light of morning.
It felt to him as though Raymond had not only cast the throne down from its height… but had torn his heart from his chest and shattered it upon this frozen ground.
A heavy silence hung over the place, broken only by the passing wind sighing across the fragments, as if mourning a dream that had ended before it was ever born.
And as he gazed ahead, toward the dissolving darkness, he no longer saw the blushing horizon nor the victorious light. Suddenly, a doorway in time opened deep within him.
Memories surged forth like a relentless river, neither asking permission nor slowing their force. He saw himself as a small boy…
Emberville – Sakura Palace – 22 Years Ago…
He was still a boy, not yet twenty, wearing a gray jacket adorned with the "Cypher" crest on the shoulder, walking with the weight of someone who had understood since childhood that he had no time for play.
Beside him walked Oscar Dalmore, tutor of political affairs and the family's personal chronicler—a man of few words, carrying thick notebooks as if they were sacred stones, dictating lessons in a steady, confident voice.
Oscar: "When the ratification of the Regional Charter is announced, you will be expected to take a public stance. Do not be gray… even ash has its price, my lord…"
Leon said nothing. He walked with sharp steps, his eyes narrowed—not on the notebooks, but on something else.
Beneath a massive Sakura tree in the palace's eastern courtyard, a small girl moved lightly—spinning, laughing, dancing as if the world had not yet tainted her.
Sabrina.
Her long pink hair floated in the air, and Sakura petals fell around her like fragments of dreams. She laughed, then grabbed a maid's hand and pulled her into dance, amidst cheerful claps.
Leon stopped. He stared.
He did not move. He did not speak. He simply… watched. Oscar noticed the pause, lowered his notebook, and smiled absentmindedly.
Oscar, warmly: "Ah… the Sakura of House Cypher… the poets were not mistaken when they praised her beauty."
Leon did not answer. His eyes narrowed further, and he remained still. Then, as if punishing himself for weakness, he closed his eyes for a second… and continued walking.
Minutes later, he reached the door of the Grand Meeting Hall. He knocked.
A voice from within: "Enter."
He pushed the door, and the full scene unfolded before him.
Marquess Henry Cypher, his father, sat tall behind his desk. His muscles were visible beneath his black jacket. Henry Cypher's face was like a map etched with experience—each wrinkle narrating a battle, each scar telling a chapter of power and blood. Most prominent, most stubborn in survival, was the dark wound that slashed his forehead diagonally and descended like a sword to his right cheek. He did not hide it, nor attempt to cover it, as if deliberately reminding the world… that he had not reached his position without bleeding.
To his right sat Earl Haith Morlan calmly, as if untouched by time. A man of mysterious wisdom, surrounded by an aura of suspicion the moment one's eyes fell upon him. His hair was not fully gray, but dark with strands of silver creeping in slowly, the result of long years in politics and council meetings. His round, thin-lensed glasses reflected light in a disorienting way—one could not tell if he was observing you… or reading you. In his presence, words seemed futile, and silence felt safer.
To his left, a towering guard in polished attire held a shield engraved with the Cypher family crest.
The Marquess raised his head.
Henry: "Step forward… Leon."
Leon advanced, steady steps… and stopped.
Haith, calmly flipping through notebooks: "Welcome, young Marquess. How are your recent lessons proceeding?"
Leon: "Well, Earl Haith. I appreciate your valuable guidance and the research you provided."
Haith, without looking at him: "My esteem alone is not enough. Be worthy of it."
Haith's eyes suddenly rose, fixing Leon sharply. For a few seconds, the room hung between two gazes: the silence of minds, and the clamor of self-interest.
But Henry cut through it.
Henry, in his dry voice: "Sit. There is a matter concerning your sister…"
Leon sat slowly, his eyebrows slightly raised. Henry interlaced his hands, looking him directly in the eyes.
Henry: "It has been decided—Sabrina… will be betrothed to the heir of House Vanheim, Blatir."
A moment.
It was as if everything in Leon's mind stopped. His eyes widened—the first time his feelings were betrayed, not by rejection, but by being entirely ignored.
He tried to speak. Could not.
Silence was heavier than anger.
Outside… Sabrina still stood under the Sakura tree… laughing. dancing. unaware… that she had been sold, like a gemstone.
Unaware… that a boy behind thick walls, for the first time… felt like a loser.
Leon opened his eyes.
He looked at the stone again.
Then… he whispered, in a soft voice no one could hear:
Leon: "Strange… even after all this… I still see you there… under the tree… laughing."
He fell silent.
Then turned and walked away.
As if everything had ended…
Or… as if nothing had begun at all.
Henry signaled the tall guard beside him. He did not speak a word; a single glance sufficed. The guard bowed and left.
Minutes passed…
Then the door opened slowly. Sabrina entered.
Her steps were cautious, slow, as if walking on glass. Her eyes flitted nervously among the seated faces. She stopped in the center of the hall, hands behind her back, fingers fidgeting nervously.
Henry looked at her steadily, clasped his hands in front of him, and spoke in his deep voice:
Henry: "In our old times, wars were not won by swords alone, but through alliances. A house without allies is a house walking on thin ice… and it will not endure."
He continued, in a firmer tone: "History has proven that noble alliances… are what kept the blood of lords flowing on thrones. For this reason, we have today decided a decisive step."
Sabrina remained silent, staring at him, her hands pressing each other until the skin turned pale.
Henry, softer, yet equally weighty: "The engagement will be officially announced in a few days… and the wedding will take place in two weeks. The groom is the heir of House Vanheim… Blatir."
Complete silence. Time seemed to pause. Sabrina looked directly at her father, but her expression… froze. Neither anger nor submission… only stillness.
Henry exhaled quietly, watching her as if trying to read the unreadable.
Haith Morlan cast her a sidelong glance, light… but saturated with the curiosity of the entire world.
Oscar Dalmore, the tutor, merely closed his eyes, as if he could not or would not intervene.
And Leon… He turned his gaze away from her, but his hand clenched his arm with involuntary firmness. Silent anger built within him.
Leon, internally, sarcastic and bursting: "[Of course she will collapse… she will panic, cry, this spoiled girl can't even endure…]"
But before he could finish the thought…
Sabrina, softly, not loudly, but clearly: "Of course, Father… I understand completely that this decision… will strengthen our family's position in the political arena. I will not be an obstacle."
Her voice penetrated the hall quietly, not like a blade, but like a raindrop in a stifling summer.
Leon… stared at her. His eyes widened in rare astonishment. He turned toward her, not with curiosity, but with undeniable denial.
["Is this surrender?… No… it cannot be."]
Henry nodded. Haith said casually: "Early wisdom."
Then Henry said: "You may leave now. We will discuss the details later."
Sabrina turned, and on her way to the door, paused for a moment, meeting her brother's eyes.
A long glance…
Then a calm, bright smile, as if she were still dancing beneath the Sakura trees.
She left. The door closed behind her.
There is a night that no stars can swallow. And there is a moment that is not measured by time, but by silence.
The night pressed heavily upon the Cypher Palace. The sky, thick with clouds, seemed too timid to witness what was about to unfold beneath it. Only the wind… whispered from afar, as if trying to stall time itself.
Leon stood alone.
His back to the light, his face to the darkness. Leaning on the railing of the high balcony, he gazed at a horizon that no longer resembled anything he had ever known.
A heavy stillness wrapped around him, yet inside… a volcano raged, trapped within a cage of silence.
His thoughts scattered, leaping between images and screams. Between his mother's smiling face and her voice singing him the tale of the little prince—the story he had fallen asleep to every night…
And between her cold hand, pushing him away from the room that groaned with screams and struggle.
And then, that small hand, that had embraced him, closing over his ears… shielding him from the world.
Sabrina…
She was not just his sister. She was his refuge, his final home.
He looked toward the Sakura tree, towering in the courtyard, as if it had never lost its splendor, even after all these years.
In his eyes… her image appeared. His sister's childlike face, whispering: "Everything will be alright, Leon." But what remained of "alright"…? A slap, betrayal, blood on the pillows… And a fate drawn at the expense of those one loves.
Suddenly, he stared again… He saw the royal palace. Foggy, distant… yet there. Solid. Present like an unavoidable destiny.
He bowed his head for a moment, then lifted it…
And turned toward the darkness.
Inside the Marquess' chamber…
Everything was still.
Time slept, like its master, unaware of what was about to occur.
The door opened quietly.
Slow, ominous footsteps, as if woven from shadow itself.
Leon stood still, staring at the body of the man who had always filled his life with fear… and absence.
The Marquess lay unarmed, unmasked.
Suddenly, he opened his eyes, sensing a presence. He glanced around swiftly and grabbed the hilt of his sword.
Henry: "Guards!!"
But before he could rise…
The dagger struck.
Quietly… yet with a cruelty akin to a thousand silent screams.
Time froze.
Only the Marquess gasped hoarsely. He looked down… at his hand, stained, and at the dagger embedded in his chest, right over his heart.
He lifted his eyes… And saw Leon.
That boy… His gaze was neither angry nor tearful… but deeper. Like a dark pit within a human soul.
Henry, hoarsely: "Y…you… h…how dare…?"
Blood flowed.
Not just blood, but years of cruelty, of wars, of bloody secrets.
He sighed, then shouted fiercely, brokenly.
Henry: "Is this because of what happened yesterday!? You fool!
That dream is impossible! It will never come true… as long as this world belongs to kings!"
Leon said nothing. He remained still.
Then, he caught something in his father's eyes… Not hatred. But… the look that had appeared yesterday, when Sabrina's engagement was announced. He had known that his father had seen it, yet ignored it.
Now… He understood.
Henry, shocked: "Ah… no… is this… because of your sister?!"
Leon's pupils widened.
And the Marquess, in a weighted voice, muttered:
Henry: "You were a child… just like your mother… foolish and fragile, believing the old songs."
Leon's expression did not change, but his fists tightened.
Henry continued in a dying tone:
Henry: "A childish tale… a song sung by a dead woman. Is that what you defend!?"
He screamed, as if trying to break the last chain.
Henry: "Do you know what they will say about you? You will stand before them, demanding the throne, with what? Nonsense about a little prince, heard in his mother's lap!!"
Silence.
Gasps. Bleeding.
Words stuck between madness and collapse.
But Leon…
Lifted his head, finally.
And said, in a calm, unbearable voice:
Leon: "You are indeed mistaken, Father…"
Then, he stepped forward.
And pulled the dagger from his chest,
Driving it into his father's neck.
The dagger sank all the way to the hilt.
Henry's eyes widened in fatal shock.
His hand trembled, trying to remove death from his throat.
But… it was futile.
Leon, in a stern voice, said:
Leon: "The throne… is my right."
And with the dagger withdrawn, everything collapsed.
The great body fell, And the Marquis, who thought himself an unshakable mountain…
Was finished.
Leon stood…
His breaths heavy, his face covered in blood.
He did not move. He simply listened…
To the beat of his heart, which had never thumped with such violence before.
Only now…
Fate began.
In that moment, when breaths held, and time itself trembled as if afraid to take another step, Leon stood in the center of the room, and the room around him groaned with the silence of death, the walls still quivering with the echo of the final thrust that tore through Marquis Henry's heart.
Haith Morlan, the old count famed more for his cunning than his power, stood at the door, as if emerged from the womb of darkness, leaning on his cane topped with a carved bone handle shaped like a smiling raven. His eyes roamed heavily across the room, then froze on the body… the blood, the overturned chair, and the dagger embedded mercilessly.
Then that smile…
A smile that was neither pity nor surprise, but more like a terrifying greeting… a greeting from another world.
Then… Haith bowed.
He bowed with suspicious calm, as if confessing before the gods that one era had ended and another had begun.
Hait: "Welcome… Marquess …"
he said in a voice as if born from severed veins, hiding years of hatred and twisted theatrics behind it.
Leon did not reply.
He did not speak.
But he smiled.
A wide smile. Not an ordinary one, but the kind that comes after collapse, after pain, after all the chains that defined you are broken inside.
A smile powerful enough to silence the world if it dared speak.
His eyes had become glassy, yet they burned. A fire that did not consume, but revealed. A fire that only ignites in one who has lost everything… and suddenly found himself its master.
Then… Leon turned with steady, heavy steps. Every inch of his body was covered in blood, indistinguishable between his father's… or the blood of his childhood just slaughtered.
He advanced until he stood before the old man, Count Haith Morlan, whose shadows still flowed around him like a hidden cloak.
Silence stretched for seconds.
Then Leon spoke in a soft voice, a whisper soaked with petrified tears:
Leon: "So… that explains why the guards were absent…"
Haith smiled faintly, coldly, like one admiring a rare murder painting, then adjusted his glasses with two slender fingers before replying in a smooth, soft tone, like a velvet dagger.
Haith: "Let's just say… you did not disappoint me… my lord."
Leon raised a single brow slightly, his eyes nearly dim, yet inside… each word ignited something dormant for years.
Haith studied him. His gaze lingered on the young face immersed in the blood of fatherhood. Then… a memory from the previous night surfaced. Standing aside at the banquet, distant as usual, watching through his glasses the angry boy rising from the table after Marquis Henry's words:
"Your goal is impossible, boy!"
Then he saw the spark in his eyes.
Anger.
Rebellion.
Deadly silence.
Now… that very boy stood before him. Not as an angry child… but as a killer. No, as a true heir… drenched in blood, fulfilling the ancient prophecy that no one else believed.
He remembered the echo of the words he heard clearly from the boy's mouth, in that moment of death:
Leon: "The throne… is my right."
Haith's eyes widened—not from shock… but from passion. That feeling he had suppressed for years, now rushing through his veins like an elixir of life.
He returned to the present. Leon stood before him, silent, his blood dripping onto the marble. Haith knew what he had to do.
He stepped forward, then spoke in a low voice, as if making a tainted confession:
Haith: "You… seek the throne, boy… isn't that so?"
Leon did not blink.
Did not answer.
His frozen gaze stared at him, like a man seeing himself for the first time in a cracked mirror.
Haith continued, this time sharper, as if tearing the shell of doubt from the boy's soul:
Haith: "I… can help you with that… If you cooperate with me, I can train you, shape you, prepare you for the throne as no one before you has been. Until that crown is placed upon your head, and nations kneel to you."
Leon's eyes sparkled for a moment, a faint glimmer in the depths of a profound abyss… the first time he had heard the truth he had sought without a name. Someone finally acknowledging his right.
But Haith was no man without conditions.
Haith: "However… I have one condition for now."
Leon lifted his eyes to him slowly.
Silence…
Then the old man spoke, as if dropping a stone into a still lake:
Haith: "Your sister… do not interfere with her engagement. Let the wedding proceed without issues."
A silent moment, then…
In a flash, as if blood hastened the decision before the heart, Leon drew his sword and placed it at Haith's neck.
The blade gleamed under the moonlight sneaking through the windows, and the sound of metal against flesh was like a breathing beast calling out.
Leon: "I will not allow it."
Haith did not move.
Did not blink.
Instead… he smiled faintly and closed his eyes, as if he had expected this response all along.
Then he opened them again… and the smile vanished. Replaced by a face forged from ashes, and the memory of decades of murder, alliances, and betrayal.
Haith: "Do you think a king keeps his crown shining with gold? Or with love?
The king's crown is forged from bones… Gold and love are false jewels fit only for dolls."
He stepped forward, passing the blade… face to face with Leon.
Then, in a voice filled with bare truth, capable of breaking a weak human heart:
Haith: "Boy… to become king, you must strip yourself of everything meaningful. Your mother? Dead. Your father? You killed him. Your sister? She will become a memory. Your old dreams? Dead. And the choice… now lies before you."
Leon trembled for a moment.
He hesitated.
As if his heart wanted to scream, yet chained.
His sister… the only one who ever held him when he cried. The only one who believed in his dreams, when all others mocked.
A faint light emerged from the darkness of his memory… that song… his mother's voice… and Sabrina holding his small hand: "One day, the prince will become king… only if his heart is pure…"
But that melody vanished, torn apart, as Haith spoke his next words: "Between you and the throne… there is only a small heart. Be big enough… to crush it."
Leon… closed his eyes.
Seconds passed like eons.
Everything inside him battled.
His inner child screamed: "Don't do it!"
While the man of the future whispered: "You were born for this."
Then… he opened his eyes.
That gleam returned.
But this time… it was the final gleam of a man… the last moment of mercy in a heart that had decided to become something else.
Haith extended his right hand to him.
The sound of dripping blood was the only music in the background.
Haith spoke calmly:
Haith: "Remember… this… is your destiny, since your birth… since you stabbed your father's heart… and since you shook my hand… until you sit upon the throne."
A moment.
Leon looked at the hand.
Then at Haith's eyes.
Void.
Silence.
Then…
He reached out.
And shook it.
And the handshake was as if the devil had signed a pact with fate.
Conclusion
That night, not one soul died. But two.
Henry, buried in his body.
And Leon… buried within himself.
And was reborn.
Not as an heir.
Nor as a brother.
Nor as a son.
But as a "king to come"… nothing would stop him.
And somewhere, far away… Sabrina slept. Perhaps she suddenly felt a strange chill… passing over her heart like a winter wind.
Unaware… that that night, her brother had died.
And the crown… began to form, from bones, not gold.
And from blood, not dreams.
Return to the present...
Dreamcrown – Royal Palace – Inside the Throne Hall
Amidst the wreckage, amidst the destruction, all eyes suddenly turned toward the three families: Vanheim, Starkov, and Blackmirth.
They were not mere spectators, nor were they just names among a terrified crowd. They were the force that would reshape the kingdom, the cornerstone of the coming order. Their eyes did not reflect fear; instead, they gazed beyond the hall, toward the future that would be born from the ashes of this night.
As for the others, their reactions varied. Some realized they had to bow before their necks were broken, while others still clung to illusions, grasping for something that no longer existed... like a drowning man reaching for a shadow that could never save him.
But in that moment, everyone understood one undeniable truth.
The Arcadia they once knew... was no more.
Talia stepped forward into the center of the hall, her footsteps echoing against the marble floor as if announcing the birth of a new era. The gathered nobles watched her with tense eyes... some breathing heavily, others barely able to hide their trembling. In the middle of it all stood the three families, not just noble names but the pillars upon which the new kingdom would be built; the Blackmirths, the Starkovs, and the vanheims, each standing firm, as if the world itself had paused in anticipation of her decision.
As she approached, Duke Sathiron Blackmirth lifted his head, his gaze steady... not pleading, not defiant, but clear, like a man who understood the game that had just ended before his eyes. He was a man of a lineage that had never recognized any king except the prophesied heir, yet his voice, when he spoke, was calm, carrying the weight of a man unafraid of the truth.
Sathiron: "My wife..."
His tone was measured, yet something hidden lurked within it, as if an internal battle had ended before it even began. His gaze swept over those present, as though he were addressing everyone, not just Talia.
Sathiron: "I want you all to know that I was loyal to the throne, loyal to King Irvin, even though House Blackmirth has never recognized any king except for the heir foretold by prophecy. That is why I leave the judgment of my wife, Ronissa, to you, Lady Talia."
Silence settled for a moment.
Across the hall, Marchioness Atris Starkov observed the exchange with an expression that held both respect and caution. She measured every word spoken, every step taken. She was not entirely certain of her place in this new balance, but she knew one thing for sure... her family had finally obtained what it deserved, and there was no turning back.
She took a deep breath before speaking, her voice carrying the calm of a storm before it strikes.
Atris: "I intended to speak with you tomorrow, Lady Talia... but since we're gathered here, I might as well say what I have to say now."
Talia glanced around, a faint tension creeping into her, then took a deep breath as Marchioness Atris continued in a voice filled with confidence.
Atris: "We welcome you to the Council, Talia. The three of us agree that you are worthy of it. And I am I'm sure that Lord Hartley won't mind "
"Of course..."
It was the voice of Earl Julian Hartley. His tone was firm as he stepped forward, his strides steady, coming to stand beside them. Then, he spoke directly to Talia.
Julian: "I've heard a lot about you from Lucas. You'd be a welcome addition... at least more useful than This psychopath."
Julian pointed to Viscountess Silvia, who remained silent, a cold smile on her face. A ripple of light laughter spread through the audience, the once-tense atmosphere beginning to ease. Meanwhile, Talia, still processing what was happening, felt something she had never truly experienced before... recognition of her skill.
Atris took a step closer, her voice softer this time, yet carrying undeniable weight.
Atris: "So... do you accept, Red Owl?"
Talia looked up at her, a faint smile playing on her lips, her fingers nervously tracing over one another.
At that moment, Deon placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder, attempting to ease the tension that had overtaken her. He tilted his head slightly toward her, as if to silently tell her that this was what she had been waiting for... she had to seize it.
Deon, in a whisper: "Come on..."
Before she responded, time seemed to freeze in that moment. Talia's thoughts were clashing in her mind, as if she were sinking into a sea of conflicting emotions. The weight of the moment, the responsibility that would come with her decision, felt heavy. Her heart was racing, yet she knew this was what she had been searching for her entire life.. the opportunity to prove herself, to be part of something greater than herself. The moments of silence that passed were enough to reorganize her thoughts, and though fear squeezed her heart, a mysterious sense of strength began to rise from deep within. This was a moment she wouldn't have had if she had backed away. So, with all her might, she spoke the words that escaped her lips as if they were a step toward the destiny she had been waiting for.
And then.
Talia: "Yes... of course. I would be grateful."
Then, after a moment of silence, Atris nodded her head and spoke in a calm yet firm voice.
Atris: "A wise decision... But, don't forget, we must exercise utmost caution. This land still needs its balance, and we will not allow it to be torn apart by the ambitions of others."
Some faces in the hall tightened, and a few nobles murmured under their breath, unable to voice their concerns aloud. But everyone understood the message clearly. Her words were not just about the fair distribution of power; they were a declaration that control would be absolute, even over what was once thought untouchable.
Atris: "We are the ones rebuilding this land now. But, Talia, do not overlook those who might seek to betray this order. Power must remain concentrated…
Talia nodded, but deep down, she knew that what they faced was not just the threat of traitors. It was something far more complex... something growing in the shadows, in the eyes that still held traces of fear and greed, in the hearts that had yet to accept the collapse of the old world.
Talia: "I understand. We will not allow weakness."
Her words were not just a response; they were a promise... or perhaps a warning.
And in that moment, only the echoes of a fallen past remained in the hall.
In the background, the shattered throne stood as a witness to the end of an era that had not just fallen with King Blstir's death, but had taken with it a vast web of political intrigues. Outside, the people watched this transformation from behind windows and closed doors... some with anticipation, others with dread.
Was this the beginning of a new era of hope… or merely the birth of another tyranny?
The winds howled through the region, carrying whispers of coming change. And as Talia stood there, surrounded by watching eyes, she knew she stood at a crossroads. The power she had seized was merely the beginning of a long journey filled with uncertainty and doubt. But she was prepared to face it all, even if she had yet to decide what that power truly meant for her.
In the end, it seemed Arcadia had reached a decisive turning point. A new stage had begun, but no one knew if the long-awaited change would lead to a better future, or if doubt would continue to haunt them forever.
As the kingdom shifted, Ser Elliot... one of the old regime's key figures... felt the weight of his conscience. On a quiet evening, before vanishing from sight entirely, he appeared before Raymond in the throne hall and confessed his crimes in full. His words were filled with remorse and humiliation, each syllable carried by the winds of guilt. But Raymond, after hearing his confession, simply offered a sharp glance before granting him clemency. Yet mercy was only the beginning of his downfall... he was stripped of his title and exiled to distant lands unknown to any.
The final fall.
In the darkening hall, as the cries of fallen nobles echoed under the weight of their inevitable fates, no one noticed the arrival of a new figure.
With quiet steps, he slipped through the chaos, past anxious faces, wary glances, and the corpses strewn across the floor. There was no fear in his eyes, no regret, no hesitation. Only an abyssal emptiness, as if his soul had left his body long ago.
Marquess Leon Cypher, a pillar of the royal court, could have disappeared. He could have bargained, could have even fought for his life. Yet he chose another path. He entered the hall like a ghost, unseen until he stood behind Raymond.
Raymond did not notice him immediately, but he felt something... an odd sensation, as if a heavy shadow had entered his space. He turned slowly, and when his gaze fell upon the man, his expression twisted with surprise.
Everyone had fled, had denied, had clung to life by any means… So why, by all that was holy, was this man standing here with such calm?
Raymond stared at him for a long moment, as if his mind refused to believe what he was seeing. This man was not accused, was not even a suspect. No document bore his name, no confession mentioned his treachery. So had he come to confess? Or had he simply… chosen to end it?
The murmurs of the nobles who had now noticed his presence filled the air... low whispers of suspicion and unease... but Leon paid them no heed. He stepped forward with quiet confidence until he stood directly in front of Raymond.
Raymond looked into his eyes and found nothing. No plea, no apology, no justification. Only emptiness, as if life itself had been hollowed out from within.
This silence… was unsettling.
Raymond, who had spent days hunting traitors, punishing them, delivering justice, now found himself face to face with a man who did not even try to defend himself. This was not the confrontation he had envisioned. There was no shouting, no denial, no fear, no pleading, no defiance. It was more infuriating than anything else.
Raymond: "What?… Why are you here?"
Leon did not answer immediately. He simply shrugged, as if asking… why not?
A silence passed… A trial without a judge.
Leon Cypher stood there, in the center of the hall, amidst the wreckage, the screams, a world crumbling around him... but he saw none of it.
He saw only the void.
Raymond, breathing heavily, his hands trembling with fury, stared at him as if trying to grasp his very existence. From the moment Leon entered the hall, he had been an enigma, and now, he was something even closer to a living nightmare.
This indifference could have been defiance. But Raymond did not feel that. Instead, he felt that the man before him was already dead, that all he saw now was the husk of someone for whom nothing mattered anymore.
Then, in a quiet voice that cut through the hall like a cold blade, Leon spoke.
Leon: "I was the one who incited your father…"
Silence fell.
It was not a silence of awe, but a silence of crushing weight, as if the very air in the hall had turned into stones suspended above their heads, waiting to collapse.
Raymond did not move. His eyes did not blink. But something deep inside him… shattered.
There was no explanation, no need to ask."What do you mean?" because Leon continued his words, his voice as cold as the wind blowing over ruins.
Leon: "I caused your mother's death... and also your friend."
This time, silence had no place. Raymond erupted like a raging storm. It was no longer just anger; it was closer to an emotional collapse, a wave of internal turmoil crashing against his first moment of realization.
His fist struck Leon's face with such force that blood splattered, yet Leon did not fall.
Another blow.
And another.
He should have fallen, he should have screamed, begged, defended himself. But he did none of that.
He remained standing, as if made of something stronger than bones, as if he were ash untouched by the storm.
Raymond, who had lived his whole life for revenge, felt... just for a moment... something he could not understand.
It was not a sense of victory. It was a sense of sinking.
Raymond: "Why… why are you saying this now?!!"
Leon lifted his gaze to him, empty eyes, the eyes of someone who had seen the end before it even began.
Leon: "Because the truth no longer matters. Nothing does."
Raymond looked at him, panting, his fist still clenched as if ready for another strike, yet he did not deliver it. There was something in Leon's voice that made him pause. Something like emptiness... the kind that only comes after a person has lost everything.
Raymond: "You!... You know that I will kill you, don't you?!"
Leon smiled.
A smile... but not the kind Raymond had expected. It wasn't defiance, nor was it mockery. It was the smile of a man who had lost everything, even hope. The smile of a man who had realized the truth too late.
Leon: "I was dead before I came here."
His voice was calm, as if the words themselves were a farewell to something that had already ended, as if he were passing judgment on himself before others could.
Leon: "You destroyed the only thing that gave my life meaning."
He looked at Raymond, his voice devoid of anger or regret, only a cold certainty, as if speaking of an undeniable truth.
Leon: "The throne… it wasn't just ambition. It was my right. Something promised to me since childhood, something I saw before me every night when my mother stroked my hair, whispering with her weary voice…"
He paused for a moment, as if the words were too heavy. Then, he whispered, turning his head slowly, as if his voice was no longer addressing Raymond but a ghost that only he could see.
Leon: "You know? My mother used to whisper to me every night when I was a child, despite her illness, despite the pain that was consuming her…"
Silence. Then his voice came, faint, trembling, as if, for the first time in his life, he was about to break.
Leon: "My little prince…"
Something flickered in his eyes for a moment. It was not a plea, nor fear... it was a memory.
Leon: "She saw me as a prince… even when I was just a frail, sickly child with nothing but her words. Those words brought me back to life, made me believe I had a right…"
He closed his eyes for a moment, as if his body had become heavier than he could bear.
Leon: "But now? Nothing remains. Even her dream, even the child she saw as a prince… is dead."
He smiled bitterly, but it was a sad smile, the smile of a man who realizes that everything he believed in was nothing but a fragile illusion.
Leon: "I believed that my destiny was the throne, that I was not born to be a mere follower or just another name in a lineage, but to have my name remembered as a ruler, a king. But you… you came and overturned the table, shattered the game before I could reach its end. You didn't just defeat me; you stripped me of any meaning in my existence."
He looked at Raymond, his eyes devoid of hope or resistance.
Leon: "Do you know what's worse than defeat? Realizing that everything you worked for, everything you dreamed of, existed only in your mind. That you were never anything more than a pawn... not in someone else's game… but in your own delusions."
He lifted his chin slightly, as if something inside him had finally broken beyond repair.
Leon: "And now, there is nothing left. No throne, no mother to wish, no meaning… nothing but nothing."
The air was thick with cold, as if time had stopped in that moment. Raymond stood firm, his gaze fixed on Marquess Leon Cypher, who stood before him like a shadow, devoid of everything. He had decided to have the guards take him away, to lock him in a prison where his fate awaited him within dark walls, isolated from the world. That was the end Raymond had decreed, and his judgment was final.
Raymond: "Take him away from my sight. Lock him up!"
Raymond's voice was calm, but there was something in it... something simmering, as if his eyes had not yet had their fill of hatred for the man who had caused his suffering.
But what happened next was faster than any reaction the mind could comprehend.
As the guards approached the marquis to bind his hands with cold iron, there was no sudden movement. His body remained still, as if he were observing everything around him, unhurried. But in a single instant, before anyone could realize it, his hand moved toward the sword of the guard to his right.
As the guards neared him, the Marquess's eyes were empty, as if he had abandoned everything, even his own life. Everything around him began to fade, and the moment seemed to embody the end of a long journey of disappointments and betrayals. There was only the deep silence that surrounded him, and his mind was drowning in an absolute void.
In that moment, his hand moved without hesitation, as if his body had already made its decision. He drew the sword from its sheath in a swift, fluid motion, as if his hand knew exactly where it was. There was no confusion, no hesitation... just a precise, deliberate action. As if the sword had become a part of him, the only tool left at his disposal.
Artis: "Marquess!!"
It was not an act of desperation, nor an attempt to escape or fight. It was simply surrender, as if the marquis had accepted his fate before it even arrived.
In a swift motion, he angled the sword toward his throat, its tip pressing downward. Then, without the slightest hesitation, he drove the blade inward. The sound was soft, as if the world had gone silent the moment the steel pierced flesh, and the blood burst forth rapidly, staining the sword with a dark, fatal touch.
The sound was quiet, like fabric being torn, then swallowed by the suffocating silence as blood spilled onto the blade, leaving its dark mark in the air.
The body, once filled with life, was now just a heavy mass on the ground, blood seeping slowly over the sword as if reluctant to leave, lingering as if in shock itself.
At that moment, Raymond turned sharply. His eyes locked onto the scene that had, in a fleeting moment of indifference, turned into a massacre. The body remained in place, but he felt that what he was witnessing was not just a battle... it was a dark transformation. Something greater was unfolding, something unimaginable.
Shock filled him, as if pulling his soul into deep darkness. A whisper echoed in his mind, "Was I the one who started this? Was this all part of his plan?"
And the answer lay in the silence.
Not just an attempt to escape, but a final defiance of fate.
As his body collapsed to the ground, the blood pooled around him, spreading rapidly to cover the space. The earth absorbed everything, as if taking more than just his body... taking a piece of his soul, the part that had remained trapped in his past.
And in that silence, a distant whisper lingered.
"My little prince…"
But now, as his body faded into nothingness, did he still hear it?
Or had the void swallowed even that?
There was no answer. Only silence.