Everyone else, no matter their title or bloodline, would remain under quiet scrutiny. The rot was deeper than anyone had suspected, perhaps deeper than he dared to imagine. And the one who had poisoned Darius, his own son, was still out there. Perhaps sitting at his table. Bowing before him. Toasting to the health of the kingdom while plotting its death.
The King's eyes lingered on the crippled grandmaster for a long, silent moment. His expression revealed nothing, neither mercy nor malice, but his silence spoke volumes. The weight of his judgment was like a blade suspended in the air, unmoving yet threatening with its very presence.
Then, in a voice that cut through the stillness of the hall like the cold snap of winter, he said, "Take him back to the dungeons."
