The council chamber loomed like a mausoleum pretending to be a throne room.
Vaulted ceilings arched high above, chiseled with ancient runes that whispered Schlager's forgotten victories. Stained glass windows lined the walls—red, gold, and violet light bleeding through, casting fractured halos onto polished stone. The long council table was a monstrous thing, carved from a single length of darkwood, scarred with age and power.
Red walked beside Glade, every step echoing louder than the last. His breath was steady, but his fingers twitched with old instinct. He'd infiltrated blacksites and backroom war rooms, but this place had a different kind of gravity.
Because here, no one pretended you weren't being judged.
Lord Ardent sat near the head of the table—white robes immaculate, hands folded like a man already writing the kingdom's next chapter. Around him, nobles lounged in furs and brocade, armored leathers and jewels. Their conversations stopped the moment Red entered.
They turned to face him.
He held their gaze.
He did not smile.
Glade guided him to the first seat on the left—close to the throne's absent shadow. Red sat. The chair creaked. Across the table, he saw only wolves in silk.
"Prince Alzein returns," Ardent said smoothly, like a merchant unveiling damaged goods. "Praise Her Light for Her mercy."
A few nobles echoed the words. Most didn't bother. One clinked his ring against a goblet. Another stifled a laugh behind his glove.
"You're lucky to be alive," said a man seated halfway down the right side of the table—mid-fifties, sharp-featured, with a scar splitting one brow. His voice rasped like rusted metal dragged through gravel. "Though luck may not be enough for a kingdom bleeding from every corner."
Red noted the man's posture—rigid, precise. Military background, probably. The way he spoke didn't ask for permission. He was used to giving orders—and being obeyed.
Beside him, a woman draped in violet furs gave a small, theatrical sniff. Her fingers sparkled with rings, each gesture as deliberate as her narrowed eyes. "We are all out of luck, Commander Garan," she added, with a voice smooth as cold wine. "A prince with no past is a prince with no future."
The words slid off her tongue like a curse dressed in etiquette. Red didn't flinch. But each barb chipped away at the outline of the boy they thought he was—distrusted, disliked… and maybe, if they were right, someone not worth the throne they were keeping warm.
Another figure leaned forward. Younger than the others. Tall, fine-boned, too many rings for one hand. His robes shimmered with threads of gold. When he spoke, his voice was calm—measured in a way that said he liked hearing himself.
"Schlager teeters on collapse," he said. "King Alador is dead. Our borders crumble like wet parchment. And now the Magic Kingdom of Bylon has withdrawn its allegiance."
He paused. Let that last word coil through the air like smoke.
Then someone snapped—Red didn't catch who at first. A man with tight shoulders and a hunting knife strapped to his boot. He jabbed a finger across the table.
"Because of him. The last heir. Who thought it wise to go gallivanting through my lands, chasing maous and stories—and left half my holdings in ruin."
Glade's knuckles whitened. "Lord Kleitz, he saved your town from those beasts. That was—"
"And in doing so," Lord Kleitz snarled, cutting him off, "he destroyed two bridges, blocked a critical trade route, and dragged three noble heirs into a skirmish they had no business dying in. One lost a leg. The other two haven't come home."
Around the table, nods. Quiet murmurs. One lord offered a slow clap before stopping halfway, as if remembering where he was.
Red said nothing. But he was listening to every word like it was a classified file being read aloud.
Another voice joined in—smoother, more measured. A middle-aged man wearing gold-trimmed robes and gemstone rings in each finger said.
"And the stone giant?" he asked. "That incident at the mines—twenty dead. An entire crystal vein rendered useless. You showed up with a sword and speeches, then let the beast vanish into the caverns."
Glade stood. "Lord Aurum, that was not his fault—"
Red raised a hand, quiet but firm.
"Let them speak, Glade."
He didn't recognize the faces. But the patterns were familiar. This was how a coup started: not with blades, but with stories told well enough to make the room forget what came before.
And he needed to know who Alzein had been—not by title, but by aftermath.
The woman in violet leaned back, her expression thinly veiled amusement.
"Perhaps your reckless little prince should've stayed in bed. Or better yet, stayed dead. My daughter still weeps over the fool who promised her his favor, then disappeared into the woods with a spear and no letter."
Some lords gasped at her revelation. She sipped her wine.
"She was to be engaged before winter," she added, tone almost wistful. "Now she locks herself in her chamber and dreams of a ghost. You left her with nothing but tears and scandal, Your Highness."
Red didn't react. But the phrase Your Highness felt more like a blade than a title.
The room stirred with growing scorn.
Mockery. Accusation. A web of resentment spun over years—now tightening around his throat.
Red didn't respond. He watched. Measured. Filed away every face.
He was a shadow by training.
And the spotlight was burning.
Ardent rose.
"Enough."
Silence fell like a blade.
His voice was cold iron wrapped in silk. "I'm terribly sorry for your daughter's broken heart, Lady Corna. But there is a matter far graver that we have to discuss."
He stood in the middle of the chamber. "We all feel it—the fractures beneath our feet. King Alador is gone. Our alliances unravel. The Maou King stirs in the east. And now Bylon—our oldest ally—withdraws in protest."
He turned, eyes narrowing on Red.
"And what do we have left? A prince whose recklessness led to our king's death at Sylph's Valley. A prince brought back from the jaws of death… by a witch who defies the will of Her Light."
A hush swept the chamber. Heavy. Charged.
"Her Light teaches us death is the final gate," Ardent said. "No soul should return once it crosses the veil. This resurrection—this astral sorcery—is not divine. It is desecration. A mockery of sacred law."
Whispers of blasphemy rippled through the room. Nobles crossed themselves with their right hands. Some whispered prayers.
Glade stepped forward, voice sharp. "She did what none of us could. She saved his life."
"At what cost?" Ardent said, turning to him. "This was no act of mercy. It was necromancy. A sin dressed as salvation."
He faced the lords.
"I propose this: Prince Alzein shall remain within the castle. He will not command troops. He will not dictate policy. He will not speak for Schlager in any external matter."
He let the words settle.
"His blood will be honored. But his right to lead is suspended."
Gasps. Murmurs. A few looked to Red—but none spoke in his defense.
He sat still, jaw tight, knuckles white beneath the table.
Ardent's voice continued, calm and cruel.
"For one year, the prince shall observe. Reflect. And when he reaches his maturity—his rightful claim—we will reconvene. We will judge whether he is worthy to rule… or if Schlager must find a new path."
Glade stood. "That is exile by another name!"
"No," Ardent said. "It is mercy. For both him and the people."
He swept his gaze across the chamber.
"During this year, I will serve as steward. De facto sovereign. I know the lords of Bylon. Let me be the one to restore their allegiance. I will stand between this kingdom and the collapse waiting at our gates. By the will of this council, and in faithful service to Her Light."
Several nobles nodded. Some bowed their heads. None objected.
Red met Ardent's gaze.
The man didn't need a crown. He was already wearing it.
"You are not a prisoner, Prince Alzein," Ardent said, almost gently. "But you are no longer heir apparent. Not until the realm sees reason to trust you again. And until then—this is the last time you will sit in this chamber."
He placed a hand over his chest.
"I will shoulder the burden of diplomacy. Of stability. Of war—if it comes to that. And Schlager will survive."
A few clapped. Others murmured agreement.
Glade looked stricken.
Red said nothing.
But he was listening.
Not to the nobles.
To the voice whispering in the back of his mind:
Find the statue. Before the Maou King does.
He didn't know what the voice was.
Didn't know what it wanted from him.
But he knew one thing for certain:
He can't let people from the top manipulate him again.
Ardent raised his hand for silence, then delivered the final blow.
"My first directive, as steward under Her Light, is simple:
At dawn, the astral witch who defiled the sacred veil with resurrection magic shall be cleansed by fire.
Let all of Schlager witness Her judgment. Let the flames remind them—
Death is sacred.
And not even a prince stands above Her Light."