— The King Who Governs
Leornars was in mid-conversation with Stacian when the disturbance reached the manor.
Shouting. A sharp crack—the unmistakable sting of leather on flesh. Then another.
He stopped speaking. The tea in his cup remained perfectly still, reflecting the darkening sky. Both of them turned toward the open balcony overlooking the outer square of the Kingdom of Asheviliah. Below, a small crowd had gathered, forming a ring of voyeurs and cowards. At its center, a demi-human girl was on her knees, her back bloodied, her hands bound with iron that bit into her wrists.
Standing over her was a young human man gripping a heavy whip—his face twisted in a mask of righteous fury.
"Is this the 'civilized' hospitality Asheviliah is known for?" Leornars asked, his voice low, vibrating with a frequency that made the balcony railing hum.
"It is the arrogance of the small-minded, Sire," Stacian replied, her hand moving instinctively to the hilt of her blade.
Leornars didn't wait. He stepped off the balcony, not falling, but descending as if the air itself had solidified into a staircase. He landed in the square without a sound.
"What kind of barbaric stupidity is going on here?" he asked. His voice wasn't loud, yet it carried effortlessly to the furthest corners of the square.
The crowd parted like a wounded sea. A high-ranking knight moved quickly, the plates of his armor clattering as he placed himself between Leornars and the scene.
"Stand back, traveler," the knight said stiffly, his hand resting on his sword. "This is Baron Davis's son. Under the laws of Asheviliah, he may do as he pleases with his property. Intervening is a capital offense."
Leornars did not slow his pace. "Property?"
"The girl is a servant who forgot her place," the knight snapped. "Now move, or—"
Leornars waved a hand, a casual gesture as if brushing away a fly.
Invisible threads—abstract, merciless, and shimmering with a faint, ghostly light—passed through the knight. The man didn't even have time to scream. He collapsed into lifeless remnants, his armor falling into a hollow pile of steel before his heart could beat a final time.
"Worthless," Leornars said, not looking back at the empty suit of mail.
He stopped ten paces from the baron's son. The young noble took a step back, the whip trembling in his hand. The "righteous fury" on his face was rapidly being replaced by the pale sweat of a cornered animal.
"You hurt my fellow demi-human in my presence," Leornars said, his eyes locking onto the boy's. "Did you truly believe the world was small enough for you to hide from me?"
"I—I'm the heir to the Davis estate!" the boy shouted, his voice cracking. "She refused me! Do you have any idea what that means? She is a commoner, a sub-human! She refused to sleep with me before the marriage rites! It's insubordination! It's treason against my bloodline!"
Leornars's gaze sharpened, turning into two chips of frozen ice.
"And I am a king," he replied. "I am the law. I decide whether the title of 'Baron' is a mark of honor or a death sentence."
He gestured vaguely at the spires of Asheviliah rising around them.
"This kingdom may call itself sovereign, but my resources are the only reason your markets aren't empty and your borders aren't ash. I am the air this nation breathes. I am its life support. If I close my hand, Asheviliah suffocates in a week."
He stepped closer, the ground beneath his boots cracking slightly.
"So do not dare speak to me of your petty inheritance."
"You... you can't just kill a noble!" the boy whimpered, dropping to his knees. "There are processes! There is a court!"
"I am the court," Leornars continued evenly. "I will kill you here. Then I will walk to your King's palace and demote your father and your entire household back to the dirt they came from. They will be commoners by sunset. And after you are dead, your family will spend their remaining days burning your name with hatred for the ruin you brought upon them. That is efficiency."
Leornars looked down at the trembling noble, then at the bloodied girl.
"You are not the problem," Leornars said, his tone shifting from anger to a chilling, clinical observation. "The system that told you that you were 'more' is the problem. That is why I will deal with your entire house. A weed must be pulled by the roots."
His eyes flicked to the whip lying in the dust.
"I am the King of Avangard. The king of the oppressed, the slaves, and the homeless. I do not sit on a throne and 'hope' my subjects are treated well. I investigate. I seek proof. Then I deliver judgment."
He took one final step, looming over the boy.
"You were born to govern your people, not rule them. Do you understand the difference?"
The boy couldn't answer; he was hyperventilating.
"To rule is to dominate. To govern is to bear the crushing weight of responsibility for every soul under your care. If I ruled my people, I would be a tyrant. Instead, I govern with justice. In all my years, I have never raised my hand against a subject. Not because I lack the power—but because I refuse to become the very thing I exist to destroy."
Leornars reached out and took the whip from the ground. With a single flex of his fingers, the leather disintegrated into fine black powder.
"That," Leornars said coldly, "is the difference between a King and a child with a toy."