Your Highness.
Those were the only words Louis's mind could form as he looked upon the man on the throne.
The Tsar of Belgari did not move. He didn't need to. His very presence pressed upon the hall like the shadow of a glacier looming over a valley. The air grew sharp, biting, as though each breath carried winter into Louis's lungs. The golden runes etched into the marble walls pulsed faintly, their glow cold and pale, like moonlight reflecting on ice. Even the torches bent low, their flames dimming under the weight of his aura.
Louis's chest tightened. It wasn't just fear. It was as if the room itself had frozen around him, and he was the only thing fragile enough to break.
"Enough."
The King's voice rolled out like the cracking of a frozen lake, deep and absolute. "Today is not the day for blood."
The silence deepened, sharper than before. Then, with the faintest flick of his hand, he spoke again:"Enter. All of you."
The command carried no heat, no force. Yet Louis's legs moved without question. He followed Vey and Dima down the long carpet. Nobles lined the hall on either side, cloaked in silks and fur, their jewelry glittering like frost under torchlight. Their eyes cut into him with glacial sharpness, some filled with disdain, others with curiosity.
Whispers crawled across the silence. Louis couldn't catch the words, but the Echo twisted them into intent inside his head.
Unworthy.Foreign blood.Black eyes… dangerous.
At the throne steps, Vey and Dima dropped to their knees, pressing fists to their hearts, heads bowed low. Their voices rang out in unison, firm and solemn.
"Hail, Tsar Sergeyevich Belgari. May your reign endure, and may the Belgari name shine eternal."
The Tsar inclined his head slightly. The motion was small, but it carried the dignity of centuries."Rise, my daughter. Rise, my son. Your loyalty strengthens me."
They obeyed, stepping back to the smaller thrones set on either side of him.
That left Louis standing alone.
He hesitated, palms slick with sweat. He bent forward clumsily, trying to mimic their bow—but too shallow, too late. The hall rippled with soft laughter and sharp glares. The judgment of the nobles pressed against his skin like frostbite.
The King's eyes found him at last.
Blue, pale as glaciers, and colder still. They did not burn. They froze. His gaze was a weight of centuries, and Louis felt as if those eyes could look through skin and bone to the very flaw in his soul.
"So," the Tsar said, his voice carrying through the chamber with ease, "you are Louis Chen."
Louis swallowed hard. "Y-yes… Your Majesty."
The Tsar's expression didn't shift. Then, without warning, he laughed. A deep, booming laugh, like ice breaking off a mountain and plunging into the sea.
"Ha! Look at you. Trembling like a boy before the whip." His lips curled faintly. "No need. I will not harm you."
Relief flickered across Louis's face—until the Tsar's eyes sharpened, voice dropping like ice falling onto steel.
"Not unless you give me reason."
The words cut deeper than any threat. Louis bowed his head. "Y-yes, Your Majesty."
The King leaned back, one hand resting on the armrest of his throne. The runes carved into it glowed faintly in response, as though even stone obeyed his touch.
"I am Sergeyevich Belgari," he said, voice steady as a mountain of ice. "Tsar of Belgari. Keeper of the Northern Realm."
The words rolled through the chamber like distant thunder. Nobles bowed their heads at the title, and even Vey and Dima lowered their gazes.
"Our kingdom has borne the weight of the North for centuries," he continued, tone cold but proud. "Through blizzards, through wars, through silence from the South—we endure. The Belgari do not fall."
Louis hesitated, then found the courage to ask: "If I may, Your Majesty… how many Echoer kingdoms exist?"
A ripple of laughter cracked through the nobles like brittle ice. Their smiles were sharp, mocking, as if his ignorance amused them.
The Tsar silenced them with a glance. Frost crept faintly across the marble floor, and the laughter died in an instant.
"The Echoers are not a single land," he said, his voice cold as the wind off a glacier. "They are a people. The Call is what binds us, not borders. But yes—there are kingdoms, hidden realms scattered across this world. Belgari is the shield of the North. Others claim the East, the West, the South, and beyond. Their names will come to you in time. Not today."
Louis frowned. "So… all Echoers are descendants of Echoers?"
"Almost." The Tsar's eyes narrowed. "Blood calls to blood. The child of an Echoer almost always awakens. That is the law of the Call."
He paused, the hall holding its breath."But bloodlines are not the only path. Sometimes the Call touches humans. No lineage, no history, yet it awakens within them. Some call it luck, some call it chance. It is not common—but it is not unheard of."
The nobles stirred. A few sneered, others whispered.
"There are many such cases," the Tsar continued, voice resonant and absolute. "Each generation brings new Echoers into the world. You, Louis Chen, are one of them. Not unique. Not chosen. Simply called."
His glacier-blue eyes pinned Louis with icy weight. "What you do with that call—that is what will matter."
Whispers spread again through the court, carried to Louis's mind by the Echo.
"Black Iris.""Copycat.""Always the same.""Mimics, never originals."
Louis's fists clenched. He remembered Dima's sneer during their clash. Copycat.
The Tsar raised his hand, and the whispers died like flames smothered in snow. His eyes gleamed sharper."Yes. You mimic. The Black Iris gift. To mirror what is before you. Respected, perhaps—but not feared. Not by itself."
Louis's stomach knotted. He looked down, shame burning under his skin.
But then the Tsar's gaze narrowed further. "And yet… you healed."
The chamber rippled with shock. Nobles stiffened, whispers rising sharp and uncertain.
"Impossible.""No Black Iris has ever healed.""Copycats cannot—"
The Tsar's presence deepened. Frost spread from the throne, crawling over marble like veins of ice. Torches hissed, their flames shrinking low.
"Enough," he said quietly, and silence dropped like snow across the hall.
His gaze locked onto Louis. "Your wounds closed. Your blood stilled. Your body repaired itself. That is not imitation. That belongs to no Black Iris I have ever known."
Louis's breath stuttered. He remembered the pain in his ribs, the bruises fading too fast. He hadn't even wanted it. His body had simply… fixed itself.
The Tsar leaned forward, pale runes igniting around his throne. "That, Louis Chen, is why you stand here. A copycat with a blurred sigil… and a power that should not belong to him."
Gasps rippled through the nobles as they raised their hands, revealing their palms. Sigils flared sharp and clear, glowing blue like carved sapphire. Vey's and Dima's burned steady. The Tsar's own mark blazed brightest of all—etched so perfectly it seemed carved into the fabric of the world.
Louis looked down at his own hand. His mark flickered faint, blurred, unstable—as though it resisted belonging.
"Wait… I didn't see Vey's before," he muttered.
"Because we hide it," Vey said evenly.
"This is not something to flaunt," Dima added coldly.
The Tsar nodded once. "Indeed. The sigil is sacred. To reveal it is to invite ruin. If you wish to survive in this world, Louis Chen, you will keep it hidden."
Louis swallowed, forcing a nod.
The Tsar's gaze sharpened. "Now tell me. What did the whispers say to you?"
Louis froze. His chest tightened. The truth clawed at him: the voices had demanded blood. Kill Dima. Kill. Kill. He couldn't say that. Not here.
"They… they said defend myself," he lied.
The hall grew heavy. Suspicion filled the nobles' eyes.
The Tsar tilted his head slightly. "Is that so?"
Louis forced a nod. "Yes."
The King's gaze lingered, then receded like frost retreating from stone. "It is always thus with the Black Iris. They endure where others break."
The whispers in the chamber softened. Copycat. Black Iris. Dangerous. But another word threaded through them, colder still. Healer.
The Tsar's lips curved faintly, though his eyes remained like frozen seas. "A contradiction. Copycat and healer. Shadow and spark. You are an unfinished riddle, Louis Chen."
He rose slightly in his throne, and his aura surged outward like an avalanche breaking free. Nobles bowed instinctively, pressed down by his presence. Louis staggered, his knees nearly buckling.
"You will not remain a riddle. You will learn. You will master—or you will be destroyed by what you carry." His voice cracked through the hall, then quieted, sharp as icicles. "You will go to the Academy."
Louis's eyes widened. "Academy? But—I'm twenty-seven!"
The Tsar's laugh rumbled like glaciers grinding against stone. "The Academy does not measure years. It measures worth. Children enter. Kings emerge. Some never leave at all."
His hand lifted, command absolute. "Amara. Neo. Escort him."
Louis's heart leapt. He turned—and there they were. Amara. Neo. Familiar faces. Relief broke over him like sunlight on snow. At least he wasn't alone.
But before he could move—
KILL THEM.
The voice slammed into his mind like a frozen blade.
Louis staggered, clutching his head as his vision fractured. The whispers weren't distant anymore. They were inside him, sharp and merciless.
And this time, they demanded blood.