When the prick's head hit the floor with a sickening thud and his headless corpse slumped in the chair — Kael turned to the younger man standing near the gore.
A boy, barely seventy-five winters stood before him pale with horror. As Kael's gaze found the boys eyes, he recognized that same burn in his stare— one he once saw in himself.
“Your father was a coward,” Kael said flatly. “I will not suffer cowards in my court.”
The young man swallowed deeply. “And if I choose the same stance against?”
Kael stepped forward. “Then,whenI kill you I'll simply make your sister the next heir, maybe your cousin. Or your wife’s dog — the possibilities are simply endless.”
The newly appointed lord, clearly deciding he'd rather survive the night, dropped to one knee before Kael. Seething he drew a blade across his palm, the cut deep and clean. Bloodwelled and spilled down his wrist as he extended it to his king— an offering. A blood oath of unyielding loyalty.
“I swear it, my king. House Morran stands with the Crown of Nythra.”
Kael didn't move at first, only glanced down at the bloodied hand with cool amusement, Then his lips curved into a smile.
"Good choice," he mused dryly. "Honestly, you're better off in this arrangement freed from the chains of that decrypted bastard."
He turned back to the room, bloody blade raised in question, “Are there any others wishing to declare neutrality?”
Silence.
"Very well." He declared walked back to the head of the table, Morran’s blood still dripping from the blade.
He slammed it into the map, where the borderlands bled into Calanthe.
“This is where we strike.”
The echoes of Morran’s death had only just settled. The corpse's blood barely cool when the war chamber’s heavy double doors groaned open without summons.
The guards at the threshold stepped aside, wide-eyed and uncertain.
Every noble head turned.
A cold wind swept through the stone room, briny and sharp carrying the scent of storm-slick leather.
Just as he'd thought his hands were done with bloodshed for the night— Thauren, King of Virellia walked through the threshold.
He strode into the chamber like a tempest given form —tall, bronze-skinned, wrapped in sea-forged armor that shimmered like a battered pearl beneath moonlight. His longobsidian hair was pulled back in coiled knots, beard glisting with mist, sea-glass green eyes assessing everything with a ship’s ease and a regal calculation. A jagged scar curved along one forearm like a lightning bolt carved in flesh.
Kael didn’t rise.
“You weren’t invited,” he said evenly, silver eyes meeting Thauren’s.
“And yet,” Thauren drawled comically, voice low and ocean-deep, “here I am. Since you never replied to my letter, I thought I’d come for your answer in the flesh and see what you’ve gotten yourself into.”
The nobles bristled. Several bowed. Others whispered.
Thauren ignored them all.
He stopped a few paces from Kael’s table, letting his gaze flick lazily across the bloodstain that still marked House Morran’s corner.
“Cleaning house?” he mused.
Kael gave a nod. “He refused to fight. So I gave him death.”
Thauren smirked. “Your subtlety never fails to impress.”
Riven stepped forward. “Why are you here, Thauren?”
