"Is it really that bad? This kingdom..."

  Burn, the young king's defted spirit, felt a flicker of i—an unusual sensation for a man usually moved only by strategies of quest. Yet, despite this curiosity, Burn wasn’t about to hand out favors freely.

  “pared to my dominion? Yes. But is it your fault? No,” Burn replied with uncharacteristic frankness.

  “pared to your empire? You mean, this kingdom, in parison with others, is…?” Yvain’s eyes widened as he grappled with the implications of Burn’s words.

  “I chose to quer your kingdom first because, to me, it represents the greatest threat,” Burn fessed.

  He then outlined his views on the kingdom’s assets: its robust infrastructure, its hardw people, and its fertile nds. “Aside from its nobles, letting this kingdom fall into the hands of invaders would have been a greater loss than any other.”

  “And much of that is thanks to—your parents. They really excelled during their tenure. And you, you’ve mao carry on their legacy admirably,” Burn ceded.

  If Yvain were older, with more experience, or even just better support—heck, even without those—if he had simply been older with a more solid reputation, he might have steered this kingdom with greater ease.

  His youth was his only misfortune.

  Burn’s words, while did, carried a weight that seemed to aowledge Yvain’s potential under different circumstances—a rare nod to what might have been from a man typically focused on the pragmatic realities of power.

  “But that’s… mainly because of my master,” Yvain muttered, almost to himself.

  “I suppose so,” Burn shrugged nontly. “Thanks to her, you’ve mao get this far. But let’s face it, there's only so much you achieve with that approach.”

  Yvain swallowed hard, lifting his gaze to meet Burn’s.

  “Let’s take trol of this nd, boy. Even a king must quer his own kingdom,” Burn said with a sly smirk. “I’ll lend you my support.”

  To subdue the rebellious noble fa, nothing short of total war would suffice.

  It felt akin to making a pact with the devil when the young king acquiesced to this approach.

  Burn's proposal, dripping with seductive promise, seemed to sweetly corrupt the innoce of his heart. After all, in the harsh reality of their circumstahis ragmatically ruthless strategy.

  "I will allow your forces to pass through my gates," Yvain decred, a relut resolve hardening in his voice.

  "You're right. I o assert trol over those noble houses," he tinued, his expression darkening slightly at the mention of one in particur. "Especially... Veryon."

  ***

  That night, the capital of Edensor was swathed in a tempest as sullen as the king's summons. Clouds, as if smeared by a toddler with a gray crayon, blotted out the moon, unleashing a downpour that seemed to critique the very notion of shelter.

  The wind howled through the streets like a chorus of disgruntled spirits, perhaps protesting the te-hour vening of the realm's nobility.

  Among the summoned was Duke Veryon, who navigated the deluge with the enthusiasm of a man walking towards his own surprise audit.

  As lightning cast its accusatory fshes across the sky, it seemed to spotlight the Duke's carriage, a relut bea iorm's spiteful performance.

  The king’s order had been clear: all vassals bearing a title from Vist upwards were to attend, a that gathered the realm's glitterati under one roof to poheir collective fate.

  The Duke, cloaked not just in finery but in a palpable aura of dread, couldn’t help but admire the timing.

  “Nothing like a dark and stormy night to discuss potentially dark and stormy politics,” he mused to himself, his sarcasm a weak shield against the chill of foreboding that the storm so generously provided.

  At least he had his fidence.

  At least the test batch of war maes, sleek titans of bat sent from distant intergactic merts, had retly been tucked away into the fortified ers of his duchy, a secret that buoyed his spirits and stiffened his spine.

  Duke Veryon strode into the throne hall of Edensor.

  As one of the highest-ranking nobles in the kingdom, he naturally attracted the gaze of his peers, their eyes alight with a mix of curiosity and caution.

  They circled around him, their whispers painting the air with intrigue and specution.

  The Duke’s pn for the evening recisely: to probe the depths of the retionship between Emperor Burn and King Yvain.

  What kind of agreement did they have?

  With each step towards the throne hall, the Duke rehearsed his approach.

  As the heavy doors to the hall swung open, issuing a slow, resonant creak that seemed to echo the weight of the impending discussions, Duke Veryoered, his fidence a mask worn as much for himself as for the court awaiting him.

  Huh?

  King Yvain sat alone on the grand throne of Edensor, his small figure dwarfed by the ornate, loomihat seemed more a moo past glories than a fitting perch for such youthful royalty.

  The vast hall, with its t ns and shadowed alcoves, swallowed his presence, rendering him almost spectral in the dim light.

  But…

  Yvain was… alone?

  Alongside Duke Veryon, among the attehe most promi figures stood out not just by their titles, but by their distinct dispositions and the power they wielded within the realm.

  Marquis Reune, from the western border adjat to Soulnaught, carried the air of a seasoned diplomat hardened by the proximity to a burgeoning empire—or, simply put, a man who knew how to flip sides at the speed of light.

  His sharp eyes aiculously groomed beard framed a face used to smiling in diplomacy while calg odds of survival. His attire, a perfect blend of martial readiness and aristocratic elegance, hi his dual role as defender and statesman.

  To his north, the aging Duke Eldric Olfield anded respect through his venerable presence. His domain, a fertile expanse of agriculture and livestock, supplied the kingdom’s heartnds.

  Duke Olfield, with his silver hair flowing like the rivers that nourished his nds, moved with a slow, deliberate grace that belied his strategic a, honed over decades of stewardship.

  From the south, Duke Marlon Merweather represehe kingdom’s maritime strength. Middle-aged, robust, with a anding aura sharpened by the sea winds, his territory's fleets were crucial for trade and defense.

  His deep, resonant voice carried the roar of the o, and his eyes, blue as the deep waters, sed the hall with an admiral’s vigince.

  Fnking these titans of the realm were their vassals and the kingdom’s direct vassals—each distinguished by their regalia but unified in the air ency that the king’s summons had sparked.

  Yet none were as powerful as Duke Veryon, the king's maternal uncle, who owned hundreds of precious stone mines and was the proprietor of the rgest business and pany iire kingdom. He also had signifit stakes in both maritime and agricultural riches.

  THUD.

  Yvain’s scepter struck the floor, its’ sound resonating through the throne hall with a tone sharper than any sword.

  "Wele, my esteemed lords and dies of Edensor," he began, his gaze sweeping over the assembly of nobles who had gathered.

  "I must express my gratitude that you've all made the journey here in person. It seems that only by accepting Emperor Burn's offer could I ensure such a full attendance.”

  Yvain sighed. The sight of their king waiting for them did not inspire these o greet him first; instead, he had to initiate the pleasantries.

  “Had it been merely my summons, I suspect I would have received a litany of creative excuses instead of yust prese's heartening to see where your loyalties truly lie when push es to shove."

  His smile was as thin as the veiled sarcasm in his words, highlighting the irony of their newfound respect for their young king.

  "Aren’t you curious why your king is greeting you all alone in this hall?"

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