Reborn To Change My Fate-Chapter 98 - Ninety Eight
The grand throne room of the Eudorian palace was a place of heavy, suffocating silence and sudden, sharp arguments. Today, it was the latter. The air, usually cool was hot with the anger of the arguing men.
"It is impossible!" Lord Vance, an old man with a face like dried parchment, slammed his frail hand down on the heavy oak council table. "The Western Region would not dare move against Strathmore! They know the cost. They know how many lives were lost, how much blood was spilled, before a truce was finally reached!"
"He is right," another elder, Lord Greyson, agreed, his voice a low, practical rumble. "They are not fools. They remember the King’s own brother, the great Duke Ellis Thompson, and the price he paid."
"Duke Ellis used his own blood to settle that hundred-year feud!" Lord Vance said, his voice rising, his eyes alight with the memory of an age he considered more heroic. "The feud that the Western leaders caused when they wanted to use forbidden art of magic to usurp King Alistair the first from the throne. Duke Ellis marched into their cursed lands, he pulled their dark magic out by the root, and he killed every last soul who practiced that unholy witchcraft to avoid another usurp. He ended their dark age!"
"And the Western Leader, who is a practical man, knows he is no match for our King," Greyson added, nodding toward the man who sat, silent and unmoving, at the head of the room. "He would not be so foolish as to provoke King Alistair the Fourth. He knows his place."
A third, more nervous elder, Lord Farris, wrung his hands. "But our reports say something is moving. We can debate the past all day, but what do we do now? What if they strike?"
"They will not strike! They dare not."
"It is a bluff!"
"And if it is not?"
The room was once again abuzz with arguments, a cloud of angry, buzzing flies that the King had finally had enough of.
He hit his fist on the arm of his throne. It was not a loud sound, not a crash of thunder. It was a heavy, definitive thud, a sound of absolute, final authority.
"SILENCE!!!"
The single word, spoken in a voice that was weary and dry, but held an unbreakable core of royal steel, instantly killed the argument. The elders flinched, their voices dying in their throats. They bowed their heads, their faces flushed with a mild, shared shame. In an instant, the room was so calm, so quiet, that the high, distant drip of a melting candle could be heard.
Prince Liam, who had been standing near his father’s throne, had not moved. He had not spoken. He had simply watched the arguing men, his face a mask of cold, beautiful, and bored indifference, his gaze still and watchful, like a predator waiting for the herd to settle.
King Alistair the Fourth, his silver hair a thin crown on his head, leaned forward. His hands, thin and spotted with age, gripped the arms of his throne. He looked tired. He looked ill. But his eyes, when they focused, were still the sharp, piercing color of a hawk. He ignored the council of elders and turned his gaze to the single, cloaked man who knelt on the floor in the center of the vast, empty room.
The spy was travel-worn, his cloak stained with mud and the dust of many, many roads. He had been kneeling, perfectly silent and still, for the entire twenty-minute argument.
"What," the King asked, his voice a low rasp, "is the situation at Strathmore?"
The spy bowed his head, his forehead touching the cold marble. "Your Majesty," he replied, his voice a low, clear, and emotionless report. "Strathmore still looks peaceful. The harvests are coming in slowly due to the climate change but the markets are full. And... there is something off. It is too quiet. The patrols are light, almost deliberately so, as if they are trying to look non-threatening."
Liam’s gaze, which had been fixed on the middle distance, sharpened slightly. Too quiet.
"But there is no evidence, Your Majesty," the spy continued. "No build-up of troops on the border. No war declarations. No hard proof that the West is trying to move, or to acquire Strathmore. My brothers, who are spying in the West, also report the same. There is nothing suspicious going on there, either." 𝘧𝘳𝘦ℯ𝓌𝘦𝒷𝘯𝑜𝑣𝘦𝓁.𝒸𝘰𝓂
King Alistair nodded slowly, his mind clearly weighing the spy’s instincts against the lack of facts. "Keep watching. I want to know the moment a single one of those Western soldiers even thinks about looking in Strathmore’s direction. Keep up the good work."
"Yes, Your Majesty." The spy bowed once more, stood, and then walked backward, disappearing like a shadow from the throne room.
A heavy, thick silence settled once more. The King leaned back, his shoulders slumping slightly, his hand going to his chest. He coughed. It was not a loud, powerful sound, but a dry, rattling, weak sound, a sound of declining health that filled the room with a new, and far more real, terror.
One of the elders, Lord Vance, stepped forward, his face a mask of genuine concern. "Your Majesty, your health is declining. We all see it. We all pray for you." He hesitated, clearly about to step onto dangerous ground.
"Why... why do you still hesitate to name your heir? Why do you still not want to pick your nephew, Derek Thompson, to be the one next in line? He is your brother’s son. He is pure, royal blood."
At the name "Derek," Prince Liam’s head turned. His movement was slow, fluid, and silent. He did not look at the elder. He simply fixed his cold, dead-calm, terrifying eyes on him. It was a death stare. A stare that asked " What did you just say?" A stare that questioned Lord Vance if he love his life and that of his family.
