Rain tapped faintly against the stained-glass windows of the grand throne hall in the royal capital of Mirdia. Torches burned quietly along the stone walls, their light flickering over the stern faces of nobles, advisors, and generals. At the head of the chamber sat King Zenhil Mirdia, dressed in his royal robes of navy and silver. Beside him, standing tall in fine red military attire, was his eldest son and heir, Crown Prince Ranhil.
The hall was thick with unease.
Reports from the Kingdom of Theodor had arrived early that morning—shocking in both scale and implication. The entire Theodor royal family had perished. Their capital lay in ruins. The Special Heroes Army, once proud and powerful, was scattered and broken.
Some spoke of opportunity. Others of restraint.
"We must act now," Ranhil's voice rang out, strong and unwavering. "Their throne is empty. Someone must take control. If not us, then who? Azalea? Darga? Do we wait while others build power from Theodor's ashes?"
King Zenhil rubbed his chin, weary. "Mirdia still mourns its dead, Ranhil. And the people are tired of war."
Just then, the heavy oak doors at the far end of the hall creaked open. A guard's voice echoed: "His Highness, Prince Vanhil Mirdia."
Silence fell like a blanket.
Vanhil stepped forward, his stride composed. Dressed in a sleek black and gold uniform, the glow of his status bracelet displayed a blinding '70'—a number few in the room had ever seen. His silver hair caught the torchlight, giving him an almost spectral appearance.
Every courtier, every general, every servant bowed low—even the king stood.
Without a word, Vanhil walked straight toward the throne. King Zenhil stepped aside. Vanhil sat down.
He did not ask permission.
"I've heard your debate," Vanhil said calmly. "Here is what we will do."
He looked at the gathered court, and they listened with held breath.
"We will send humanitarian relief to Theodor's survivors—food, healing, shelter. Our people will offer aid to theirs. They are not our enemy. Their generals abandoned them. We will not."
Prince Ranhil frowned deeply. "We waste our resources for what? Sympathy?"
Vanhil turned his gaze to his older brother. "Sympathy wins hearts. And hearts win nations. The people of Theodor will remember who fed them when their bellies were empty. Who saved them when their own army turned away."
King Zenhil, still standing, nodded slowly. "A wise plan."
Vanhil stood. "Then I leave it to Your Majesty to oversee it."
And with that, he stepped down from the throne and walked out of the hall. His steps echoed long after the doors closed.
Moments later, with clenched fists, Prince Ranhil turned and drove his hand into a stone pillar, cracking it with a thunderous impact. His face twisted with silent fury.
---
Later That Day – Vanhil's Private Office
In a quieter wing of the castle, Vanhil poured himself a glass of deep red wine. The room was silent, decorated with dark wood, golden embroidery, and books lining the walls.
Valtheas, dressed in his usual commander's attire, and Commander Elle, her sharp ears twitching slightly, sat across from him.
"You've shaken the court again," Valtheas said, smirking faintly.
Vanhil ignored the comment. He handed Valtheas a folded document and leaned against his desk.
"I want you to send a team of discreet scouts," Vanhil said. "Identify those in Theodor who are grateful. Find the ones who've lost everything. The desperate. The bold."
Valtheas raised a brow. "You want to start a rebellion."
"I want to plant seeds," Vanhil corrected. "Among those we help, we plant leaders—our people. They will speak of change, of hope. And when the people are ready, they will follow."
Elle, quiet until now, finally spoke. "Theodor's generals won't go quietly."
"They won't have to," Vanhil said. "They'll think they're still in control. Until they aren't."
Valtheas nodded once. "Understood. When the people rise, they'll believe it was their own will."
Vanhil allowed himself a rare smile. "Exactly."
---
Meanwhile – In Veilden
Far from the halls of power, under clearer skies, Arriel, Lira, and Kell trained young Ismel as planned. The town buzzed with its own rumors of the Theodor disaster, but the trio stayed focused.
The echo of swords clashing and Lira's sharp voice correcting Ismel's stance filled the training yard. For now, politics was far away.
But the storm Prince Vanhil set into motion had only just begun to gather.