The court did not sleep that night.
Torchlight flickered across the obsidian walls, throwing jagged shadows that twisted like demons across the chamber. The corpse of the Sovereign had been carried out, but the stain he left behind could not be erased so easily.
Around the long council table, the survivors of his reign gathered in bitter clusters. Ministers in silken robes, generals still clad in armor, merchants whose purses were swollen with blood money. All of them looked haggard, eyes hollow with exhaustion and fear.
The power that had ruled them for decades had been severed in an instant.
And in the silence that followed, a hundred daggers were unsheathed.
"The boy is no man—he is a curse!" Lord Malric spat, his jeweled rings clattering against the table. His face glistened with sweat, his powdered wig askew. "Did you see what he became? Shadows bled from his blade. His eyes burned like the Sovereign's own nightmares. That is no savior. That is our doom reborn!"
Across from him, General Korran slammed a fist onto the wood, rattling goblets of wine that none dared drink. His scarred jaw tightened, his voice like iron. "You saw him do what none of us could. The Sovereign fell, and not by your whispers, Malric, nor by your gold. The boy struck him down. That makes him the rightful heir."
"Rightful heir?" Lady Seraphine scoffed, her lips curling into a cruel smile. She leaned back, her jeweled gown rustling as she crossed her arms. "He is no heir. He is a blade—sharp, dangerous, and certain to cut its wielder. Tell me, General, when that blade turns on you, will your honor save you?"
Murmurs spread like fire. Fear, ambition, and greed all bled into one another until the air itself seemed poisoned.
At the far end of the chamber, Chancellor Veynar finally rose. The old man's back was stooped, his hands trembling, but his voice still carried the weight of decades.
"Enough," he rasped. "The Sovereign is gone, and the throne stands empty. That void will draw every vulture in this kingdom and beyond. But hear me now—Kael Rivenhart has already claimed the court in blood. If you deny him, you deny the blade that cut down the tyrant we all feared. Deny him, and you may not live to see another sunrise."
The words silenced the room, but only for a moment.
"Then what do you propose?" Seraphine hissed. "That we kneel to this boy? This crimson-eyed wraith with shadows at his back? If we hand him the throne, we hand him the kingdom's throat."
"No," Veynar whispered. His eyes flickered with something unreadable. "We hand him a crown that will burn him alive. And in that fire, we will see if he rises… or falls."
The chamber went still. The thought had taken root.
Give the boy the throne. Let the weight of it crush him. And if it didn't? If he survived it? Then he would be more dangerous than the Sovereign had ever been.
From the shadows of a high alcove, unseen by the court below, Kaelen watched. His cloak swallowed him in darkness, but his eyes gleamed faintly with arcane light.
He had expected nothing less. The court was already tearing itself apart. And in that chaos, the boy he had found in blood and ruin would be tested.
Kaelen's lips curved into a thin smile.
"This is only the beginning," he murmured to himself.