Supreme Throne Room – Elyndor Capital
Tonight the throne room felt like a mausoleum dressed in gold.
Towering white marble pillars, once radiant under morning light, now stood draped in thick, oppressive shadows that seemed to drink the torch-flame. Beyond the soaring stained-glass windows—depicting ancient victories and divine mana flows—storm clouds had gathered low and sullen, pressing against the glass as though the sky itself mourned what was coming.
At the apex of the dais, upon the golden throne forged in an age when gods still walked among men—
Supreme King Amaterasu Ironvale.
Exhaustion had carved deep furrows into his once-unbreakable features. Midnight circles shadowed his eyes. His fingers clutched the armrests with white-knuckled force, betraying the strain no crown could conceal.
Eighteen years of ceaseless vigilance.
Eighteen years of holding back the tide.
He had preserved the realm.
He had forgotten how to live within it.
Flanking him in rigid formation stood the Seven Kings, each a pillar of power in their own right, yet tonight they looked more like statues waiting to crack.
King Roderic Valencrest of the North Frontier: silver hair whipping like winter wind, steel-grey eyes cold as glacial ice.
Queen Selene Vaeloria of the Mana Coast: solitary queen among kings, serene surface hiding currents of ruthless calculation.
King Darius Blackthorn of the Iron Plains: a mountain of muscle and scars, empire carved by warhammer and will.
King Elthain Morgrave of the High Academies: scholarly robes, calm demeanor, mind sharper than any blade in the room.
King Kael Dravenhold of the Eastern Marches: politician's smile, always three moves ahead, loyalty as fluid as quicksilver.
King Borun Stonehelm of the Mountain Holds: clad in rune-etched plate that weighed as much as his temper.
King Lysander Aurelios of the Trade Dominion: silk and velvet, golden chains, smile colder than a banker's heart.
One step below the throne, trying his absolute hardest not to yawn—
Prince Ashen Ironvale.
Seventeen summers old, and already bored out of his mind.
His spine was straight because the court etiquette master had whacked him with a stick enough times that it became muscle memory. His hands were clasped behind his back because he didn't know what else to do with them. And his expression?
Well, he tried to look princely.
Mostly he just looked like someone desperately wishing he was anywhere else.
How long has it been? Two hours? Three?
He snuck a glance at the ornate water clock in the corner.
Four hours. Four. Damn. Hours.
His stomach growled.
Loudly.
A nearby noble shot him a scandalized look.
Ashen pretended he didn't notice, but his ears turned slightly red.
Not my fault they scheduled this stupid meeting right through dinner.
He swept his gaze across the chamber, watching the usual circus unfold.
Kings snarling at one another like territorial dogs fighting over the same bone. Nobles whispering behind their hands, probably about which king owed them money. Priests mumbling prayers that no one—not even the gods, apparently—were listening to.
And himself?
Standing there like an expensive decoration.
A living, breathing reminder that "hey, the royal bloodline still exists!"
Not that anyone actually cared what he thought.
When was the last time someone asked me anything that wasn't 'have you practiced your swordsmanship' or 'why aren't you more like your father'?
He shifted his weight slightly, trying to keep his legs from falling asleep.
At least when I'm training, I get to hit things. This? This is just... talking. So much talking.
King Roderic's voice suddenly boomed across the hall like a thunderclap, nearly making Ashen jump.
"Supreme King," the Northern King rumbled, his tone about as friendly as a blizzard, "I will waste no more breath on courtesy. The Wall is failing."
Oh great, here we go again.
A visible shiver ran through the assembled nobles.
Ashen had heard this conversation at least a dozen times in the past month alone. Different words, same panic.
"For eighteen long years we have watched the fractures widen," Roderic continued, his voice grim. "What began as faint tremors has become gaping wounds. Low-grade demons now slither through under cover of darkness. Our scouts die in silence, their bodies left as warnings we refuse to heed."
Ashen's jaw tightened slightly.
Okay, that part's actually scary.
He'd never admit it out loud, but the thought of the Wall breaking—of demons pouring through like water from a cracked dam—that kept him up some nights.
Not that he could do anything about it.
He was just the prince. The decorative one. The one people paraded around at festivals and then promptly forgot about when actual decisions needed to be made.
His father's knuckles had gone white against the golden armrests of the throne.
King Elthain Morgrave, the scholarly one who always looked like he'd rather be reading a book, cleared his throat with deliberate precision.
"There is a second wound, equally mortal."
Supreme King Amaterasu's gaze shifted to him, heavy and tired.
"Speak."
"Elite mana crystals no longer reach the open market. Private syndicates have strangled the flow."
Immediate uproar.
Nobles started murmuring like a disturbed beehive. Some looked outraged. Others looked... guilty.
Of course some of them are in on it, Ashen thought darkly.
Queen Selene's voice cut through the noise like a knife through silk.
"Black market trade."
It wasn't a question.
Elthain inclined his head. "They hoard. They manipulate scarcity. When desperation peaks—"
"—prices triple," King Darius snarled, his voice like grinding stone, "and our armies bleed coin before they even bleed blood."
Ashen felt something cold settle in his chest.
Soldiers dying because merchants want fatter purses.
His eyes flicked toward a nearby noble—some minor lord from the southern provinces whose name Ashen couldn't remember.
The man's face showed no shame. No guilt.
Just the calm, calculating look of someone counting profits.
These people make me sick.
But what could he do? Yell at them? His father was the Supreme King, and even he couldn't seem to stop it...... continue.