What chance did Ashen have?
High Priest Caelum struck his staff against the marble floor with a sharp crack that echoed through the chamber.
"This is precisely why raw crystal abuse spreads like plague!" His voice trembled with barely contained fury. "Traders peddle them as miracle cures, as safe substitutes for proper channeling methods."
"They are poison," King Borun bellowed, his voice shaking the chandeliers overhead. "My legions rot from the inside—Mana Sickness devours them alive!"
The High Priest's tone dropped to something that sounded almost like mourning.
"Raw crystals offer no purification. To draw mana directly through them is to invite corruption into the very soul. It is slow suicide dressed as salvation."
From somewhere in the shadowed edges of the hall, a noble muttered just loud enough to be heard:
"In war, who has the luxury of asking permission?"
Ashen's head snapped toward the voice.
He stared at the man—some richly dressed merchant prince—until the noble looked away, suddenly very interested in his own shoes.
You're not the one fighting, are you? You're not the one dying.
Queen Selene spoke again, her voice dangerously calm.
"Our sea lanes fracture. Resources hemorrhage. The empire bleeds from a thousand unseen cuts."
"Resources?" Darius barked a harsh, humorless laugh. "We would drown in resources if certain vultures stopped devouring their neighbors' borders."
Every eye in the room turned to King Lysander Aurelios.
The Trade King merely smiled—thin, glittering, utterly shameless.
"Since when has the expansion of commerce been renamed conquest?"
Borun's gauntleted fist crashed down onto the armrest of his seat, cracking the stone beneath.
"You stole my border villages, Aurelios! Whole hamlets—gone!"
"They were drowning in debt they could never repay," Lysander replied smoothly, examining his rings as though bored. "I extended them mercy. I gave them purpose."
'Purpose.' Right. The purpose of making you richer.
Ashen's fingers curled into fists behind his back.
He hated this.
Hated standing here, silent and useless, while everyone argued about gold and territory like it was some kind of game.
People were dying. The Wall was crumbling. Demons were coming.
And these idiots were squabbling over coins.
If I were Supreme King—
He stopped that thought immediately.
Yeah, right. Like that'll ever happen. Father's probably going to live forever anyway. And even if he didn't... would anyone even listen to me?
The answer, he knew, was no.
At last, Supreme King Amaterasu spoke.
His voice carried no thunder. No rage.
Yet somehow, it silenced the entire room as effectively as a funeral bell.
"I know."
Two simple words.
"The Wall weakens. Day by day. Breath by breath."
His gaze traveled across the circle of kings, heavy with the weight of decades Ashen couldn't even imagine.
"I know each of you carries grievances heavier than your crowns."
A slow, weary breath that seemed to come from somewhere deep and exhausted.
"But mark this truth above all others—should the Wall fall, no kingdom, no vault of gold, no petty throne will stand apart. We perish as one."
Silence descended like a funeral shroud.
Ashen watched his father rise from the throne.
Even now, even worn down by years of impossible responsibility, there was still strength in the movement. Still power.
Will I ever be like that?
The question rose unbidden, unwelcome.
Will I ever be anything more than... this?
"Enough hollow words," his father declared, voice rough with suppressed fury. "The Wall crumbles while we squabble over coin and borders. If it shatters, your trade routes vanish. Your kingdoms vanish. History itself forgets your names."
His eyes swept the assembly once more—sharp, unyielding, final.
"Therefore I issue this Supreme Decree: All private trade in mana crystals is henceforth forbidden."
A collective intake of breath hissed through the hall like steam from a kettle.
"Every shard mined, every vein discovered, belongs immediately to the sovereign of its territory. No brokers. No shadow markets. You alone will determine how those crystals arm your soldiers."
He paused, letting the weight settle.
"Do you accept this command?"
The kings exchanged glances—greed warring with necessity, ambition with survival.
One by one, then together, they answered:
"We accept, Supreme King."
Amaterasu inclined his head fractionally.
No relief softened his expression. No satisfaction.
Just bone-deep exhaustion.
"Then tonight we celebrate this fragile accord and the decree that may yet save us. Elyndor will feast."
Finally.
Ashen nearly sagged with relief.
Food. Actual food. Thank the gods.
His father descended from the dais, and Ashen automatically fell into step behind him, maintaining the proper three paces of distance that protocol demanded.
But his mind was already elsewhere.
What's the kitchen making tonight? Roasted boar? That honey-glazed chicken thing? Oh man, if they have those butter rolls again—
"Ashen."
He snapped to attention.
His father had stopped and turned, looking at him with those tired, ancient eyes.
"Yes, Father?"
"You were paying attention?"
Uh.
"Yes, Father. The Wall. The crystals. The decree."
It wasn't technically a lie. He had been paying attention.
Sort of.
His father studied him for a long moment, and Ashen fought the urge to squirm like a kid caught stealing sweets.
Then, unexpectedly, the Supreme King's expression softened just slightly.
"Good. You'll need to understand these things."
Why? It's not like anyone's going to ask me about them.
But he just nodded. "I understand."
His father turned away, and Ashen followed.
As they walked through the massive doors leading out of the throne room, Ashen caught a glimpse of his reflection in one of the polished gold panels lining the wall.
Seventeen years old.
Brown hair that never quite stayed properly combed.
Green eyes that people said looked like his mother's—not that he remembered her.
Average height. Average build.
Painfully, aggressively average.
The great Prince of Elyndor, everyone, he thought with bitter humor. Destined for... standing around looking decorative.
Somewhere ahead, servants were already rushing to prepare the feast hall.
Ashen's stomach growled again.
At least there was that.
Food didn't care if you were important or not. Food didn't judge.
Small victories, he told himself.
Outside the windows, beyond the celebration being prepared, beyond the walls of the capital—
The night continued to breathe.
And in that darkness, something stirred.
Something that had already chosen him.
But Ashen didn't know that yet.
Right now, he was just thinking about dinner.