The corridors of the royal palace stretched before King Sullivan. He absentmindedly stared at the golden glow that was illuminated by the torches that lined the walls while walking.

His attendants walked briskly at his side. Behind him, ever watchful, strode his Knight Roderic.

Today, Sullivan’s destination was neither his throne room nor his private chambers. Not even his beloved garden, the one place where he could steal moments of peace, away from judgemental eyes and untouched by politics and the burdens of rule.

No, his steps carried him toward the council chambers—a place he had deliberately avoided for years.

He had lost track of time again. The scent of blooming roses, the rustle of leaves, the fleeting illusion that he was simply a man rather than a king had lulled him into lingering longer than he should have in the garden. But reality had called him back, as it always did. Though, he was still late today.

The matters being discussed were important enough for him to break his three-year absence from these meetings. It had been because he had gotten fed up with the same topics—power struggles, territorial concerns, and the ever-looming question of stability. But today, something else was there.

And as he reached the grand doors of the chamber, an attendant moved swiftly, pulling them open with a deep bow.

Sullivan halted and turned to his Knight. “Walk with me inside.”

Roderic gave a slight nod before hesitating. “Your Majesty, the nobles may find my presence… unsettling.”

Sullivan smirked, the corner of his lips curling with amusement. “Oh, I have no doubt they will. But you are here for my protection. Those old nobles have spent years waiting for me to falter, eager to carve out more pieces of the kingdom for themselves. Who’s to say one of them hasn’t brought a dagger for me today?”

Roderic didn’t question it further. He simply nodded and fell into step beside his king as they crossed the threshold.

The moment they entered, the chamber fell into stunned silence. Parchments were lowered, whispered conversations ceased, and every noble and minister in the room hurriedly scrambled to their feet. They were shocked and uneasy before they dipped into deep bows.

King Sullivan chuckled, the sound rich with amusement. “Judging by your faces, I suppose you all thought I wouldn’t attend this meeting either.”

The nobles and ministers exchanged glances, clearly unsure of how to respond. Finally, one of them stepped forward—a man of middle age, draped in fine robes. Count Pious, a seasoned politician and the Minister of Trade, cleared his throat before speaking.

“We were merely preparing for the discussion before your arrival, Your Majesty. After all, we had been informed about it.”

“Sure, you were.” Sullivan gave a slow nod, letting the matter drop. He moved to his seat at the head of the long oak table and settled in. “The matter at hand was important enough for me to be here today.”

With that, the nobles finally allowed themselves to relax, if only slightly. They followed the king, taking their seats, though the tension in their shoulders remained. Roderic remained standing beside the king, hands resting lightly on the pommel of his sword.

Sullivan exhaled, gaze sweeping over the assembled men. “Why don’t we start the discussion, then?”

Lord Belmont who sat a few paces away, and was handling the Ministry of Internal affairs gave a slight nod and picked up a parchment. “Yes, Your Majesty. We were just about to discuss the plague that has overtaken seventy percent of Vardenfall’s territory and how we are at risk of—”

Sullivan raised a hand, silencing him with a single motion. “Let’s discuss that later.” His tone was firm, brooking no argument. “I’m here for something else. The fief war.”

At his words, the chamber seemed to grow colder. Expressions shifted, postures stiffened.

Sullivan leaned back slightly, his gaze sharp as he surveyed them. “I’m certain all of you know the results.”

No one spoke, but their expressions spoke volumes. Their unease was palpable, but more than that—none of them had truly processed what had happened.

“Until now, you hadn’t been able to accept it, have you?” Sullivan added, his words cutting through the air like a blade.

Count Pious, the first to speak earlier, cleared his throat. “Your Majesty, we had intended to discuss the matter at the end of the meeting due to its… complexity.”

Sullivan raised an eyebrow, his smirk returning. “If it’s so complex, then we should address it first and get it over with.” He gestured with a flick of his fingers. “Why don’t you explain to everyone exactly what happened?”

Count Pious hesitated, but after a brief moment, he nodded, steeling himself.

“As you know, Your Majesty,” he began, “Duke Lucian Kellius accused his brother, Count Arzan Kellius, of using dark forces to bolster his power. It happened after the whole village of Baron Idrin was massacred accusedly by Count Arzan due to a land conflict they were having, and in retaliation, Duke Lucian called for a fief war, claiming vengeance for Baron Idrin. Majority of the noble houses in the Sylvan enclave came to his support.”

The nobles exchanged glances, some nodding along, others looking grim.

“What followed was…” Pious hesitated, pressing his lips together before continuing, “unexpected. From the reports gathered, Count Arzan won a series of victories, systematically dismantling his opponents. One after another, noble houses in the Sylvan Enclave fell before him and he captured them. And ultimately… he emerged as the undisputed victor of the fief war.”

A heavy silence followed.

King Sullivan watched the noble’s faces shift from discomfort to reluctant acknowledgment. They were still grappling with what this meant.

“And,” he mused, “none of you expected that outcome, did you?”

Silence remained, but Sullivan already knew the answer.

Because neither had he.

Count Pious faltered for the briefest of moments, his composure slipping just enough for the other nobles to notice. He hesitated but ultimately continued, voice steady.

“Even if Count Arzan won the war, it has been confirmed that Duke Lucian Kellius is dead. We have already received word of a funeral being held in his name, and as it stands, all of Duke Lucian’s former territory is now under Count Arzan’s control.”

He paused. “Your Majesty, we have not seen a fief war this bloody in decades. And since one of the key parties involved is now deceased, we cannot hold a royal arbitration. We require your judgment on the appropriate punishment for Count Arzan.”

Sullivan tilted his head. “Punishment? Why?”

At once, all eyes turned toward Count Pious, waiting for his answer. The tension in the room thickened, but the count did not waver beneath the scrutiny.

“As you know, Your Majesty,” Pious pressed on, “Duke Lucian was killed by his own brother. Even in a fief war, noble conduct dictates that one should capture their opponent, not execute them outright. We are all part of the same kingdom. That makes Count Arzan both a kin slayer and a criminal.”

A murmur of agreement swept through a handful of nobles, emboldened by Pious’ words. More voices joined in, but before the discussion could spiral, Sullivan raised a single hand.

The chamber fell into silence.

His gaze lingered on Count Pious before he finally spoke. “When you explained the details of the fief war earlier, you mentioned that Count Arzan captured the nobles who stood against him. There are no reports of him executing them, correct?”

Pious hesitated. “No, Your Majesty.”

Sullivan leaned forward slightly. “Then tell me, how can we be so certain that Arzan killed his brother? If he had the restraint to capture the others, why would he kill only Lucian? Given everything he has accomplished, he is clearly well-versed in the law and understands the expectations of nobility. I find it highly suspicious that you are so eager to brand him a criminal without a proper investigation.”

That made some nobles shift in their seats uncomfortably.

Lord Gaius, a noble from the eastern territories, finally spoke up. “But couldn’t it be because of rivalry? By all accounts, Duke Lucian and Count Arzan were not close. None of the Kellius brothers seemed to get along, and Duke Lucian was the strongest voice opposing Count Arzan. It stands to reason that he would have wanted him dead.”

Sullivan exhaled, fingers tapping lightly against the table. “That could be the case,” he admitted. “But I am inclined to give Count Arzan the benefit of the doubt.”

Count Pious frowned. “Why is that, Your Majesty?”

Sullivan smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Because Count Arzan has been one of the most promising individuals to emerge in the last year. Heat stones, the blocking of a beast wave, mana cannons—there are even whispers that his Knights have the capabilities of Mages. He has proven time and time again that he is an asset to this kingdom, not a liability.”

The chamber was silent, the nobles absorbing his words.

“More importantly,” Sullivan continued, his voice dropping slightly, “this fief war is far more complex than it appears at first glance.”

He let that statement linger before turning his piercing gaze back to Pious.

“I am certain you have received reports of strange creatures known as blood drinkers appearing during the fief war. They were fighting against Arzan’s forces, were they not?” He leaned back, tone almost amused. “At least, that is what my reports tell me. So tell me, Count Pious—why did you conveniently leave out that little detail in your earlier statement?”

The count paled.

He opened his mouth, then closed it. His lips pressed together as if struggling to find the right words. He did this once. Twice. The silence stretched uncomfortably, and King Sullivan, watching him closely, internally smirked.

Of course, he thought. You don’t want to say it outright, do you?

The count was part of the first prince’s alliance. Admitting that Duke Lucian—one of their own—had possibly collaborated with dark creatures would taint their faction’s image beyond repair. It was a delicate situation. Too delicate.

Finally, Pious spoke once the silence stretched too far. “Because, Your Majesty, there is a higher chance that these so-called sightings are merely rumors. After all, how do we even know that these creatures were truly present? Would it not be reckless to base accusations on unverified claims? We should investigate further before branding anyone.”

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Sullivan’s smile was apparent, knowing he got him right where he wanted to. “Exactly. Just as we need to investigate the existence of these blood drinkers, we must also look deeper into the entire fief war—gather testimonies, weigh the facts—before deciding on any course of action.”

He let his gaze rake around the room. “Moreover, I’m sure all of you are well aware of the kingdom’s laws regarding fief wars, particularly when one of the involved lords is slain.”

A few nobles nodded, though some seemed hesitant.

Fief wars had been common in the kingdom’s history, and laws were established to handle their outcomes. The most frequently used method has always been royal arbitration. The king would summon both lords, hear their arguments, and decide the resolution—often before bloodshed escalated too far. It was the fastest and most effective way to settle disputes.

But that option is no longer available. Because Duke Lucian was dead.

Without both parties present, royal arbitration is impossible. That left them with two choices. The first—punish Count Arzan immediately and brand him a criminal from the start. Or to give him a chance to speak for himself in the Assembly of Judgment.

King Sullivan closed his eyes for a while, thinking.

“So I believe we will be going for the Assembly of Judgment?”

The chamber stilled. A few sharp intakes of breath echoed through the hall. The murmurs from before turned to hushed, urgent whispers.

Finally, Minister Percival, in charge of public order raised his query. “Your Majesty, the Assembly of Judgment has not been called for centuries. Are you certain—?”

Another noble quickly added, “It would take too long. Gathering every noble of the kingdom to weigh in on a single count? Surely, Your Majesty, that is excessive.”

Sullivan’s expression did not change. “Time is irrelevant in matters of justice. We will allow Count Arzan the opportunity to defend himself, present his case, and provide testimonies. In turn, every noble of the kingdom will decide his fate.”

Count Pious frowned. “But Your Majesty, the resources—calling every noble to the capital for one man—”

Sullivan cut him off with a wave of his hand. “It does not matter. Not until we uncover the full truth and reach a solution.”

He clutched his hands in front of him and looked around. They all looked like they could be raising a thousand questions—but he just asked one thing: “Does anyone object?”

Silence.

None dared to speak.

“Then send the royal heralds. Make it quick. The matter will stay at hold until the Assembly.” And then he stood up to leave.

Before he could take a step, Count Pious’s voice cut through the air. “But your majesty, what about the other matters? The plague? The resources needed to deal with it—”

Sullivan turned slowly, his eyes narrowing, his voice a low drawl. “You are all capable enough to begin the meeting without me,” he said, “So you are more than capable of dealing with a plague on your own. If not,” he added, a flicker of a smile barely curving his lips, “send one of my sons. They’re just itching to get more merits, after all.”

Suddenly, everything fell into an extremely awkward silence, the weight of his words lingering longer than necessary. He could feel their eyes on him, could hear the faint rustling of robes and shifting weight as the nobles shifted uncomfortably. But he didn’t wait for them to respond.

Without a glance back, he turned and made his way toward the door, the soft tap of his boots echoing in the quiet hall. His Knight fell into step behind him, a quiet presence in the midst of the bustling attendants that trailed behind, their footsteps a background hum to his thoughts. As they walked, the cool air of the corridor brushed against his face, but it did little to ease the heat building in his chest.

His mind raced, fatigue pulling at him with each step, the meeting was too much. The longer he had sat there, the more suffocating it felt—like he was drowning in the sea of their expectations, their demands, their false respect. They didn’t care about the kingdom. They only cared about their own agendas.

Sullivan’s brows furrowed as his steps slowed, a fleeting sense of helplessness creeping in. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think straight after all that pressure. He could hear the murmur of voices behind him, the attendants’ whispers, but they were all just noise—white noise that only added to the growing hum in his mind.

Gods, I need a moment away from this. From them.

But there was no moment. Not for him. Not anymore.

He clenched his jaw, moving faster now, his eyes fixed ahead, trying to push away the overwhelming exhaustion creeping into his bones. The corridor stretched out before him, yet it felt like it was closing in, like the walls were pressing down with the weight of the kingdom itself.

As he neared the end of the hallway, he couldn’t shake the feeling that it wasn’t just the room that was suffocating him. It was the crown, the throne, the weight of everything pressing down on his chest. But he had no choice but to carry it.

“Your Majesty?” Roderic’s voice broke through his thoughts. Sullivan didn’t answer immediately, merely continuing forward, lost in the rhythm of his own footsteps.

And his thoughts ran back to what he left behind. The nobles, those faces so familiar, no longer felt like his allies. They were not the ministers or subjects he had worked with for years. Instead, they were distant figures, staring at him with a quiet resentment, as though enduring his presence rather than respecting his authority.

When you are at the end, he mused bitterly, people just want you gone. They want the throne without the burden of the crown.

His thoughts darkened, his shoulders heavy with the weight of a kingdom that no longer felt like his own. And none of my sons are capable enough. They aren’t. The thought gnawed at him, the truth sinking deeper as he walked, but there was nothing to be done.

Just as the thought threatened to consume him, Sullivan caught sight of a figure emerging from the corner of the corridor. His pace faltered, his steps slowed as the silhouette of a woman appeared. His breath hitched.

Regina.

Her pale skin seemed to shimmer in the dim light, her white hair flowing around her. Her piercing blue eyes locked onto his, unblinking. Though her appearance had withered with age, there was a sharpness to her presence that made it impossible to ignore. The aura she exuded pulled every gaze in the hallway toward her.

She walked slowly, her long woolen coat trailing behind her, the dark fabric sweeping against the stone floor. A small entourage of maids followed in her wake.

As Regina drew closer, Sullivan felt a sudden chill that had nothing to do with the draft of the corridor. Their eyes locked, and time seemed to freeze between them. He could feel the tension in his muscles as he fought to remain impassive.

“Have you lost your way?” Sullivan said as irritation twisted his features. “You aren’t allowed to come to this part of the castle.”

Regina’s lips curled into a cold smile. He could read amusement all over her features. “Oh dear,” she said “You are barring your wife from entering a castle that’s ours?”

Sullivan’s jaw tightened. The last thing he wanted was a confrontation, but there was no mistaking the challenge in her gaze.

“It’s not yours. And you ceased being my wife in anything but name long ago.” His gaze was cold, betraying no hint of the hurt that had once been buried beneath his resentment.

Regina narrowed her eyes for a brief moment— and then she slowly shook her head. “Why so much hate?” she asked, her voice soft but laced with a condescension that made Sullivan’s blood boil.

He didn’t hesitate, the words tumbling out. “You killed my wives. My sister lost her life. My brother hung himself.”

“I don’t think anything like that was my fault. One of your wives fell down the stairs and another drowned due to a beast suddenly appearing in the castle lake. Your sister lost her life because she married the wrong man, a psychopath who tortured her to death. Your brother was too incompetent and lost his whole territory in a beast wave. He chose to end his life. I wasn’t at fault.”

Sullivan’s chest tightened with fury, his grip on his emotions barely contained. “Keep saying that to yourself,” he muttered under his breath, turning away. But before he could walk off, something in Regina’s presence anchored him. He paused.

“I know you were behind the fief war.”

Regina’s eyes flashed, but she bit back whatever words had come to her lips. Sullivan didn’t give her the chance to respond. “I sent my men to stop it. They were killed before they even reached the Sylvan Enclave. But you lost. Your pawn lost his life. And no matter how much your nobles try to pressure me into punishing Arzan, I will make sure he gets to face a fair trial. And I have a feeling… he might be able to succeed in it too.”

Her composure faltered, a slight twitch at the corner of her lips betraying a moment of unease. Her icy demeanor cracked for the briefest second before she quickly smoothed it over, a frustrated sigh escaping her. “You are insufferable.”

She took a step back, as though ready to walk away, but Sullivan’s voice stopped her. “I know you’re worried.” He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as he leveled his gaze on her. “The man might get enough reputation and a good name to stand against you. You hated what I gifted Valkyrie, but now, looking at you, I feel like that was the best thing I did as king.”

Regina turned sharply. “If you’re planning something with that Arzan,” she said, “Know that he needs to be alive for any of your plans.”

With a final, lingering glance, she turned on her heel and walked away, her entourage following in her wake. Sullivan stood motionless.

As she disappeared from view, a wave of emotions rushed through him—regret, anger, frustration—but he pushed them aside, focusing on the task at hand. He turned to Roderic, who had remained quietly observing the exchange.

“Send a personal letter to Arzan. I might not be a good king anymore, but I won’t let my kingdom fall to her.”

***

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