A hush fell over the entirety of Ossibuz, and even the hardened battle-commanders were gripped by a quiet astonishment. They questioned why Matar had prolonged the strife, when a swift and decisive war might have settled the matter. Thus, the most senior Ossibian lords convened a council, with the most vital advisors in attendance.

“What madness is this?” demanded Fhajo, and though his words were sharp as a honed blade, he commanded respect in this land. He was the son of Sapar and Matar’s half-brother by their shared father. Whispers claimed that Fhajo was more worthy to sit upon the Ossibian throne, and had it not been for Sapar’s decree, the Ossibians might well have chosen him as their king. Sapar’s reign had been steeped in brutal violence.

In truth, Fhajo was the king’s illegitimate son, born of the same father as Matar, making them kin by blood. Only Matar’s mother had been truly acknowledged as the king’s consort, and thus, the lineage of rule had passed solely through her. Yet, a portion of influence had been granted to Fhajo’s mother, securing his voice within the palace halls.

“Has the son of a king, once so steeped in savagery, become a coward?” spoke an ancient voice from among the council, a man whose years weighed heavily upon him. “I cannot believe such a thing!”

“The Ossibians are no lineage of cowards, so why did you refuse the challenge of the King of Thallerion?” railed Adamoth. He was a notorious warrior, whose blade had claimed countless lives. He had not yet risen to the rank of commander due to his volatile temper.

“Silence, Adamoth! Who do you imagine yourself to be, to address your betters in this council? You are but a celebrated warrior, yet I daresay, you are but an ordinary man.” This retort came from a man clad in fine robes, the steward of Ossibuz’s accumulated riches. He was Thuweruz, a man of endless chatter, unable to hold his tongue.

“What if I were to force-feed you my great weapon, that you might see I am no ordinary man!” Adamoth retorted with fury. Yet, the other merely scoffed in amusement.

“Cease your bickering, both of you!” commanded Laniro, Matar’s trusted aide and confidant. Beside him stood the young warrior Gallexe, the king’s personal guard.

As the summoned dignitaries assembled, Matar remained aloof, gazing out from a lofty window. His throne sat empty, for he was engrossed in watching the flight of ravens, hearing only the distant murmurs from the council table. As he watched, he cradled his beloved raven, named Corvys.

Matar sensed the growing impatience of the council, eager for him to begin the proceedings and explain his sudden refusal of war against Thallerion.

It was Fhajo who had called this assembly, deeply displeased by Matar’s actions, which they perceived as an act of cowardice. Yet, in truth, Fhajo secretly yearned for the war to proceed, for if Matar were to fall, he would ascend to the throne of the Ossibians. Thus, he sought to impress all present with his resolve. But Matar, discerning Fhajo’s true intentions, showed no interest in the ongoing deliberations.

Only Laniro was privy to Matar’s complete strategy. Before Matar had halted all proceedings, they had spoken at length of his designs. Laniro, therefore, understood the true reason behind his king’s actions.

“My king Matar,” Laniro called out. “It is time for the council to begin.”

Matar first released his raven, Corvys, sending it soaring into the sky. Only then did he approach his throne. As he neared, all present rose in deferential respect to their king. He seated himself in silence.

“Be seated.”

“I am pleased that you are all here,” Fhajo began.

“You have heeded my summons regarding the grievous truth that has shaken us all.” He swept his gaze boldly across the faces of those assembled. “That the King of the Ossibians… has shown cowardice against Thallerion!”

“That is indeed unreasonable,” murmured some of the council.

“I was born in Ossibuz, yet never once did I shy from a war in those days,” declared Sapar, his brow furrowed as if ploughed by a thousand worries. “You are a coward!” Sapar raised his machete, pointing it at the king in his fury, as ash from his tobacco showered upon the table.

“His father was brave, so why did he not inherit his father’s courage—could it be?”

“If this is the manner of our rule, we are surely headed for inescapable doom,” spoke another. Fhajo inwardly rejoiced, sensing that the hearts of the vital chieftains were turning against Matar.

“That is precisely the point of this council,” Fhajo continued, his voice rising. “Because of his actions, other nations will deem us weak, quick to retreat!” He breathed out with disgust. “Matar has presented a terrible image before the King of Thallerion!” The king Matar remained silent, even as Fhajo hurled insults at him.

“Honored lords of Ossibian, allow me to speak, as the king’s right hand…” Laniro addressed them. “The discourse I hear from you is deafening, for you have been too hasty in your judgments. Why do you not first question the king, who sits before you?”

“That coward!” Fhajo spat, doubling down on his insult.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep