The grand marble chamber of the Aropian senate buzzed with tension, rippling beneath the formal postures and stony faces of its members. They had been hastily summoned from across the realm by Lucius Antony, the senate leader himself, to address an unexpected and pressing crisis.
Ren Canahy, a name that was a whisper even in the south where he was based , had somehow risen to command a formidable armed force now thundering toward the capital.
What made matters worse—and what froze the hearts of every senator in the room—was the figure marching beside him: Princess Hazel, presumed dead, who was very much alive and returning to the heart of Aropia.
The shock was palpable. Until this moment, the senate believed it held the full grip of power. Antony’s assassination plot had been swift and ruthless, orchestrated to eliminate the royal family and clear the way for the senate’s rule.
Yet now, the only member of that family who could lay a claim to the throne had returned, bearing a claim far more dangerous: the trust of the people and a legion that stood with her.
The senators cast glances at one another, each expression mirroring the other’s unease. How could they have not known? How had the king concealed such a powerful faction under their noses? And why hadn’t any whispers or rumors reached them sooner?
The enigma of Ren Canahy’s sudden rise baffled them further, adding another layer of dread to the dilemma.
Yet, the problem extended far beyond the secrecy of Ren Canahy’s forces or Hazel’s unexpected survival. The senate faced a more pressing threat: they had publicly declared the entire royal family dead.
The nation had mourned in unified grief; the senate’s transition to power had been justified on the grounds of preserving stability in the wake of a tragic loss. To admit now that Princess Hazel was alive, returning with a force to reclaim her birthright, would ignite fury in every Aropian heart.
For the people, fiercely loyal to the royal bloodline, would demand to know why they had been lied to. Worse, the senate could already foresee the swelling tide of support that would rush to the princess’s side. Thousands would pour from the villages and towns, united by loyalty and anger, to rally behind her. The populace's faith in the senate would crumble, and Antony could already sense that would follow swiftly.
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So here they were, the members of the Aropian senate, staring at a paradox with no easy solution. If they did nothing, Ren and Hazel would reach the capital with a force strong enough to ignite civil war. But if they attempted to oppose or subdue them, they would risk turning the people entirely against them, setting off the very revolt they feared.
As Antony ascended the stairs leading to the senate chamber, his wife trailed close behind, her gaze filled with worry, her voice a trembling plea. “Antony, we should leave while we have the chance. If the princess comes... I fear for what may happen to you.” Her voice was nearly a whisper, as if the stone walls themselves might be listening.
Antony’s jaw tightened. She wasn’t wrong, but her fear grated against his pride. He placed a hand on her cheek, a hard tenderness in his eyes. “Men like me will always have something bad coming for us,” he said, his voice low. He kissed her forehead, the act brief and final. Turning to the eldest maid, he ordered, “Take her straight home. No visitors.”
The maids pulled his wife away, her protests fading as the distance grew. Antony watched her go for only a moment. Duty—power—waited ahead, and he would not face it with weakness in his heart.
A different throng soon surged around him: senators, anxious and pale, their whispers tense and desperate. They matched his stride, their voices a mix of hurried questions and panicked appeals.
“Is it true?” one senator burst out, his voice trembling.
Antony slowed, fixing him with a steely glare. “Yes.”
The ripple of confirmation sent a visible shudder through the group, and another senator, a wiry man with darting eyes, hurried to place himself in Antony’s path. “Lucius Antony, we must make peace with the princess before we lose the people’s support. If she reaches the capital—”
“Get out of my path.” Antony’s voice was a quiet menace, laced with cold disdain. “Look at you all—terrified of a little girl.”
The senator stepped back, silenced, and Antony resumed his stride, leaving the murmuring crowd in his wake. Ahead, the heavy double doors of the senate chamber swung open slowly, creaking as if under the weight of the tension that hung over the city itself.
He entered the senate room, his footsteps echoing in the cavernous space. The chamber was vast, an oval expanse designed to hold the voices of power, its walls lined with tiered seats that climbed toward a domed ceiling painted in royal blue and emblazoned with the emblems of Aropia. Yet today, it felt more like a cage, enclosing the unease that settled heavily over every senator who dared meet his gaze.