Jayson’s breath came fast and uneven. His fingers curled into fists as he forced himself to recover, to fight back—to hold onto something, anything.

"You can’t just decide when the law applies!" His voice cracked against the silence.

He swept an arm toward the knights in noble attire—figures standing at silent attention.

"Do you truly think you can get away with bringing knights into the city?"

He pushed forward, his voice rising, forced and fraying.

"This is the City of Education—a place under direct royal authority! You walk in here, flaunting your knights, trampling over the one place beyond your reach! You, with no regard for honor or tradition! You insult the crown. You spit on the laws that built this kingdom. You challenge the throne itself!"

He expected gasps, outrage—perhaps even a flicker of hesitation from the Count.

Instead, the man smiled.

The room tensed. The royal guards shifted, glancing toward the King, waiting—needing—a command. Any command. But the King said nothing and it was his silence that unnerved them.

The Count stepped forward, shifting the weight of the room with nothing but his presence.

"You wish to speak of honor and tradition?" His voice remained calm, but beneath it lurked something coiled and dangerous. It sent a chill down spines, made the hairs on the back of necks stand. His gaze swept the crowd, his contempt sharpening as he noted the sea of noble faces watching, waiting—some eager, some nervous, but all entertained.

This was the stage the prince had chosen to shame Ravina. But to what end? Satisfaction? What did he stand to gain from this public spectacle? His eyes flicked toward the so-called saint, shivering in the grip of his own men, upheld by the Royal Guard. They were waiting not for releaf, not for dismissal but for orders. With a single word, they would take over the hall, kings be damned.

What was she to him? That would allow him to threaten the relationship of the Pelta Dukedom amd the royal family? If she was a lover, she could simply be a mistress—it was common enough. Acceptable. Expected. But to name her queen? To gamble his future on the off chance that she might one day be a Saint?

Foolish. Reckless. Yet here he stood, wielding the pretense of honor and tradition like a shield, when he himself mocked both with every breath. The Count exhaled, slow and tired. Useless. Not worthy of his time.

It would only take a few words—words spoken here, on this stage, where every noble present would hear exactly why the Ravenshield Knights had been summoned to a city protected by the royal family. Where they had been forced to succeed where others had failed.

A duty he accomplished quickly just so he could be here, so he could just imagine what it would feel like had his own daughter was actually still alive. To pretend it was her who walk up on stage and for a moment, perhaps, just one moment, he could be…happy?

But no, he had not been happy for a long time.

His eyes returned to the prince, dark and hostile. He would have done the same, wouldn’t he? The only thing still binding his family to the crown was unyielding loyalty—and this was their reward?

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The Count’s lips curled into something cold.

"Shall I tell everyone here," he challenged, stepping past the prince and turning his gaze not to the prince, but to the king—his eyes gleaming with something deadly, "why my knights were involved in the first place?"

“You dare!” The prince began, but again he was interrupted.

"Enough." The King's voice cut through the hall, final and unwavering. A heavy sigh followed as he slowly rose to his feet, his face full of exhaustion.

Jayson turned sharply, his frustration boiling over. "Father—"

"Quiet, boy." The King’s tone was firm, but there was no anger—only the dull resignation of a man tired of repeating himself.

The Count looked at the king, his expression stern, unamused. "I assume," he said, "this was a surprise to you."

The Prince stiffened. "How dare you—"

The Count moved before the words had fully left his lips.

The wooden handle of his cane cracked against Jayson’s face with a sharp, resounding impact—not enough to draw blood, but enough to send him staggering to the side.

Gasps erupted across the hall.

Jayson caught himself, eyes wide with raw disbelief. The guards hesitated. They moved to assist the prince but it was the king's hand that was raised to stop them. They shifted uneasily, unsure, but they had only one master here. So they took a step back.

Jayson’s breath came ragged, his pride warring with the shock of what had just happened. His hand hovered over his cheek, as if unsure whether to touch the spot where he had been struck.

The Count did not spare him another glance, instead he pressured the king for an answer. “Well?”

The King’s words struck like a thunderclap.

"No. It would have never happened had I known."

Silence gripped the hall. He had spoken—clearly, decisively.

And in doing so, he had shattered the illusion.

The royal family was expected to be of one mind, a singular force that ruled with unity and purpose. They were not allowed to disagree—not in public, not before the kingdom. To the world, they were one voice, one thought, one will.

But in that single sentence, he had chosen division over harmony.

A public fracture.

A crack in the foundation of the throne itself.

Jayson stared at his father, stunned, unable to mask his disbelief. The queen’s fingers tightened over the fabric of her gown, her horror plain to see. The nobles gasped, their hushed murmurs swelling into an uncontrolled wave of whispers.

Even Ravina, standing in the eye of the storm, could only blink—because she, like everyone else, had never expected this.

Never expected the truth.

“Yet it did.” the count shook his head. “A lone boy, banishing a noble daughter, for what.” it was a demand, one that sent the prince shaking, still stunned by his father’s words.

The King turned his gaze toward his wife, his eyes searching.

“I have an idea,” he said slowly.

A flicker of fear flashed in the Queen’s eyes. Confirmation.

Perhaps He had always known, but ignored it.

In the end it did not matter, he had allowed it—had trusted her to raise their son. Breaking with tradition to allow a son to know his mother.

He regretted it. Regretted that his mercy had become negligence. That his wife had not raised their son—she had poisoned him.

“But the truth of it is,” he admitted, “I was soft.” That was all that mattered in the end, wasn't it? Allowing the life for his son that he wanted, and yet, there was a reason for his suffering.

He exhaled slowly, the resignation settling in his bones.

"I let my feelings overtake the duty of my rule. To raise a proper heir."

The words hung heavy in the hall, the King did not look like a ruler. He looked like a man defeated.

“So what happens now?” The king asked a Count.

Count Ravenshield could only shake his head. He knew the eyes of this man all too well, and had seen the familiar look in a mirror far too often. But his child was still alive, his wife was fine. They would suffer, sure but it was far too great a comfort for him to allow it to be forgiven. “Well, what can we do but accept the actions of a prince, ensuring his legacy as a fool.”

A cold, creeping dread slithered down Ravina’s spine.

What did he just say? She was cold, his words chilling her to the bone. Accept it? Just like that?

"Are you sure?" The King hesitated. His miserable eyes turned to Ravina for a moment before looking back at the man before him.

But the Count was not one to hesitate. Indeed he simply added. "It was something coming for a long time."

Ravina felt her chest hollow out. She should have expected this. She was a fake, on borrowed time. And yet—It was his indifference that crushed her.