"Is it really that bad? This kingdom..."
Burn, observing the young king's deflated spirit, felt a flicker of interest—an unusual sensation for a man usually moved only by strategies of conquest. Yet, despite this curiosity, Burn wasn’t about to hand out favors freely.
“Compared to my dominion? Yes. But is it your fault? No,” Burn replied with uncharacteristic frankness.
“Compared to your empire? You mean, this kingdom, in comparison with others, is…?” Yvain’s eyes widened as he grappled with the implications of Burn’s words.
“I chose to conquer your kingdom first because, to me, it represents the greatest threat,” Burn confessed.
He then outlined his views on the kingdom’s assets: its robust infrastructure, its hardworking people, and its fertile lands. “Aside from its nobles, letting this kingdom fall into the hands of invaders would have been a greater loss than any other.”
“And much of that is thanks to—your parents. They really excelled during their tenure. And you, you’ve managed to carry on their legacy admirably,” Burn conceded.
If Yvain were older, with more experience, or even just better support—heck, even without those—if he had simply been older with a more solid reputation, he might have steered this kingdom with greater ease.
His youth was his only misfortune.
Burn’s words, while candid, carried a weight that seemed to acknowledge Yvain’s potential under different circumstances—a rare nod to what might have been from a man typically focused on the pragmatic realities of power.
“But that’s… mainly because of my master,” Yvain muttered, almost to himself.
“I suppose so,” Burn shrugged nonchalantly. “Thanks to her, you’ve managed to get this far. But let’s face it, there's only so much you can achieve with that approach.”
Yvain swallowed hard, lifting his gaze to meet Burn’s.
“Let’s take control of this land, boy. Even a king must conquer his own kingdom,” Burn said with a sly smirk. “I’ll lend you my support.”
To subdue the rebellious noble faction, nothing short of total war would suffice.
It felt akin to making a pact with the devil when the young king acquiesced to this approach.
Burn's proposal, dripping with seductive promise, seemed to sweetly corrupt the innocence of his heart. After all, in the harsh reality of their circumstances, this was a pragmatically ruthless strategy.
"I will allow your forces to pass through my gates," Yvain declared, a reluctant resolve hardening in his voice.
"You're right. I need to assert control over those noble houses," he continued, his expression darkening slightly at the mention of one in particular. "Especially... Velaryon."
***
That night, the capital of Edensor was swathed in a tempest as sullen as the king's summons. Clouds, as if smeared by a toddler with a gray crayon, blotted out the moon, unleashing a downpour that seemed to critique the very notion of shelter.
The wind howled through the streets like a chorus of disgruntled spirits, perhaps protesting the late-hour convening of the realm's nobility.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Among the summoned was Duke Velaryon, who navigated the deluge with the enthusiasm of a man walking towards his own surprise audit.
As lightning cast its accusatory flashes across the sky, it seemed to spotlight the Duke's carriage, a reluctant beacon in the storm's spiteful performance.
The king’s order had been clear: all vassals bearing a title from Viscount upwards were to attend, an edict that gathered the realm's glitterati under one roof to ponder their collective fate.
The Duke, cloaked not just in finery but in a palpable aura of dread, couldn’t help but admire the timing.
“Nothing like a dark and stormy night to discuss potentially dark and stormy politics,” he mused to himself, his sarcasm a weak shield against the chill of foreboding that the storm so generously provided.
At least he had his confidence.
At least the latest batch of war machines, sleek titans of combat sent from distant intergalactic merchants, had recently been tucked away into the fortified corners of his duchy, a secret that buoyed his spirits and stiffened his spine.
Duke Velaryon strode into the throne hall of Edensor.
As one of the highest-ranking nobles in the kingdom, he naturally attracted the gaze of his peers, their eyes alight with a mix of curiosity and caution.
They circled around him, their whispers painting the air with intrigue and speculation.
The Duke’s plan for the evening was precisely: to probe the depths of the relationship between Emperor Burn and King Yvain.
What kind of agreement did they have?
With each step towards the throne hall, the Duke rehearsed his approach.
As the heavy doors to the hall swung open, issuing a slow, resonant creak that seemed to echo the weight of the impending discussions, Duke Velaryon entered, his confidence a mask worn as much for himself as for the court awaiting him.
Huh?
King Yvain sat alone on the grand throne of Edensor, his small figure dwarfed by the ornate, looming seat that seemed more a monument to past glories than a fitting perch for such youthful royalty.
The vast hall, with its towering columns and shadowed alcoves, swallowed his presence, rendering him almost spectral in the dim light.
But…
Yvain was… alone?
Alongside Duke Velaryon, among the attendees, the most prominent figures stood out not just by their titles, but by their distinct dispositions and the power they wielded within the realm.
Marquis Reune, from the western border adjacent to Soulnaught, carried the air of a seasoned diplomat hardened by the proximity to a burgeoning empire—or, simply put, a man who knew how to flip sides at the speed of light.
His sharp eyes and meticulously groomed beard framed a face used to smiling in diplomacy while calculating odds of survival. His attire, a perfect blend of martial readiness and aristocratic elegance, hinted at his dual role as defender and statesman.
To his north, the aging Duke Eldric Olfield commanded respect through his venerable presence. His domain, a fertile expanse of agriculture and livestock, supplied the kingdom’s heartlands.
Duke Olfield, with his silver hair flowing like the rivers that nourished his lands, moved with a slow, deliberate grace that belied his strategic acumen, honed over decades of stewardship.
From the south, Duke Marlon Merweather represented the kingdom’s maritime strength. Middle-aged, robust, with a commanding aura sharpened by the sea winds, his territory's fleets were crucial for trade and defense.
His deep, resonant voice carried the roar of the ocean, and his eyes, blue as the deep waters, scanned the hall with an admiral’s vigilance.
Flanking these titans of the realm were their vassals and the kingdom’s direct vassals—each distinguished by their regalia but unified in the air of urgency that the king’s summons had sparked.
Yet none were as powerful as Duke Velaryon, the king's maternal uncle, who owned hundreds of precious stone mines and was the proprietor of the largest business and company in the entire kingdom. He also had significant stakes in both maritime and agricultural riches.
THUD.
Yvain’s scepter struck the floor, its’ sound resonating through the throne hall with a tone sharper than any sword.
"Welcome, my esteemed lords and ladies of Edensor," he began, his gaze sweeping over the assembly of nobles who had gathered.
"I must express my gratitude that you've all made the journey here in person. It seems that only by accepting Emperor Burn's offer could I ensure such a full attendance.”
Yvain sighed. The sight of their king waiting for them did not inspire these nobles to greet him first; instead, he had to initiate the pleasantries.
“Had it been merely my summons, I suspect I would have received a litany of creative excuses instead of your august presence. It's heartening to see where your loyalties truly lie when push comes to shove."
His smile was as thin as the veiled sarcasm in his words, highlighting the irony of their newfound respect for their young king.
"Aren’t you curious why your king is greeting you all alone in this hall?"