"Aren’t you curious why your king is greeting you all alone in this hall?"

Yvain sat resolutely before his gathered nobles, his youthful visage belying the weight of his words.

Duke Eldric raised his voice, not even answering to Yvain’s greetings. "My, it seems Your Majesty's court is too indolent to grace us with their presence today. Your Majesty, you should—"

“Fire them?” Yvain cut off his words.

"Well, I did. I find myself alone today, not by accident but by choice," he began, his voice steady and imbued with a calm authority.

"I've dismissed those who dared to insult me and my decision. It seems I needed to make room for those truly loyal to Edensor—or at least curious enough to witness its fate firsthand."

Duke Eldric Olfield frowned.

Alongside him, the faces of the other high nobles soured as well—Duke Merweather, Marquis Reune, and even Duke Velaryon shared in the collective displeasure.

Yvain paused, surveying the room with a satisfied eye. "Let me share a little prophecy with you, a glimpse of what would have transpired had I not made the difficult decision to accept Emperor Burn’s offer."

Yvain's tone took on a biting sarcasm as he painted the hypothetical scenario.

"Our esteemed lord of the west," he nodded slightly towards Marquis Reune, "would not have hesitated for a second. They would’ve sprinted to join Emperor Burn, tripping over themselves in their eagerness to switch allegiances."

The room tensed, nobles shifting uncomfortably as Yvain’s gaze swept to Olfield and Merweather.

"Our friends in the north would have fled inland, seeking refuge in the heart of the continent, while our southern brethren would have taken to the seas, hoping to escape the reach of Emperor Burn’s iron grasp."

A wry smile played on Yvain's lips as he turned his attention to Duke Velaryon, who stood rigid and alert.

"And then, there’s Duke Velaryon. A valiant stand would be made, no doubt, swords drawn and banners flying high. But alas, when the dust settled, and the reality of defeat became apparent, your plea to manage Edensor under the flag of Soulnaught would surely follow."

The hall was filled with a charged silence, each noble absorbing the young king's words, their implications clear and cutting.

"Imagine that—each of you, playing your part in this grand drama as though you were mere characters in a play scripted by fate—or rather, by Burn."

The young king was just spoiling the written fate word for word, right from Burn’s own mouth.

Yvain’s tone softened slightly, but the underlying steel remained. "I chose to surrender not out of fear, but out of strategy. By aligning with Burn, I’ve secured a measure of control over our destiny, rather than leaving our fate to the chaos of war he is going to declare forward and the whims of turncoats."

He clasped his hands on his scepter. "So, yes, I sit here alone, because I will not surround myself with those who doubt or deride. From this moment forward, our course is one of cautious cooperation with Soulnaught, not blind submission."

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

“But.”

With a casual flick of his wrist, King Yvain summoned the ethereal equivalent of a high-tech surveillance system.

Magical images flickered into existence, hovering like ghostly screens. Each one offered a live feed of Soulnaught's army, ominously assembled near the domains of Edensor's elite families.

"There, as you can see," Yvain began, his voice dripping with a mixture of sarcasm and regal composure, "our friends from Soulnaught are enjoying a little camping trip just outside your estates."

The images shimmered with the precision of a well-directed documentary, showcasing rows of Soulnaught soldiers who seemed more equipped for a parade of power than a quiet picnic.

The troops were arrayed in perfect formations, a display of military might that was less 'welcome committee' and more 'invasion parade.'

"Marquis Reune," Yvain continued, nodding towards the western border's representative, "your neighbors have polished their armor just for you. How thoughtful, right?"

The scene shifted to the north, where Duke Eldric's lands lay. "And Duke Olfield, it seems the northern winds bring more than just cold air this season—perhaps a hint of steel and gunpowder as well."

Next, the southern coasts under Duke Merweather's stewardship came into view. "Duke Merweather, your shores are about to host more than just seagulls and ships. I hope your docks are ready for a different kind of tide."

Finally, the focus landed on Duke Velaryon’s territory. "And dear Duke Velaryon, it appears a siege might be part of your upcoming social calendar. I'd advise against planning any large banquets."

Yvain's tone held a sharp edge as he manipulated the magical displays, each swipe and tap punctuating his points. The nobles around him shifted uncomfortably, their expressions ranging from alarmed to downright terrified.

The nobles, accustomed to the comfort of their high stations, now found themselves grappling with the immediate reality of a military threat at their doorsteps. Worse, they were helplessly distant from their lands, wealth, and families, unable to defend them.

Their faces, a canvas of disbelief and fear, mirrored the sudden upheaval of their assumptions about their own security and power.

"Your Majesty! This is preposterous! Are you waging war against your own people?!" Duke Olfield bellowed, his voice echoing through the throne hall with a mix of outrage and disbelief.

"Are you truly allowing Soulnaught to parade their forces through our lands unchallenged? This is a disgrace!" Duke Merweather added, his tone sharp and accusatory, his gaze piercing Yvain with every word.

"And what of our sovereignty? Are we to bow and scrape while they march on our soil?" Marquis Reune chimed in, his words fuelled by a fiery indignation, filling the room with a crescendo of protest that rattled the ancient windows.

Together, their voices melded into a tumultuous uproar, a symphony of dissent that challenged Yvain's authority and questioned his strategy, resonating off the stone walls with the force of a brewing storm.

Yvain, seizing the moment of vulnerability, fixed his gaze on his vassals, his voice cutting through the tension with the precision of a well-honed blade.

"Let me be clear," he began, his tone laced with icy reminder, "a single command from ME could send Soulnaught's forces to dismantle everything you hold dear. Your lands, your titles, your very lives hang by the thread of MY goodwill."

The threat hung heavy in the air, a stark reminder of the young king's newfound resolve and the lethal edge of his authority. Sensing their wavering spirits, Yvain pressed on, his next words framing the ultimatum that would redefine their fealty.

"This kingdom," he declared, "will no longer be a playground for your personal ambitions or corrupted interpretations of 'good.' From this moment forward, your allegiance will be secured not just by oath but by magic—bound to the very essence of Edensor's stability, glory, and lawful order."

He raised his hand, and ethereal strands of light began weaving around the assembly, materializing into tangible symbols of the pact they were about to enter.

This magic was no mere theatrical flourish; it was a binding agreement, a pact that would enforce their loyalty not through fear alone but through the inescapable grip of enchanted compulsion.

"As your king, I demand your absolute submission," Yvain continued, his words resonating with the force of his magical and royal authority. "Refuse, and you face not just political ruin but the literal disintegration of all you command under this pact."

The nobles, faced with the dual threats of military annihilation and magical enforcement, found their options narrowing to one: compliance.

But in the middle of it all, Duke Velaryon suddenly grinned.

CRAAAAAAASH!