The dust settled, an eerie calm pervaded.

The guard mechs and battle mech armors, those heralds of Velaryon's coup, lay scattered and smoldering, defeated not just by magic but by sheer tactical foresight.

Yvain Edensworn, the young king whose regal poise had once seemed more ceremonial than consequential, now hovered above the wreckage with the air of a maestro who had just conducted a symphony of destruction.

His gaze swept over the room, imperial and unyielding, and it was then that a dreadful realization dawned upon the gathered nobility.

Benjamin Velaryon, his face a mask of thwarted ambition, watched with a growing sense of unease. He had anticipated a legion of mechanized soldiers to swarm the hall at his behest, yet only a paltry few dozen had answered his call.

The discrepancy was glaring—a tactical blunder, or so it seemed.

Whispers began to circulate among the nobles, their shock giving way to a begrudging admiration. Yvain had not only repelled a formidable assault but had orchestrated a demonstration of power so precise, it bordered on prescient.

The absence of further reinforcements for the rebellion spoke volumes; the young king had anticipated the treachery and had neutralized it with minimal fanfare and maximal efficiency.

"Could it be that he planned this all along?" Marquis Reune muttered under his breath, his previous indignation melting into a mix of fear and respect.

Duke Merweather, whose loyalty had always been as fluid as the tides of his southern shores, couldn't help but cluck his tongue in appreciation.

"The boy baited a trap with himself as the lure," he observed, a smirk playing on his lips. "And we, like fools, worried about the puppet’s strings when the puppeteer was always in control."

“No. The moment he decided to fight back for the throne, he…”

Even Duke Olfield, often stoic and unflappable, found himself reluctantly impressed. "To think, the young pup had us dancing to his tune, and we were none the wiser," he conceded, his voice tinged with a rare note of humor.

As for Velaryon, the mastermind behind the failed coup, the realization that he had been outmaneuvered so completely by his youthful nephew was a bitter pill to swallow.

His plans, grandiose and meticulously laid, had crumbled not because of external forces but because of an underestimation of Yvain’s cunning and capability.

In the echoes of Yvain's magic and the smoldering remnants of mech armor, the nobles of Edensor saw not just a king who had survived an assault but one who had turned it into a declaration of his sovereignty.

Yvain’s calm demeanor, looking down upon them all, was not just a show of strength—it was a masterclass in royal strategy.

Even though he was alone…!

“No further reinforcements will heed your call, Velaryon. Not the armies from your house, nor from those of the other nobles. Not even the royal guards you thought you’d bought. Each one has been, or soon will be, neutralized,” Yvain declared.

He floated slightly higher, his gaze sweeping over the room with regal disdain.

“Here you stand, entirely alone, before a Mage, your king, and the disciple of the Infinite Witch. Did you really believe that mere nobles like yourself could ever hope to defeat me?”

As Yvain's words echoed through the grand throne room, a tangible wave of shock and fear washed over the assembly of nobles.

Their expressions froze, eyes wide with a blend of terror and disbelief.

Some leaned back as if the very air around the young king had become electric, their hands reflexively clutching at the rich fabrics of their garb, seeking comfort where there was none.

Murmurs swirled, hushed whispers of realization that the boy they had so vastly underestimated was not merely a token figurehead, but a formidable mage in his own right.

It was almost laughable, the drastic underestimation they had all committed. Here was a young king, who at the age of five had lost his parents and showed no extraordinary signs of magical talent. Who could have guessed?

By the age of seven, he was king, with just four years under the tutelage of the famed Infinite Witch before her mysterious demise.

Yet, now he stood, a mere teenager, effortlessly dismantling an arsenal of advanced mechs with the poise of a seasoned warlock.

Their bodies stiffened, a physical manifestation of the internal recalibration of their opinions regarding their king. Eyebrows arched high, lips parted slightly in astonishment, as they silently acknowledged the miracle before them.

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Not only had Yvain predicted this coup, but he had single-handedly neutralized the threat with a display of power that bordered on the divine.

"Was he always this powerful, or did we merely nap through his ascent?" one might wonder cynically, the sarcasm a thin veil over the unease that gripped them.

“Then maybe… his parents hid his real talent early on… when he was only five…!”

Each noble, previously so assured in their own power and influence, now found themselves grappling with a new reality: underestimating Yvain was not just a mistake; it was akin to ignoring a dragon slumbering beneath one's own floorboards.

COUGH! COUGH!

Duke Velaryon cleared his throat, a forced chuckle escaping him more as a nervous titter than the composed laughter he intended.

He smoothed the front of his richly embroidered doublet, a vain attempt to regain some semblance of control over the unfolding chaos.

"Oh, dear nephew... look at you! You've certainly grown," he began, his voice dripping with feigned affection.

"Uncle thought you were just a young boy, wrestling with the trials of youth while striving to be the king this land deserves. Such pressure for one so young, isn't it overwhelming?"

His smile twitched as he continued, "When I heard that you had so suddenly accepted Burn's proposal to surrender, I was utterly shocked! Surely, it must be your inexperience talking, and not a well-considered decision. To hand over control of your parents'—our—land to an outsider!"

Velaryon's laugh, meant to sound hearty, cracked under the strain. "I am merely trying to bring some sense into you, my beloved, silly nephew. This is all out of love, you must understand."

Around him, the room’s atmosphere tensed, nobles exchanging looks of disbelief at the duke’s brazen words. Velaryon’s hands spread wide, as if to embrace the young king, who stood resolutely unimpressed.

"I grieve every time I see you strain under the mantle of rulership. You're but a child. As an adult, it is my duty to lift this burden from your shoulders. You should be playing, enjoying your youth, not ensnared by the cares of the kingdom!"

"This, too, is what your parents would have wanted for their son, isn’t it? To not be burdened with the kingdom until it’s truly your time."

His words floated over the assembled nobles, who stood aghast at his audacity. The air was thick with unspoken accusations of betrayal and manipulation.

Yvain, for one, remained icily detached, his gaze cold as he measured the man before him.

Velaryon’s performance was a masterclass in emotional manipulation, his every gesture tailored to paint himself as a benevolent protector rather than the usurper he was.

Yet, his efforts seemed to unravel before Yvain's composure.

As Yvain's hand rose towards Velaryon, his voice was as cold as the swirling mists of mana that gathered around him. "Is that all? Then, I shall consider it your final words."

Velaryon's facade crumbled into raw panic as he blurted out, "Child, you naive little fool! How could you ally with the killer of your father?! Burn—it was he who murdered him!"

The accusation detonated in the throne room like a spell gone awry. A collective gasp rippled through the gathered nobles; the air thickened with shock and the sudden tension of a revelation too monstrous to comprehend.

Yvain flinched, the shadows cast by his swirling mana momentarily darkening his expression, which twisted into a mask of pain and disbelief.

The murmurs began almost immediately, the room abuzz with the horror of Velaryon's claim.

"I am, despite everything, still your family! Your uncle, the older brother of your dear mother! And yet, you choose him—a stranger, a villain who orchestrated the demise of your parents?!" Velaryon's voice broke, pitching higher in his desperation.

"Don't you see? Your father died on his return from Burn's coronation seven years ago! It was no coincidence—it was orchestrated!"

The shockwaves of Velaryon's accusation seemed to physically stagger the room. Noble after noble recoiled as if struck, their faces a canvas of betrayal and fear.

Marquis Reune, stepping forward, his voice trembled with outrage, "Can this be true? An act so vile—and now he’s trying to take our land…!"

Duke Merweather, his hands clenched into fists, added fiercely, "Such a conspiracy, if true, demands justice! Not this treachery!"

"And you," Duke Eldric's voice thundered, directed at Velaryon but loud enough for all to hear, "you dare use such a claim now, as a shield for your own rebellion? Shame on you if you lie!"

Yvain, amidst this storm of voices, remained a figure of torment and wrath, his mana fog now a tempest, reflecting the turmoil within.

Velaryon pressed on, his voice sharpening with urgency. "Think about it, Yvain! During his coronation, Burn singled out your father from all the other global dignitaries present. Why engage exclusively with him? It was a setup, meticulously veiled as diplomatic honor."

"Consider the possibility," he continued, his tone laced with a mix of accusation and bitterness, "was it sheer arrogance, or a calculated insult that he only truly acknowledged your father that night? And then, what a coincidence—only your father never made it home alive!"

The hall was charged with an electric mix of horror and indignation, the nobles' shock evolving into a frenzy of accusations and conspiracy theories.

“Fine! Child, you can hate me, you can punish me all you want! But how could you do this to yourself? To your late parents?! How could yo—”

BLAST!

The word was cut off as sharply as it had begun. A shocking, abrupt silence followed, broken only by a soft, confused utterance from Velaryon himself.

"Huh?"

The assembly watched in frozen horror as Velaryon slowly looked down, his eyes widening in disbelief.

There, right through his torso, was a hole so perfectly circular it seemed almost artistic, a ghastly window clear through his body. The edges were so clean, so precise, that for a moment, reality itself seemed to pause in confusion.

Then, as the gravity of the situation settled in, Velaryon's legs buckled beneath him. He collapsed to the ground, his body hitting the marble with a hollow thud, lifeless eyes staring up at the ornate ceiling.

The nobles gasped, stepping back instinctively as the reality of what had just occurred dawned on them—Velaryon was dead, struck down by an unseen, unfathomable force, leaving behind nothing but a stunned silence and a room full of shocked faces.

…before they realized… It was Yvain.