Grubert Velaryon, barely more than an undisciplined boy cloaked in the mantle of lordship, found himself outmatched and overwhelmed.
With the battle mech armor cooling off like a tired racehorse, and the fortress of Velaryon lost its advantage, the stage was set for a spectacular fall.
Grubert, inexperienced and cunning in only the most superficial ways, suddenly became the center of everyone’s attention—not as a beacon of hope, but as a symbol of imminent defeat.
His father, Benjamin Velaryon, the late duke, had left a legacy that now teetered on the brink of disaster. Their trump card wasn’t just spent—it was a bust, a dud that fizzled out under the scrutinizing pressure of real threat.
As eyes turned his way, the weight of expectation and the sheer absurdity of his predicament fused into a paralyzing clarity.
With a shriek that could peel paint off walls, "AAAAAAAAH!" Grubert Velaryon turned tail. Fear and horror painted his face as he sprinted, legs pumping in a comical dash for obscurity, his retreat as dignified as a clown fleeing a pie fight.
In front of the overwhelming might of Emperor Burn, who could blame him? Under that tyrannical gaze, anyone would falter, and Grubert did spectacularly so.
The Velaryon army, left leaderless and demoralized, felt their resolve crumble like dry bread. Knees buckled, swords dropped with resounding clangs, and hearts sank to the soles of their boots.
The battlefield was not just lost; it was surrendered with a whimper, not a bang.
All they could do was raise white flags, their hands trembling, their spirits as broken as their line of defense. Surrender was not just an option; it was an unspoken plea for mercy in the merciless expanse of war.
Burn sighed with satisfaction as he eyed the battle mech armors.
“I didn’t scratch them this time. It will be a good gift for our silly boy, Yvain.”
***
[A couple of days later]
Chit-chat…
Buzz…
Ahhh, how resplendently restored the throne hall of Edensor was. Magic had mended the scars of recent conflicts, weaving stone and timber back into grandeur.
King Yvain, seated upon his throne, presided over the court with a newfound aura of command that silenced any whispers of doubt that once echoed beneath these vaulted ceilings.
The young king was in the midst of lauding a particularly enterprising young noble, tasked with the ignominious disposal of Duke Benjamin Velaryon’s body.
"And to Sir Reginald," Yvain announced, his voice laced with a mischievous timbre that resonated through the hall, "whose creativity in dispatching the late duke’s remains involved strapping them to a mill wheel.”
The nobles suddenly paled.
“As it turned, so did the duke make one final journey, albeit round and round—a fitting end for one who trafficked in circles of deceit! Hahahahaha!"
The court erupted in a mixture of gasps and wary giggles, the humor dark yet undeniably fitting given the late Duke Velaryon's notorious scheming.
Nonetheless, discomfort rippled through the crowd.
A duke as rich, powerful, and respected as Velaryon had been reduced to a mere disgrace, his remains further mocked as a laughingstock, leaving the nobles feeling uneasy.
Their king had demonstrated that he could become a tyrant if he chose to, and they realized they had made a grave mistake.
The nobles were now… vigilant.
Yvain's capabilities appeared too dangerous; they were cautious not to press the wrong button, tread on the wrong tile, or speak their minds freely.
Gone were the days when Yvain was merely seen as a young figurehead to be dismissed or belittled. Now, he commanded every room with the gravity of his presence and the sharpness of his wit.
Respect pervaded the atmosphere, a thick, tangible respect that draped over the shoulders of everyone present.
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But there was also fear.
Eyes that once rolled at his decrees now watched eagerly, attentive and expectant, ready to follow wherever their young king would lead.
“Ahem, Your Majesty…”
Duke Olfield suddenly raised his voice.
Yvain turned to the old man. Now that he had the control of the entirety of the high ranking nobles, the rest of the dukes and marquis were deciding to stay in the capital for a bit longer, joining the court.
“Let’s hear what our beloved Duke Olfield wants to say,” Yvain gave him the stage.
"Thank you, Your Majesty. Now that the rebellion has been quelled and normalcy has returned, why do you still allow the Soulnaught Army to reside within our walls? Forgive my forwardness, but could you please enlighten me?"
Seeing how the old duke had asked, and how many other nobles also had the same question in their minds, Yvain raised his eyebrows.
“What’s the problem?” Yvain asked.
"Your Majesty, your subjects—no, the people of your kingdom—are becoming more restless each day. They are wary of these... guests," Duke Olfield cautiously said.
“Is that so?” Yvain prodded.
“With all due respect, Your Majesty, speaking of Duke Velaryon—” Duke Merweather stopped his words when Yvain glanced at him. “Ahem, ahem…”
“What’s wrong with Duke Velaryon?” Yvain pushed further.
Marquis Reune decided to take a bold step forward and answered him. “His accusation toward His Majesty Emperor Burn before his death, Your Majesty—”
“Ooooh, that?” Yvain chuckled. “You believe that?”
"Let us be bold enough to ask, does Your Majesty truly believe that he was not responsible for His Late Majesty’s death? He accused him so adamantly, it might seem that Emperor Burn was indeed behind your father’s demise..." Duke Olfield began gallantly, but his voice softened considerably by the end.
"Didn't I explain that if Burn truly intended to kill my father—or anyone for that matter—he would have done it on the spot, at the coronation party?" Yvain began, his voice steady as he explained slowly in front of Duke Olfield.
He paused, turning to face the assembly with a deliberate gesture. "Such a cowardly method, allowing my father to leave for home and then covertly taking his life in a way that would suggest natural causes, is completely out of character for him."
His eyes narrowed slightly, emphasizing his conviction. "It's just not his style."
The court somewhat agreed.
"Even then, Burn has always been the type who prefers direct confrontation. He's someone capable of handling the consequences, after all. Admirable, isn't he?" Yvain asked, his tone jolly.
“But then, when hearing that there’s a possibility that Your Majesty’s late father was… murdered, we can’t stay idle!” Marquis Reune said.
“Your Majesty… the fact that it was the traitor, Duke Velaryon who said it, is suspicious…” Duke Merweather said.
"Your Majesty, regardless of the circumstances, we should have held a trial for his crimes to clear any suspicions. We ought to have compelled him to confess everything he has done and then broadcast the truth to the entire nation!" Duke Olfield exclaimed.
"Oh, so you were trying to pin the blame for everything in the past on that piece of meat in the mill wheel?" Yvain asked.
Silence.
Oh, so loud, the silence.
"Which is it? Are you trying to sow discord between me and Burn, or are you attempting to absolve yourself of any past suspicions and crimes by pinning them on our dearly departed Duke Velaryon?" Yvain asked again.
"Your Majesty… how could you—! Ugh!" Duke Olfield, attempting to refute Yvain's accusation, suddenly choked.
He gasped for air, clutching at his throat as the mark of the magic pact of complete submission began to glow ominously above his head.
As Duke Olfield struggled for breath, the other nobles watched in silent horror, their eyes wide with fear.
The glowing mark of the magic pact above his head served as a chilling reminder of their own vulnerability. The air thickened with tension as each noble felt the weight of the binding spell that shackled them all.
Whispers ceased and movements stilled; the only sounds were the soft rustlings of fabric as they involuntarily shrank back.
Eyes darted nervously among the assembly, reflecting a collective panic about the potential consequences of their own transgressions.
No one dared to speak, and the grim realization that they, too, were under the same uncompromising spell, rooted them to their spots—a tableau of dread, bound by unseen chains of magical obedience.
“My beloved court,” Yvain softly addressed, “Who killed my parents?”
Silence.
“Was it Burn?”
Silence.
“Was it Velaryon?”
Silence.
“Was it… any of you?”
GASP!
PANT!
GRIT!
Everyone understood.
Yvain was using the mystery of his parents’ death as a shackle. Now that he had their complete submissions, whoever he accused of the crime would be punished, just like Velaryon.
He chose to punish Velaryon immediately, without a trial, to obscure the truth, yet he was already aware of it.
Even if Velaryon had been his parents' killer, his death due to the crime of rebellion meant that the truth about the late king and queen's demise could not be fully uncovered.
Therefore, the identity of the official perpetrator behind his parents' deaths remained unresolved.
"Please provide me with concrete evidence," Yvain suddenly said. "Clear, irrefutable evidence that someone murdered my parents. Until then, this case will remain in my heart as a reminder..."
"...that I will never trust anyone."
A lone child.
Burdened by the weight of an entire nation.
A lone child, with no one’s support, standing in the middle of a snake field.
The nobles were silenced.
Yvain smiled coldly, resting his cheek against his hand on the throne's armrest.
Even if Velaryon had been responsible for his parents' deaths, such an act could not have been carried out without the knowledge of others.
Surely, someone within the court, someone among the ranks of the nobles, must have been aware and chosen to remain silent. Worse yet, they might have actively colluded with Velaryon, aiding him either before or after the fact.
Whether their involvement was to help cover up the deed or to ensure that everything unfolded according to their sinister plan, including his mother’s death, remained a possibility.
Compared to Emperor Burn…
Well, now Yvain thought that facing that man head on was easier for him than facing these old politicians.