"Your Majesty, she is mute and can barely attempt speech. How can she guide the people as a queen?" one of the council members asked respectfully as he stood. Ten council members were present at the meeting.
Zavren sat silently at the head of the long table, unfazed. His fingers tapped an ink pen lightly against the polished wood. His gaze was calm, indifferent—bored, even.
"May I advise that a queen who can speak would be more appreciated? Not to mention, she could still remain by your side as a mistress, if you so desire," the man continued, his voice still low and respectful.
Zavren leaned back, a quiet, devilish grin curling on his lips.
"Any other suggestions? There's plenty of room for them," Zavren said coldly, his voice echoing through the chamber as he crossed his legs, clearly growing more intrigued by the second.
A brief silence fell before another man dared to speak.
"Her reputation is not as clean as we require. It was discovered that her husband died on the day of their wedding."
"Hmm. Isn't that interesting," Zavren interrupted with a chilling grin, causing heads to turn in alarm.
"Go on," he commanded.
The man—likely in his late thirties—nodded and continued nervously.
"Y-Your Majesty, it was also discovered that she is pregnant."
At that, Zavren's lips pulled into a slow, predatory smile—just for a moment. Then his expression returned to its usual unreadable calm.
"We do not know the child's father, as she has refused to tell. That is why we brought her here—for you to judge her accordingly. She is not capable of being the king's wife, or even a mistress, as she is cursed. It is confirmed the marriage was never consummated with her ex-husband, as he died beforehand."
Zethan's eyes glinted.
"At least you got this 'ex' correctly. Go on," he urged.
The man who now stood finally gathered the courage to speak again.
"No one knows who the father is. I suspect the reason for her pregnancy is because her side work may be as a wh—"
"Do you have proof?" Zavren interrupted sharply, his voice low and dangerous, slicing through the room like a knife through silk.
"Any documents about this so-called 'side work'?"
The man's face went pale. His body trembled.
"I… I… Your Majesty…"
Zavren tilted his head, his cold eyes piercing into the man.
"Is stammering part of the requirements to be a council elder?" he asked, voice thick with sarcasm.
He rose slowly and reached for a sword displayed nearby.
"How old is this blade?" he asked softly, running a finger across the edge to test its sharpness.
Eyes widened as the members were caught off-guard by the sudden question.
The man didn't respond—only trembled more.
"When I speak, you respond."
"I…i…" his mouth opened and closed yet no words came out.
Zavren's expression blanked as tension suffocated the room. The council members visibly sweated, their faces drained of color. But none trembled as much as the man who had insulted his queen.
"You have disrespected this kingdom by speaking such filth of my wife," Zavren said, his deep voice heavy with threat.
W…wife?
He began to pace the room, the blade now resting easily in his hand.
The chamber was large, lined with straight rows of chairs and desks where the councilors sat. Zavren stopped at the center.
His smile widened.
"The two who made these impeccable suggestions—step out."
His tone was low. Deadly.
The two men rose, their bodies shaking like chickens doused in hot water. What made it even more terrifying was the calmness in his tone.
"What's with the trembling? My decree isn't that terrifying. Or are you ill? There are many remedies—temporary and permanent." He twirled the sword with an elegant flourish, still smiling.
"I can make it stop."
One of the men swallowed hard, trembling all over.
"Y-Your Majesty… we apologize for our foolishness." He already knew his fate without further words.
Zavren chuckled, the sound echoing down the grand hall. It reverberated off the walls, making the already suffocating room feel even more deadly.
"Foolishness?" he repeated, voice low.
"What foolishness? Enlighten me."
His whisper was soft, but it carried like thunder.
The second man finally stepped forward. Both of them now stood just inches away from Zavren—in a gesture of respect… or desperation.
"Y…Your Majesty… w-we…"
SHHHHK.
The man's words died in his throat as his head was sliced clean off. Blood sprayed in a grotesque arc, splashing across the polished floor like a twisted painting. Gasps echoed around the room.
The severed head rolled and stopped at the feet of the remaining man, whose legs gave out beneath him. He collapsed, frozen in shock, eyes wide and glassy.
Zavren exhaled through his nose, disappointed. His eyes lazily stared at the head.
"Tch. I wanted an explanation," he muttered, examining the blade.
"But I suppose I also needed to test how sharp this sword truly is."
He raised the blade, crimson blood still dripping from its edge, and tilted his head slightly.
"It's not quite sharp enough yet. I feel a little more slicing… and sliving… could refine the edge. Don't you agree?"
He smiled coldly, eyes locking on the man below him—whose face was already pale and drenched in sweat, his mouth open in a silent scream.
The man nodded frantically, his head bobbing as he managed to sit up. He dropped to his knees, hands clasped together in a desperate plea.
"P-Please… I beg your pardon, Your Majesty…"
Zavren tilted his head slightly, his gaze darkening with amusement.
"Oh? And now you're betraying your partner in crime?" he said, stepping to the side.
His eyes drifted to the headless corpse sprawled across the marble floor. Blood had pooled around the body, the air thick with iron.
Zavren bent down and calmly picked up the severed head by its hair. He stood, then slowly moved—stopping just in front of the kneeling man, whose eyes stretched wide with shock and fear. Zavren pushed the head just inches from the man's face, forcing him to look.
"Too bad…" Zavren whispered.
"I can already tell he'll be thrilled to see you in the land of the dead. What a disappointment."
With a flick of his wrist, he flung the head aside. It hit the floor with a dull thud, rolling to rest in a corner. Zavren looked down at his blood-covered hand.
Without breaking eye contact, he slowly rubbed the blood onto the man's shirt—painting it across the fabric in long, deliberate strokes.
"You two are now blood brothers."
A suffocating silence took hold of the room.
Several council members stared in mute horror. Others dared not move, nor breathe too loudly. None could have predicted this outcome—least of all the two who had simply wanted to offer advice.
What had begun as a political suggestion had spiraled into carnage.
The man's lips trembled violently. His eyes were glassy, shocked—already traumatized. The reality of his fate sank deep, turning his blood to ice.
Zavren leaned in slightly, his voice a dangerous whisper.
"I smell fear…"
He inhaled softly, then exhaled with a satisfied grin.
"So soothing."
He brought the tip of his sword beneath the man's chin, lifting it gently, forcing their eyes to meet.
"Any last words? Farewell wishes?"
The man's pupils trembled, eyes blurry, saliva dripping down his mouth. It was like his organs had stopped functioning.
"A-Alpha Zavren…"
SHLING—
The sword sang through the air.
Thup.
His head flew clean off, landing with a dull thud and rolling across the marble floor. The eyes had already rolled back—lifeless, empty.
Blood sprayed once again, streaking across the pristine white columns and pooling at Zavren's feet.
Zavren stared at the blade, tilting it slightly as the crimson dripped from its edge once more. He chuckled—low and deadly.
"Tch. I feel so honored."
His voice echoed in the tense chamber.
"My name… was his final word. Isn't that thrilling?"
He grinned at the blood-stained steel like it was a cherished friend.
Then he slowly turned his gaze back to the room. The council members were pale, stiff, frozen in place.
Zavren raised the sword lazily and dragged its tip across the floor as he began to pace again.
"So… who's next?" he whispered, his voice silk over steel.
"I'm still open to suggestions."