Cedric closed his eyes for a single, deliberate beat. The motion looked private, like a man folding paper in a room full of mirrors; even so, the pause felt loaded, a small theft of time in which decisions were weighed behind blind lids. Kazuo kept his gaze on the king, every muscle taut with the waiting, as if the next syllable might tilt the world.
When Cedric opened his eyes again, they were cool and steady.
"Very well," he said. "I will honor this request—on one condition."
He swept his hand slowly toward the throne where Elyria sat, then back to the arena as if indicating a path between them.
"This choice belongs to Lady Elyria alone. If she consents, I will pronounce the union and will not intervene. If she withholds her consent, the wish is null and void."
The decree landed like a stone dropped in a crowded pool. It reframed everything—made the spectacle suddenly private and intimate, a hush-thin rope between two people rather than a drama for tens of thousands. Kazuo's chest loosened and tightened at once; the relief of not having immediate condemnation was threaded with a fresh, sharper strain. He had not expected to bargain with the crown; he had expected theatre. Now reality required a softer, more dangerous courage.
"With this," Cedric announced, "I call the winners' ceremony closed."
The loudness of the crowd returned like an aftershock, uneven and wild. Aoi grabbed Kazuo's shoulder once, hard enough to bruise memory. As the crowd began to stream and mutter, he leaned close, face an inch from Kazuo's.
"I hope you know what you are doing," he said.
Then, without waiting for an answer, he stepped away.
Soldiers in trim mail moved forward with a practiced smoothness and took Kazuo by easy grips at the elbows. They did not shove; they shepherded. The formation opened to let them through and closed behind like a hinge. Setsuna descended from the captains' gallery before any of the formal escorts could reach the palace gate; his movement was a quiet decision, a silent vote of complicity. He fell into step at Kazuo's side. They walked without looking at each other, their shoulders not quite touching but close enough that if a weak moment came it would be a brace.
"Given your brain," Setsuna said finally, "you have a reason for this, don't you?"
Kazuo nodded once. The motion was small but definite. He did not speak; explanations in the open air would be for another time. Setsuna's eyes flicked to him and then away, as if reading the answer in the set of Kazuo's jaw rather than his mouth.
"It's to send a message to the king," Setsuna added after a breath. "Not just to him. To everyone who thinks crowns can tie people's tongues. To show there are things the Crown cannot own outright."
Kazuo's mouth did not move. He thought of Rei's laugh and Gramps' hands and the hollow alleys where black-eyed children traded stories for bread. He thought of the medallion warm against his skin and of the way Elyria had watched and studied him. "Yes," he said at last.
They were turning into the narrower way that led toward the palace, away from the sunlight and the clamour. The guards fell into a looser rhythm; courtiers and servants angled aside like reeds. At the base of the marble stairs, the escort halted just long enough for protocol to catch its breath.
Kazuo stopped, glancing once at Setsuna. The captain gave a faint nod and Kazuo moved on. The guards led him through the archway and into the shadowed corridors beyond. His footsteps faded against the polished stone until only the soft echo remained, swallowed by the vastness of the palace.
Setsuna stayed where he was. He didn't follow. He leaned one shoulder against a pillar, eyes narrowed toward the doorway long after Kazuo had vanished inside. The air smelled faintly of marble dust and spent magic.
A flicker of smoke preceded Idris. He sauntered up from the side path, cigarette balanced between two fingers, the casual gait of a man who had questions he wasn't sure he wanted answered.
"What the hell is this idiot doing?" he asked without greeting. "Does he really think he can gain power with this? That by marrying a princess he can step past birthright?"
Setsuna's gaze shifted from the archway to Idris and shook his head in that slow, unreadable way of his.
"No," he said. "Kazuo isn't naïve. He knows what titles mean, and he knows a name alone doesn't make a bloodline."
Setsuna's voice lowered, calm and precise, as if explaining a truth Idris should already know. "Only those born with royal eyes—can ever sit on that throne. He understands that. His goal isn't power, and it was never the crown he was after. Besides," he added, the faintest hint of certainty threading through his tone, "he knows this will not happen anyway."
Idris frowned, the ember of his cigarette burning down to a small red dot. "So it's a show?" He exhaled, the smoke curling between them. "I understand. It seems there's more to all of this than I can see." He straightened, flicked the ash to the ground, and gave a small nod. "Alright, Setsuna. I won't intervene any further."
Idris turned to go, then paused mid-step and looked back over his shoulder. "But if this threatens the peace here in the capital," he said, "I won't hesitate to stand against you." He let that hang a heartbeat, the look in his eyes thin and sinister. "Consider that a warning."
Setsuna didn't respond. He just stood in the courtyard, the wind tugging faintly at his hair, eyes still fixed on the palace gates as if the answer he needed lay somewhere inside.
Kazuo was taken to the upper halls of the palace—past the long corridors of gold-rimmed windows, through the antechamber guarded by silver-armored sentries, and finally to the chamber of Lady Elyria. There, the air smelled faintly of blue roses and cold marble. The guards left him at the threshold; beyond the carved doors waited the conversation that would decide whether his wish lived or died.
While he went to face her, King Cedric was already in the throne room.
The vast space, usually the calm heart of the palace, trembled beneath the weight of his fury.
Cedric stood before the great map desk, both hands braced against its polished surface. The intricate carvings of Yurelda's districts sprawled beneath his palms—streets, towers, the veins of a city he ruled with absolute precision. His head hung low for a moment, shoulders tight, breath measured only by force of will. Then, with a sudden twist of rage, his backhand slammed down across the desk. The silver orb—the centerpiece of the capital's map—shattered beneath the blow, fragments scattering across the marble like splintered stars.
The echo rang through the throne room. Shards rolled to the floor, the reflection of the king's face breaking with them. His once immaculate hair had loosened; a few strands fell forward, shadowing his eyes as he straightened. The composure of the ruler remained—but barely. Beneath it, fury burned clean and unrestrained.
"He played me like a fool," Cedric said. The words carried through the empty space like steel dragged over stone.
The High Priestess, standing at a cautious distance, flinched. Her hands twisted in her shawl, her voice small and trembling. "We can still… remove him quietly. No one would dare question your will—"
"Shut up." Cedric's command cracked like a whip.
His gaze cut to her—cold, poisonous, and alive with barely contained fury. The veins along his forehead and temples stood out, pulsing with each restrained heartbeat.
"You still don't understand, do you?" he said, voice low and dangerous. "He played my game. He followed every rule I set. I elevated him—made him a noble before all of Yurelda. His wish was valid. Entirely within the law."
He leaned forward slightly, the veins on his brow throbbing as if his anger itself strained against the flesh. "This wasn't rebellion—it was a message. He wanted me to see that even when I hold his leash, I must keep my guard raised."
The priestess hesitated, fear quivering through her jaw. "Then why not assassinate him, Your Majesty? End it before it festers—"
Cedric moved before she finished. He seized her by the throat, lifting her until her feet barely brushed the ground. Her breath came in ragged gasps; her eyes bulged with the realization of how close she stood to death.
"Do you think I'm a fool?" he hissed, his voice a low snarl that seemed to vibrate in the columns. "He beat me fair and square with that final gamble. You would have me murder a man whose hands are clean—whose victory I myself declared before thousands? The nobles would smell the blood behind the curtain, and chaos would follow. You would destroy what little order remains!"
He released her, and she fell to the marble floor, coughing, one trembling hand clutching her bruised neck.
"Get out," Cedric said, his tone cold as the ice of the northern lakes. "Call the High Council to the chamber below. Many nobles are restless because of that wish; they will need soothing, and discipline. And warn the high council—if anyone dares to suggest something as idiotic as you just did, I will remind them what obedience means."
The High Priestess fled, skirts whispering against stone.
He looked down at the shattered silver orb, lying where it had fallen. The reflection of his face in the metal was warped and cold.
Cedric turned away from the shattered orb, his reflection broken across its scattered fragments. The rage still pulsed beneath his skin, but his face had returned to its cold, deliberate calm. The hall was silent now—only the faint hum of magic lights and the echo of his own breath filled the space.
So be it, he thought. A deal is a deal, Kazuo. Even after all this, you are still mine. You will remain my pawn—the piece that moves, but never threatens the hand that commands it.
He exhaled slowly, the words forming like iron in his mind.
I will make certain of it, no matter how contradictory those eyes of yours may be. Enjoy this victory, Kazuo… because it will be your last one.
Cedric turned from the ruined desk and crossed the throne room with measured steps. The sound of his boots echoed in the vast silence. When he reached the dais, he lowered himself into the throne, the weight of the crown pressing heavier than it had in years.