The king's perseverance was no secret. He had once gone nearly five days without sleep to preserve the kingdom's stability. And tonight, he hadn't stopped either. Behind the closed doors of a secret council chamber, the high officials of the palace had gathered. Their faces bore the same question—why had the king summoned them at such a late hour?
The room buzzed with nervous whispers and endless speculation. Only one man stood unaffected: Davian, standing tall at the right side of the vacant throne, his sharp, calm gaze fixed forward, as if he already knew what was about to unfold.
Moments later, a guard entered, silencing the tension with a single firm announcement:
"Stand. His Majesty is about to enter."
Everyone rose. Silence swallowed the room as King Balderick VII stepped in. His long robe swept across the marble floor, and every footstep seemed to carry weight—measured, deliberate. He offered no greetings, no pleasantries. Taking his seat at the head of the chamber, he began the meeting with a deep voice that shattered the stillness:
"Arion will soon be named Crown Prince of Aetherlyn."
A stunned silence followed—brief, before erupting into restrained uproar. Several nobles exchanged glances—shocked, uncertain, even fearful.
"B-But Your Majesty..." one noble finally spoke, voice trembling.
"Prince Arion is still very young. He's only seventeen… He's not ready to bear such a heavy responsibility. This feels too soon."
Another chimed in, more cautiously:
"Has this decision been discussed with the Elders? Forgive me, Your Majesty… I've always trusted your wisdom. But this… this will shake many powers."
One official looked as if he wanted to protest further, but stopped short. His eyes flicked toward Davian—then fell silent.
King Balderick rose slowly from his seat. His voice was steady, yet heavy, like a storm holding back its thunder:
"The Elders?" he scoffed.
"They are shadows of the past. They do not understand the battlefield we walk today. This kingdom was not built by their wisdom... but by the blood, sweat, and sacrifice of the Balderick line."
He looked each of them in the eye—one by one.
"And I need no one's permission to place my son upon the throne that is rightfully his."
"Whatever may come… this decision is final."
No one dared challenge him. They all understood—this night was not about counsel, nor about consensus.
It was the decree of a king who had lost his patience.
And more terrifying still—they knew from the fire in his eyes that this decision... was the beginning of something far greater.
Something that could no longer be stopped.