Derion
The city of Thalphin, capital of the Kingdom of Volksland, stretches as far as the eye can see, its buildings arranged in strict geometric order—square-shaped structures, each with a central courtyard that seems like a lung through which the stones breathe. From above, the city appears as a patch of precise organization.
At the heart of this urban fabric, the Angel Garden sprawls like a vast green oasis, seemingly endless, containing every imaginable kind of flower and plant—from rare wild blossoms to ancient medicinal herbs still used in traditional healing rituals.
In the middle of the garden rises the old palace, a stone giant defying time. Built from gray stones darkened at the edges by age, its arched windows and towering spires are crowned with a stone dome adorned with mysterious symbols eroded by wind and years.
At its peak stands a gray statue of a man in robes, smiling a smile that neither reflects joy nor triumph, more like that of a man who has tasted the moment of his death and swallowed it calmly.
This palace is no longer a seat of power; it has been transformed into a historical museum of the Kingdom of Volksland, preserving within its walls the remnants of a time still alive in memory.
The current royal palace lies on the opposite side of the city, built in a unique style that blends heritage with modernity. Its stone walls are adorned with metallic lines that reflect light.
It is surrounded by a vast green garden filled with fruit-bearing trees and dancing fountains, encircled by a tall wall made of steel alloys and stones mined from the kingdom's quarries.
Between the palace's carpeted corridors and glittering chandeliers, Prince Derion Rigar, twenty years of age, walked steadily toward the meeting hall. His calm features concealed a hint of frost, with blue eyes that offered no warmth, and dark blond hair neatly falling across his forehead. He wore a long, dark velvet coat embroidered with fine golden threads, over a white silk shirt and elegant trousers befitting his status. His polished leather shoes made a soft sound with every step on the glossy floor.
A deep black royal cloak trimmed with soft white fur draped over his shoulders, swaying slightly with his steps. A heavy pendant hung from his neck, engraved with the royal family's crest: a dragon coiled around a broken sword.
Prince Derion was not the kind to knock. Without hesitation, he pushed the door to the chamber open with his hand—it slammed against the wall and burst open, disturbing the silence.
The hall was spacious, its walls lined with massive glass windows casting sunlight upon the long table at the center, where the king and four senior council members were quietly conversing. On the table lay maps of the state of Hybrids, with red markings indicating a specific location.
Silence reigned for a moment, and all eyes turned to the uninvited arrival. Derion spoke with a calm, sarcastic tone as he stepped inside: "I hope I haven't interrupted anything. Have you taken to meeting without inviting the crown prince?"
Trade Minister Stark shot a worried glance at the king, but the latter paid him no mind. Instead, he sighed slowly and looked at his son with coldness and a trace of irritation: "Derion, a little respect wouldn't hurt. Being a prince and heir doesn't grant you the right to storm into the hall like this."
Tension filled the room, and the attendees exchanged glances before Aeson, the Minister of Finance, leaned slightly forward and lifted his head with a sly smile etched onto his sharp-featured face. His fox-like eyes glinted as he said in a soft, insidious tone: "His Majesty is right, Your Highness. Being the heir doesn't make you a storm. One must bear the manners of kings—you could learn a thing or two from Prince Rashford in that regard. He would never act like this. Besides, this isn't even a formal meeting."
Derion ignored Aeson's provocation, raised his eyebrow with mockery, and walked toward the edge of the table, his gaze scanning the faces of those present. Then he headed to the farthest chair in the room, sat down, and watched from a distance before saying, "You may continue… pretend I'm not here."
The king sighed while rubbing his forehead, then looked at Liod, the Minister of the Interior, and said, "Continue, Mr. Liod."
The minister nodded and began speaking in a report-like tone: "Three months ago, we received repeated reports of suspicious activity by a rebel group in the state of Hybrids. At first, we paid little attention, thinking it was just temporary unrest, but it seems the group has taken control of the mining city during this short period."
Aeson glanced subtly at Derion, then turned to Liod, commenting: "The state of Hybrids has been a powder keg for years, but for a city to fall this easily، that will undoubtedly cause chaos... Still, Hybrids is vast, and even if they've taken a city, they won't last long under siege. Rebel groups ignite quickly, but they burn out even faster... their fate is collapse in the end."
The king sighed slowly, his voice low as if the weight of the crown pressed down on him. He tilted his head slightly back before adjusting it with care, then said while stroking his scattered gray beard:
He paused briefly, then added in a firmer voice: "The people of Hybrids are naturally unruly… chaotic, and they do not believe in order as we do. If they enter, they won't come only as refugees, but as a spark that could ignite problems we are better off without."
Derion sat in his place, leaning back in his chair with deliberate nonchalance, his right arm resting on the armrest. His eyes were half-closed, observing the room as if what was being said did not deserve full attention.
Suddenly, with a sharp and clear voice that sliced through the stillness like a blade, he said,
"Isn't that an exaggeration, Your Majesty?"
He turned his head slightly toward the king. His tone was cold but carried a hint of hidden mockery: "Hybrids are like any other humans, some good, some bad. There's no need to portray them as savages, as if humans were angels whose hearts were cleansed with holy water."
He smirked faintly and let out a short chuckle, more a hum than laughter, as if mocking the tense seriousness in the room more than anything else.
He raised his gaze to the faces of those present, as if seeking a reaction to his words, then continued in a less sharp but deeper tone: "These are mere assumptions wrapped in fear."
He leaned slightly forward, his fingers lightly tapping the edge of the seat in rhythm with his thoughts: "A civil war? If it happens, I believe it will be a one-sided battle. The rebels will attack, while the other side merely defends... waiting for the final collapse."
He raised his hand in a simple gesture, as if painting a picture of the downfall, then turned to the king with a direct look, not insolent, but not without challenge: "Do you truly believe the Locar family still has loyalists after all they've done? The people despise them. The only reason they're still in power is the protection granted by the Nobles' Bank.
People will stand with those who promise change... They might've even paved the way for the rebels to seize the city."
Aeson tapped his fingers on the wooden table with a calm rhythm that contrasted with the sarcastic smile on his lips. He then spoke in a voice filled with calculated restraint: "Isn't it ironic, Prince Derion, that you criticize the king's statements for being fear-driven assumptions, while your own argument stands on nothing sturdier than speculation?"
He paused, his eyes studying Derion's face before continuing with a light smile that cut like a blade: "I know you well, Prince. You're not one to shed tears over people you barely know. Let's say you're wrapping your true motives in a soft veil of principles. That's fine. Just state them clearly…
Politics, as you know, is not driven by morality, but by the balance of interests. And there's no shame in that if our goal is a strong and stable kingdom."
He leaned forward slightly, pointing toward the world map on the wall: "The state of Hybrids isn't just a troubled land; it's the heart of global maritime trade. Any spark there would trigger a global economic tremor."
The king did not delay in backing Aeson's opinion. He then cast a sharp glance at Derion and said in a firm tone: "Minister Aeson is right. Our relationship with the Locar family is still balanced and must not be jeopardized.
Hybrids, despite everything, remains the only state maintaining active trade with the sea Kingdoms.
If unrest erupts there, the Nobles' Bank will gain absolute monopoly over maritime trade, and we will be left with no choice but full submission."
Derion did not respond immediately. He took a slow breath and calmly looked at the faces around the table.
His eyebrow lifted slightly, and a sarcastic smile blended with confidence appeared on his lips. He pushed his chair back slowly and stood up, placing his hand lightly on the edge of the table like a man preparing to play a winning move in a political chess game.
He spoke in a calm yet defiant tone: "And who said I don't place the kingdom's interest first? On the contrary…
The fall of the Locar family and the rise of a new regime in Hybrids may be our only key to freeing ourselves from the grip of the Nobles' Bank, that entity that imposes its guardianship over the world as if it were its private estate."
He walked slowly toward the large map on the wall, raised his hand, and pointed to it. Then he continued, his voice louder: "Imagine it… A new government, born with indirect support from us—our child by proxy. For the first time in decades, we could rewrite the rules of maritime trade… Maybe even reshape the global order."
Derion turned toward the king, his eyes shining with a determined defiance, then said clearly and strongly: "If I were in your place, Your Majesty, I wouldn't wait for clarity… I'd already be building secret bridges with this new faction and supporting them covertly."
The king gave his son a long look, less stern than heavy with worry.
Facing the Nobles' Bank wasn't just a bold idea، it was suicide.
The Nobles' Bank… the name alone could shake thrones. A shadowy organization that dominated the world economy, orchestrated wars, and redrew borders from behind the curtain. They were kings without crowns, emperors unseen.
He doesn't understand yet…
This path he envisions is filled with unseen traps.
The king finally spoke, trying to mask a hidden tremor of fear in his voice: "It's good that you care for the kingdom, Derion… but you go too far. Don't climb a tree you can't descend from.
It's best to stay away from the Nobles' Bank. Confronting them isn't mere recklessness، it's a gamble that could destroy everything we've built.
The price won't be ours alone… but the people's as well."
Liod, the Minister of the Interior, cleared his throat before speaking, as if the words stuck in his throat: "The best example of His Majesty's point is the Green Plains state.
When they decided to halt imports to favor their national companies, the Nobles' Bank didn't even use force.
They imposed a total blockade through pressure on neighboring countries.
We all know what happened after… they were cut off from the world, the state went bankrupt, and famine swept through, killing many."
Derion spoke with sudden calm—one that unsettled them more than any anger.
He slowly raised his head and looked at them with still eyes, filled only with a silence heavy as the calm before a storm.
He said in a low but clear voice, laced with bitterness: "So… we'll do nothing.
We'll let things remain as they are… forever."
His hands moved quietly over the table as if searching for words in the texture of the wood, then he added, raising his eyes to the king:
"An organization that imposed itself on us fifty years ago, through war-forged debts, wrapping around our necks like unseen chains…
And today? We don't even dare utter its name without a stutter."
He took a deep breath, then smiled a twisted smile barely visible, as if mocking himself and them alike.
"A web enveloping the world… we don't know who founded it, or who runs it.
And all we do is obey.
So tell me… what's the worth of these titles we carry?
King? President? Ruler?
They're all hollow words if we can't make decisions.
If we're powerless, how are we different from common folk?"
Another silence fell, heavier than the one before, as if the words themselves feared to be spoken. The attendees exchanged cautious glances, but Minister Aeson broke the stillness with a slow step forward, his voice emerging deep and this time stripped of its usual mocking tone.
He fixed his gaze on Derion's eyes, as if trying to explain unwritten laws, and spoke in a voice more like a sermon than a debate: "Every authority, Your Highness, no matter how great, remains under another… higher, and sometimes invisible. Don't be deceived by gilded halls or the crown on your head. Those are mere symbols."
He raised his hand slightly, as if pointing to something unseen, then continued: "Power… is the true law of this world. To hold authority? That doesn't mean you're strong. But to possess power… authority will crawl to you, even if you're not part of any system."
Then he breathed slowly, his eyes still fixed on Derion: "Does this sound irrational? Yes. But this is the world as it is, not as we wish it to be. It is ruled by the stronger hand, not by justice. And threat outweighs any proclamation or law."
Derion narrowed his eyes slightly, trying to decode the symbols in Aeson's words. He knew the minister never spoke at random; his words always carried hidden layers, like ciphers only mastered by those well-versed in the labyrinths of politics. He wasn't sure whether Aeson was hinting at a deeper truth or merely playing his favorite game—confusing his opponent with words. Inside him, caution blended with suspicion. Is he warning me? Testing me? Or is there something I don't yet know?
But he didn't show his hesitation. Instead, he spoke in a tone he tried to keep steady, despite the currents of anger beginning to boil in his chest: "I don't know what you're trying to imply, Minister… but I don't fear an organization just because some nations fell into its debt after a war. We are not like them… and we never will be."
Before he could continue, the king's voice cut in—strong and sharp as a blade: "Enough, Derion." The king turned to him with sharp eyes that masked a worry he tried not to show before the council, then added in a tone that brooked no argument: "I don't want to hear another word about the Noble Bank. That's an order."
Something in the air trembled. Even the air in the hall seemed to pause for a moment, anticipating what would follow that decisive word.
The air in the chamber grew thick with a sharp tension, one you could feel sting the tip of your tongue if you breathed deeply. No one moved—only glances were exchanged, and hearts beat faster behind a façade of calm.
Then Derion broke the stillness with a low voice, free of defiance yet laced with deliberate withdrawal. He bowed slightly in respect and said, "My apologies, then… I must take my leave."
The king slowly raised his hand, like halting a sword just before it was sheathed, and said in a tone that carried the weight of a command: "Stay… I want to speak with you."
Then he turned his gaze toward Lloyd, his voice now calm again but precisely directed: "Do you have anything more to add, Minister?"
Liod, who had begun gathering his papers slowly, like an actor preparing to exit a stage after his final line, paused for a moment. He looked up and said, "Just one thing… I forgot to mention it." Then he added in a steady voice, "The group's leader… is a girl, sixteen years old."
The information passed over the king like drifting clouds, his expression unmoved, as if it changed nothing in the scene before him. But Aeson reacted differently. He lifted a hand to his chin, stroking it in deep thought, then murmured with quiet interest: "Intriguing…"
Then he rose from his seat suddenly, with unusual lightness, and bowed formally to the king: "Our apologies, Your Majesty… we'll take our leave now." The others stood silently behind him, following toward the exit as if walking in the wake of a long shadow cast by something unseen.
Derion, however, remained where he was, his body still, but his eyes never left Aeson. The minister's sly smile—the one Derion knew all too well—was clear, even from the side of his face.
Once the doors of the chamber closed behind the four ministers, a heavy silence fell over the room, broken only by the soft scrape of the royal crown being lifted from the king's head. Slowly and deliberately, he set it down on the table before him—like placing an invisible burden—preparing for a conversation unfit for titles or formalities.
The king approached Deryon, who remained seated, still as a statue. His eyes were fixed on a distant point in space, his gaze— as usual— cold, revealing nothing of what lay within. The king stood behind him, placing his hands on the top edges of the chair, as if trapping a moment in time.
His voice came out calm, almost a whisper, but clear, carrying the tone of a father more than a king: "Deryon... Do you know why I chose you to be crown prince instead of Rashford? It wasn't because you're the eldest son, but because you think with your mind, not with ambition. Because you don't want to become king just to be called king, but because you want what's good for this kingdom."
He paused briefly, then moved his hands slowly and without formality, placing them on Deryon's shoulders, hoping he could convey a weight that words could not carry. Deryon didn't turn, but the muscles in his jaw tightened slightly, as if suppressing a reaction.
The king continued, and his voice now carried an old warmth, the warmth of a father finally saying what had long gone unsaid: "But my son... sometimes, the energy of youth makes you rush. You say things without grasping their weight or danger. I don't blame you, believe me. I was just like you. My father used to say the same words to me… but I didn't understand. I didn't understand— not until I wore this crown."
He then turned slowly, looking at the crown resting on the table, as if contemplating a weight that couldn't be seen on a scale.
"This crown weighs no more than two hundred grams… and yet, its burden can break shoulders. Not because it's made of gold, but because it's loaded with responsibilities: mouths waiting for food, youths waiting for opportunities, and a nation that needs peace more than glory."
A moment of silence followed— one that wasn't broken this time. Even Deryon remained silent, but now his expression was not frozen… his eyes slowly shifted toward the crown.
The king continued in a soft voice, as though delivering a final confession: "You may not believe my words now, and that's understandable… but when you sit in my place, when you wear this crown and feel its weight… you will understand. You'll understand why avoiding conflict with the Noble Bank was a wise act, not one of fear."
Deryon remained silent, his face unchanged, features like a wall that reveals nothing.
He showed no emotion, neither rejection nor acceptance, just a blank stare that absorbed his father's words without returning any. Yet he listened, not as a child being reprimanded, but as a man weighing each word and storing it in his own scale.
Though the king's speech didn't change Deryon's beliefs, nor scatter his thoughts, nor quell his inner stubbornness, Deryon decided to give his father what he wanted. He breathed quietly, then finally spoke, in a low voice devoid of emotion, yet filled with a professional tone of understanding: "Perhaps you're right, Father… I apologize for what I did. I'll wait… and see if your words ever carry the weight of truth."
The king felt a quiet relief creeping into his chest, as if the burden that had weighed him down moments ago had lightened slightly. A small, involuntary smile appeared on his face, and he whispered as if his heart had finally found peace: "Thank you, my son."
Deryon nodded gently, gave a slight farewell bow, then slowly turned and walked with steady steps toward the hall's door.
He opened the door quietly to find Sir aizen standing firmly like a rock. His short black hair was neatly pulled back, and his shining gray eyes held a blend of seriousness and kindness.
He wore a white uniform with golden accents, a gray cloak over his shoulders, and a simple shoulder guard denoting his rank, while his golden belt tightly secured his sword— as if the blade were part of his body.
He paused for a moment at the door. Then, with steady steps, he approached the prince. Though silent, his presence was more powerful than words. He looked at the prince and said in a calm voice full of implied questioning: "What was the point of that performance you just gave? I assume you're bored again."
Deryon let out a half-smile, then shrugged lightly, as if mocking the entire situation, and said in a quiet, summarized tone: "I decided to go along with the king and play the role of the obedient son… just so I don't give the council a chance to plant their ideas in his head and sway his opinion toward choosing Kawreth instead of Rashfor. It would be more convincing if I show a gradual change in my stance rather than a sudden one."
He then looked at aizen, his tone tinged with gentle sarcasm: "Weren't you supposed to be by my side, my knight? You should've been with me when they surrounded me with their tongues."
aizen replied with a playful smile, raising an eyebrow, and matched the prince's sarcasm with his own:
"My duty is to protect you from people's swords, not their tongues."
Deryon responded with a look filled with a blend of appreciation and amusement: "As always with you, aizen, you have your comebacks ready."
Suddenly, aizen's gaze froze as he stared down the corridor. He frowned slightly, eyes narrowing at a distant scene where Aison was exchanging hushed words with Rashfor.
"Look over there…" he said in a cautious tone. "It seems the threads of a game are being woven in secret. I don't recall them ever being this close."
Deryon placed a hand on aizen's shoulder, then turned and walked away with steady steps, saying confidently: "Let them weave whatever they want… I, too, enjoy this game of hidden conflicts."