**The Following Day**
**The Royal Palace in the Kingdom of Rosgardin, Neighboring Tarolinia**
Within the royal palace lay a grand hall stretching several meters wide. Its towering ceiling, nearly twenty meters high, was adorned with masterful paintings of stars, the sun, and galaxies—an illusion that the entire night sky had come alive upon the ceiling. Black marble columns veined with gold stood like colossal sentinels, enclosing the hall in their silent vigilance.
The air was heavy. Though the temperature held around 18 degrees Celsius, the sheer number of people and the glow of the candles lining the walls created a gentle, pleasant warmth throughout the space. The scent of fresh flowers—especially jasmine and white roses—filled the air, casting a strange sense of serenity and purity amidst the prevailing seriousness. The candlelight danced upon the columns and the gleaming jewels of the courtiers, casting shifting shadows on the vast walls.
Servants in formal cream and black uniforms moved quietly across the hall, heads bowed, eyes downcast, enveloped in a profound silence. Ministers and courtiers murmured among themselves—whispers of politics, economy, military news, and agricultural woes all intertwining in a subdued symphony. The atmosphere was one of controlled commotion laced with the weight of expectation.
Suddenly, the great wooden doors creaked open with a deep, echoing sound, bringing an abrupt silence to the hall. A servant, dressed formally and wearing a ceremonial cap, announced in a clear and resonant voice:
**"Her Majesty, Queen Elinor, enters."**
All present instinctively knelt, their heads lowered, eyes fixed to the floor—an act of reverence and fear toward the presence that now made the room feel even heavier.
Amid the hush, Queen Elinor stepped into the hall. She was a tall woman, standing around 170 centimeters, with fair, flawless skin and jet-black hair that shimmered like a mysterious shadow beneath the golden-green hues of her gown. Her piercing blue eyes, cold and glacial, carried a gaze both sorrowful and commanding. She wore an emerald-green dress adorned with golden designs, and each of her steps radiated dignity and power. A crown fashioned like the stars of the night sky rested upon her head, with a single dazzling blue gem at its center.
Beside her walked a black panther, its golden eyes gleaming—a silent guardian and embodiment of her authority and enigma. The presence of this wild yet composed creature infused the space with a peculiar mix of danger and loyalty.
The Queen's face was solemn and unsmiling, faint lines of concern and coldness traced along her brow and lips. Anyone who looked upon her could not help but feel that this woman was not just a ruler—but the living shadow of her nation's destiny.
With calm, measured steps, she walked toward the royal throne at the far end of the hall—a grand seat carved from dark wood and inlaid with golden engravings, like a crown upon a crown. With graceful poise, she seated herself, crossing her right leg over her left, resting her hand thoughtfully upon her chin, as though she had already descended into deep contemplation.
A heavy silence fell across the hall as all ministers and courtiers raised their heads, awaiting the Queen's command and address.
In a voice soft yet filled with power and grace, the Queen spoke:
**"What reports do we have today?"**
One by one, the ministers stepped forward. Each spoke in a different tone, presenting detailed and documented reports on agriculture, industrial output, military conditions, and economic affairs—from grain shortages to suspicious movements at the borders.
After nearly an hour, the Minister of Internal Affairs approached. With his head bowed, as if burdened by unseen weight, he began:
**"Your Majesty, I have news regarding the Kingdom of Tarolinia."**
The Queen slightly raised an eyebrow and asked with calm curiosity:
**"Interesting… What news? You may speak."**
The minister glanced around cautiously, then continued in a soft yet clear voice:
**"Reports indicate that over the past month, violence and murders in the capital of Tarolinia have escalated dramatically. Over 500 individuals have been killed, and their bodies crucified across different parts of the city. This suggests that a cult or secret organization is intent on disturbing the peace of the nation."**
The Queen let out a cold, weary smile and calmly asked:
**"So the murders have increased? And how does this concern us?"**
The minister, with some hesitation and urgency, replied:
**"This situation poses a threat not only to Tarolinia but potentially to neighboring kingdoms—including ours. The King of Tarolinia has ordered the military to swiftly identify and eliminate these threats. Furthermore, many of our exported goods to Tarolinia have faced harsh inspections, with several shipments returned—particularly food supplies, much of which became unusable. If this persists, it may seriously impact Rosgardin's economy and security."**
The Queen's expression darkened. A glimmer of worry flickered in her eyes. With a firm and resolute voice, she declared:
**"In the past, our kingdom and Tarolinia endured long, devastating wars that left both lands in ruins. I will not allow those dark days to return. Send a diplomatic delegation to the Kingdom of Tarolinia immediately. Inform them that, should they require assistance, we are ready to support them in resolving this crisis. We must not allow this chaos to drag our nation into the same abyss."**
The minister bowed his head respectfully and answered:
**"As you command, Your Majesty."**
**Meanwhile, in the depths of the Kingdom of Tarolynia...**
A cold breeze drifted through the tall windows of the grand royal hall, causing the heavy crimson velvet curtains to sway gently. The palace, with its red marble walls and embossed golden motifs, pulsed like a weary yet majestic heart at the city's core. The high ceiling of the hall was adorned with paintings of angels in flight and luminous skies. Flickering yellow light from crystal chandeliers danced upon the cold, polished stone floor, casting shimmering reflections on the faces of those present.
The scent of burning wood and bitter eastern incense filled the room. The air was slightly heavy and humid, as if last night's rain still lingered within the thick walls. Fatigued murmurs from ministers and generals echoed through the hall—conversations laden with worry, speculation, and doubt. Their faces were weary, disheveled, and etched with lines of sleeplessness.
King *Elyrius* and Queen *Esria* sat upon thrones carved from black ivory and royal gold. The king, clad in a cobalt cloak with a fur collar, was a man in his early fifties, but the fatigue and experience of years of rule had turned his hair nearly white. His skin was wrinkled, and his green eyes were lost in shadow. Occasionally, he pressed his lips together, as if the bitter taste of recent events still lingered in his mouth.
Beside him, *Queen Esria*, with a calmer yet no less fierce demeanor, sat. Her dark hair, streaked with silver strands, was adorned with a slender, jeweled crown. Her hazel eyes were fixed intently on the ministers, unblinking.
Suddenly, the king slowly raised one hand. Time seemed to halt in the hall. The murmurs ceased, and a cold, terrifying silence enveloped the room.
He took a deep breath and spoke with a voice that flowed through the room like a cold stream:
> "It seems that over the past month, we've made no progress in resolving this crisis. If this situation continues, it will not only question the kingdom's credibility but also undermine the very foundation of our people's security. This issue is more psychological and social than military or political... the people are losing their trust."
Queen *Esria* sharpened her gaze and, with a serious tone filled with controlled fury, continued:
> "Even now, heavy blows have been dealt to the economy. Trade caravans are canceling their contracts one after another. Grain prices have tripled. Medicines from the west are now scarce. Merchants fear setting foot in our land. You have yet to obtain even a clear lead on this bloodthirsty organization. Why?"
A brief silence fell until one of the generals, a burly man in semi-shiny armor with slumped shoulders, stepped forward. His voice trembled but tried to remain strong:
> "Our great lady... Your Majesty, forgive us... but it seems they are not just a few assassins. We are dealing with an organized structure. The traces we've found indicate that some high-ranking officials are collaborating with this organization. This has blinded us. The deeper we delve, the more we realize this corruption has penetrated to the very bones of the government..."
The king furrowed his brows. His cheeks flushed. His anger was not in a shout but in a calm yet firm and cold voice:
> "So what should we do? Let these insurgents toy with our people's fate? Watch as new corpses hang in the streets every day?"
No one spoke. Ministers and generals only looked at each other; their gazes filled with fear, confusion, and a silent despair.
The king paused briefly, gripped the arms of his chair, and then said with a firm voice:
> "This is a royal decree. From this moment, anyone proven to be collaborating with this organization will be punished without mercy. Their assets will be confiscated, their family enslaved, and they themselves executed in the city's central square. Before everyone's eyes. So that others know this land is no place for traitors."
Several ministers shuddered. Some even cast frightened glances around, as if searching for an escape route.
Amidst this, Minister *Dagobert*—a fat man with a puffy face and hair slicked back with oil—stepped forward. A sarcastic smile played on his lips, and his voice was soft, slightly affected, and mocking:
> "Your Majesty, with all due respect... but such decisions might ignite a new rebellion within the country. With all due respect, don't you think this approach is overly harsh?"
The king narrowed his eyes and stared sharply at Dagobert:
> "What do you suggest, Dagobert? Let the country be destroyed and just smile?"
Dagobert gave a sly smile, interlocked his fingers, and calmly said:
> "Cutting the main branches might unbalance the tree... but if we only remove the side branches, perhaps it will help its survival."
The king pondered. He gently stroked his chin with his index finger, his eyelids slightly drooping. Then he said:
> "This method... could be effective, but don't you think it means the corruption remains?"
Minister Dagobert, without a hint of concern, replied philosophically:
> "Where there's light, there's also shadow, Your Majesty. Attempting to eliminate all shadows ultimately leads to the extinguishing of light. We must maintain balance. Some of these infiltrators have powerful friends among our neighbors. We must be cautious."
The king nodded slowly in agreement. Then, with a calm yet firm voice, he said:
> "Very well, Dagobert. You are responsible for implementing this method. Take the necessary actions... and report the results to me as soon as possible."
The air remained cold. In the hall, however, the scent of burning wood in the fireplaces combined with political anxiety, creating a heavy mix. An invisible fear spread through the space... as if everyone knew, much darker nights lay ahead.
**After being dismissed from the presence of the king and queen...**
Ministers and generals exited the golden hall one by one. The sound of their heavy footsteps echoed through the cold, long corridor of the palace. The air in that part of the palace was cool, carrying the scent of metal and oiled wood emanating from the blazing torches. Massive marble columns cast long shadows on the patterned floor, and the golden motifs on the walls shimmered under the flickering light of the flames.
Minister **Dagobert**, with his heavy body and limping steps, produced a distinctive sound as his heels struck the polished stones. His short, broken breaths, a gentle sweat on his temples, and his anxious glances around indicated an inner turmoil. His fat, hairy hands were clasped behind his back, and occasionally he cast a furtive glance over his shoulder.
In the middle of one of the silent corridors, where light barely reached, a man leaned against the wall. **Prince Alrion**.
Tall, with a gaunt face, wheat-colored skin, and hazel eyes that gleamed mysteriously in the darkness. His black hair was slicked back, and a faint, enigmatic smile played on his lips. His arms were crossed over his chest, and his eyes remained closed, as if he had heard Dagobert's steps from afar and was waiting.
With a calm voice laced with sarcasm, he said:
> "What did the old man and the hag say, Dagobert?"
Upon seeing the prince, Dagobert immediately bowed, his left knee struggling against the cold stone, and said respectfully:
> "Prince Alrion, my lord..."
And while casting a wary glance toward the end of the corridor, he added in a whisper:
> "This isn't the place to talk, my lord. Someone might hear us."
With a quick gesture, Alrion beckoned him to follow. They passed through a bend in the corridor, past several stone statues of angels, and reached one of the empty rooms—a small room with dark wooden walls, a tiny window, and a heavy door that closed behind them. A deep silence enveloped the space.
**Dagobert**, now pale and visibly shaken, leaned closer to the prince and whispered:
"I bring ill news, my lord…"
Alrion's smile faded. His brow furrowed, and his voice dropped, sharp as a serpent's hiss:
> "What happened?"
Dagobert hesitated. His eyes briefly met the prince's, then darted away.
> "The king suspects something… He's questioning why the killers haven't been found. He's issued a decree: anyone linked to the organization is to be executed—along with their families… their property… in front of the people."
Alrion blinked slowly. The air in the room seemed to chill. His brow arched, and though his voice trembled slightly, he remained composed:
> "That… is very bad for the Order."
A heavy silence fell. Dagobert gave a deliberately casual shrug, his tone tinged with feigned nonchalance and dark amusement:
> "Well, I managed to contain it. I convinced him that executing a few scapegoats might appease the public. But to avoid suspicion, we'll need sacrifices. We'll have to give them a few bodies."
Alrion nodded slowly. There was a bitter shadow in his voice:
> "I understand. Some of the Order's members will have to be sacrificed. I'll speak with *Master Marven*. He knows who must be… removed. It's a price we pay—for a greater cause."
Dagobert's fear suddenly gave way to a sly glee. His lips twisted into a grin:
> "So there's no problem, then… The Order remains safe. And I'm still here."
Alrion chuckled—short, hollow, piercing:
> "Just a little more patience, Dagobert. A little more… and the entire kingdom will be in my grasp. No one will stand in my way—not my father, not the queen, not my sister."
Dagobert rubbed his fat hands together, his voice a whispering laugh:
> "Your Majesty… You won't forget me, will you?"
Alrion's reply was soft, yet deadly:
> "Forget you? No… I'll even force my sister to marry you. Imagine that—being the royal consort of the future king. What an honor. But remember, Dagobert… I expect a great deal from you."
And so, in that shadowed chamber, a prince of ruthless ambition and a minister of poisonous opportunism exchanged whispered treacheries and the promise of blood. And they laughed. Low, stifled, and filled with secrets.
---
**Midnight — Northern Capital — The Manor of Master Charles**
The cold night wind moaned through the dead branches of ancient trees, slipping in through half-open windows like an unwelcome spirit. Thick velvet drapes swayed gently, and the moonlight streaming through stained glass cast surreal patches of violet, indigo, and blue upon the walls and floor.
In the heart of these shadows, **Master Charles**, a tall, gaunt man with a skeletal face and eyes devoid of pity, moved like a wraith. His long black coat whispered as he crossed the room toward the piano. He exhaled slowly. The silence around him swallowed everything.
With military precision, he sat on the bench. For a moment, he listened to the first brush between his fingertips and the ivory keys. The piano seemed to breathe.
The first note was struck—and the world changed.
A sharp, cold sound sliced through the air. It was not music. It was the sound of a soul being dissected.
In Charles's mind, a shattered memory awoke.
**The orphanage.**
Metal-framed beds, rusted and pale. The stench of dried urine, cold steam, and nighttime screams. A child's bare, trembling feet on freezing stone. The laughter of older boys.
— "Where's your mummy now, little prince?"
Fists. Kicks. Blood. Teeth and broken bones. Silent screams.
Charles held his breath. His fingers kept dancing.
He struck a wrong note—deliberately. A precise error.
— *"They didn't understand. They were ugly… vile. But me? I became beautiful from within that darkness."*
His eyes fixed on a photo frame: a young woman in white, smiling gently. **His mother**.
To Charles, that face held no warmth—only weakness.
The final chords spilled out, a lullaby twisted into something darker. Music crafted to cradle a dead soul.
And Charles played flawlessly—because he had learned that in the world of men, only those without flaw survive.
As the last note died, silence took over the room like the ashes of a long-dead fire. Charles rose slowly, straightened his tall frame, brushed a hand over the buttons of his velvet coat, and inhaled deeply—like a man returning from a journey through himself.
With slow steps, he crossed to the western wall of the room—where a large family portrait hung. Moonlight from the lattice window animated the painted faces: a young man, a serene wife, and a shy child beside them. Himself. The child who no longer existed.
Charles stood, eyes locked on the painted boy.
There was no innocence in that face anymore. No happy memory. Only a living nightmare—an abused, silenced, forgotten childhood. The world had devoured him, broken him… and left behind something else. Not a child. Not a man. Just… a survivor. A walking corpse.
Gently, he reached out and touched the child's face in the painting. His fingertip brushed the canvas with a tenderness only pain can teach. Something like tears gathered in his eyes—not from weakness, but from a mercy that could only exist for a version of himself long lost.
In the silence, a face surfaced in his thoughts. **Arthur.**
That young, determined face. The questioning eyes. That quiet rage.
A faint smile curled Charles's lips—not of joy, but of something like hope. Something familiar. Arthur resembled him—not just in mind or solitude, but in his way of seeing the world. Different. Detached. Arthur was another version of himself—untainted, unbroken. Still… savable.
He looked away from the child in the portrait, to his mother's face. That serene woman, with her distant, powerless smile.
With a voice hoarse and trembling, he murmured:
> "I saw someone… someone who sees the world the way I do. Who feels like I do. But he's different. He hasn't reached the darkness yet. It's like looking at my own childhood—but this time… maybe I can save it."
He closed his eyes. Breathed in. As if releasing something heavy, long buried.
> "I want to protect him. Something no one ever did for me… not in that cursed orphanage, not in the cold alleys, nowhere. But I'll do it for him… because he isn't me. But he *could've* been."
He lowered his head. His fingers scratched gently at the wooden frame.
> "I've done it before. When he awakened his ability, I made sure no one noticed. During the assessment, I altered the data so no one would suspect. I wouldn't let him become like me—a tool. Or worse, a target."
He paused. His voice fell to a whisper, firm and resolute:
> "Even those who posed a threat to him… I eliminated them. Quietly. Mercilessly. For him. So he could survive."
He stared again into his mother's painted eyes. That woman. That powerless mother.
> "This is my last act. Maybe the only good thing I'll ever do. I want to save him… even if he never knows."
And then silence. Heavy, like soil over a buried truth. Charles remained there, surrounded by moonlight, portraits, and long-dead memories.
But now, amidst all the shadows… a small flame had begun to burn within him.
**For the first time, perhaps… saving someone felt more worthy than destroying anything.**