The council chamber was stifling with forced politeness and the heavy scent of burning incense.
High-ranking lords, advisors, and elder councilors sat tensely around the oval table, their colorful robes muted under the mourning banners draped along the walls.
None dared speak without permission.
King Sebastian, seated at the head of the chamber, was a dark and imposing figure — dressed in plain black, crownless but more commanding than any ornament could provide.
His silver-ringed hand tapped once against the marble table.
A single, sharp sound.
It was the council's only cue to proceed.
Issues were brought forth — disputes between provinces, tax adjustments for the next season, border tensions.
Each matter was presented quickly and without argument, as the memory of how Sebastian had shut down the silver-bearded elder at the previous gathering still hung thick in the air.
The king spoke little.
He listened, assessed, and with either a nod or a cutting word, delivered his verdicts.
No one dared question him.
When the final matter was closed, one advisor cleared his throat and nervously raised the topic of the upcoming coronation.
"It should be—" he began.
Sebastian cut him off with a flat look.
"It will be done," he said, voice like iron slamming shut.
"And it will be done without waste."
The man bowed his head instantly.
No more was said on the matter.
When Sebastian rose, the council scrambled to their feet — no one allowed to leave until the king dismissed himself first.
Without another word, he strode out of the chamber, his cloak swirling behind him like a shadow given form.
---
He was not in a good mood.
The nightmare had left him simmering with a quiet, dangerous rage he could barely contain.
Blood on his hands, whispers in the dark, a throne drowning in black mist — the visions clung to him, staining his thoughts.
And now, he was needed elsewhere.
The next hall was a much colder place — stone walls stripped of all luxury.
This was where justice was served.
Or more accurately — where punishments were dealt with.
Villagers, knights, minor lords — anyone accused of treason, betrayal, murder, or theft of crown property — were dragged here.
If they were lucky, they were thrown into the dungeons.
If they were not, well… Sebastian's hand was not known for mercy.
Kael stood at his side, flanked by a handful of trusted officials who managed the various provinces and outlying cities.
A long morning dragged on as case after case was judged.
A thief pleaded ignorance.
A lord tried to excuse unpaid taxes.
A soldier was accused of desertion.
Sebastian barely blinked as he passed judgment: death, imprisonment, forfeiture of lands.
There was no leniency.
There were only rules — and the price of breaking them.
---
When the final case was cleared, Kael fell into step beside him, waiting for the right moment to bring up other business.
He cleared his throat lightly.
"My king, there are some minor trade routes that need your signature later this evening—"
Sebastian grunted in acknowledgment, still walking.
"And..." Kael hesitated.
Sebastian shot him a glance sharper than any blade.
Kael pressed on carefully.
"The girl. Freya. She wishes to return to her home."
Sebastian stopped.
Just for a moment.
The hall fell eerily quiet.
When he moved again, his steps were slower, heavier, as if considering a blade he wanted to sharpen.
"She wishes," Sebastian echoed with a low, dangerous amusement.
Kael wisely said nothing more.
Sebastian's lips curved slightly — not a smile, but something colder.
Flickering thoughts burned behind his gaze.
Let her wish.
He had wishes too.
And Freya would find that nothing was free in his kingdom — not even freedom itself.
"If she wants to leave," Sebastian said, voice soft and lethal, "then she'll have to earn it."
He said nothing more, but the officials who overheard paled slightly.
Everyone assumed it was another example of the king's cruelty.
Freya herself, when she heard, would think so too — and would curse his name every step of the way.
But Sebastian…
He merely wanted to see something.
Emotion. Fight. Fire.
A flicker of real life behind those guarded blue eyes.
And if she couldn't show it...
Well, then she'd never make it out at all.