The celebration continued into the late hours.
Laughter echoed through the banquet halls. Wine flowed from bottomless goblets, and enchanted music danced between chandeliers. Noble children twirled across the ballroom floor in formal steps, while their parents exchanged glances—some calculating, some curious, all watching.
The moon was now high and pale above Velmoria Castle, its silver light pouring across the terrace.
On one of the quieter balconies above the grand hall, King Rudolf stood alone. He leaned against the stone rail, a thin trail of smoke rising from the enchanted cigar between his fingers. His golden cloak stirred gently in the night breeze. Below, the capital glittered like a mirror of the stars.
He exhaled. "So peaceful… almost makes you forget the world is bleeding beneath the surface."
Behind him, footsteps.
"You're smoking again," came the familiar voice of Alaric, carrying a wineglass in each hand.
"I'm indulging in nostalgia," Rudolf replied, not turning.
Alaric stepped beside him, handing over a glass of crimson wine. "What are you looking at?"
"My kingdom," Rudolf said simply. "For tonight, it still belongs to me."
The two stood in silence for a few moments, the quiet between them forged by decades of battles, brotherhood, and scars.
Then Alaric asked, "Do you really think the Tower will agree?"
Rudolf chuckled softly. "Alaric… I've never moved a piece on the board without calculating ten steps ahead. The Tower votes by consensus, not hierarchy. Rank means little without numbers."
Alaric frowned, sipping the wine. "And you already secured the votes?"
Rudolf nodded. "Myself, the 1st, 5th, and 9th Monarchs."
Alaric narrowed his eyes. "How?"
The king tilted his head back, letting the wind cool his face.
"You know—Vera—came from the House of Da'Kareth. A power so old even the Tower bowed to their shadows. With her family's influence, she convinced the 8th Monarch. Belbub, the 1st Monarch, is always on my side—The 9th Monarch is utterly mad… but easily manipulated. It took three magical illusions and one false prophecy to bend him."
Alaric's jaw tightened. "And the 5th?"
Rudolf paused.
"…We kidnapped his four wives and daughter."
Alaric turned sharply. "What?!"
Rudolf raised a brow. "What? I didn't kill them. They were treated well. The moment he signed the pact, we released them unharmed."
Alaric stared, half in disbelief, half in exasperation. "I can't believe that brat has four wives."
Rudolf laughed. "Nobility breeds greed—and polygamy, apparently."
But the humor faded quickly. Rudolf turned to him, eyes sharper now. "You still haven't asked the real question."
Alaric remained silent.
Rudolf continued, his voice low. "Why did I go this far? Why force hands, deceive monarchs, break every line of diplomacy?"
"…Why?" Alaric asked at last.
"Because," Rudolf said slowly, "we are the Eight Constant Devils. That is the name history will give us. The generation that broke the balance. We don't have the luxury of honor anymore—we have war coming. Ancient war."
Alaric's jaw tightened. His eyes, usually calm and unreadable, flickered with something rare—disapproval, perhaps even sorrow. He stepped forward, voice calm but firm.
"That's not an answer, Rudolf," he said. "It's a justification wrapped in despair. You're not winning a war—you're setting the stage for its return."
Rudolf turned to him, and for a moment, the mask of the king fell away. The man beneath it—tired, worn, and too wise for the world—looked at his old friend with a sad smile.
"And yet," he murmured, "sometimes it takes madness to wake a sleeping world. You see monsters, Alaric. I see inevitability."
He looked out through the stained-glass window as the moonlight filtered in across the marble.
"The world may not forgive us. It may curse our names in every history book. But let it. Because sometimes, the philosopher is right—the world must be broken to become new again."
He chuckled bitterly.
"Order only lasts as long as the fear of chaos. And fear, Alaric... is running thin."
He placed a hand on Alaric's shoulder.
"We're tied. Four votes to four. The 4th Monarch's seat is still vacant. One vote can tip the world."
Alaric felt his chest tighten.
"You want me to take the seat," he said quietly.
Rudolf nodded. "You're the right candidate. I know it's early. Too early. And I know… you swore never to return to that seat again."
Alaric's hand curled around the wineglass.
"I watched them die, Rudolf," he whispered. "Giselle. Leonard. Michael. I was a Monarch back then too. And I stood there like a coward—unable to save them. I watched, helpless, as demons in human form executed them—all in the name of 'balance.' And I did nothing."
He set the glass down, shaking.
"I can't sit on that throne. Not again. Not when I failed so many."
Rudolf didn't speak for a moment. Then he stepped closer, his voice steady but deep—almost grave.
"You think guilt makes you weak, Alaric. But it doesn't. It's the proof that you still carry their names. And that's exactly what this world needs."
He turned, his back to the city.
"Thrones aren't meant to be comfortable. They're coffins with a crown. We don't sit on them because we're proud. We sit on them to keep others from dying on our watch."
Alaric didn't answer, but his shoulders trembled faintly.
Rudolf placed a hand over his chest. "Protect Elijah. That's your redemption. Not in blood. In legacy."
Alaric closed his eyes. "…Three days."
Rudolf smiled faintly.
"I'll make the announcement at the Temple Assembly. You will be recognized as the new 4th Monarch."
The moon shifted behind the clouds, casting the castle into deeper shadows.
And somewhere in the distance, far beyond the city walls, something ancient stirred—sensing a shift in the Tower's balance.