The liaison chamber smelled like wax and ink—an old scent, steeped into the scroll racks and wooden counters over years of quiet negotiation. The walls were modest compared to the throne room, but no less important. This was where real power moved: in margins, on ledgers, between lines.

Kael sat at the head of the table, fingers steepled, reading from a parchment while Rimuru swirled lazily above the center lantern like a ghostly halo.

A scribe passed him a second scroll—numbers scrawled in neat, jittery handwriting.

"Saltstone trade route reopened as of dawn," the man said quickly. "Ten carts passed the western pass, no bandit interference, no toll flagged."

Kael nodded. "Mark it for double inventory next moon. If no one steals from it, we can trust the shift."

The man bowed and moved off.

Great Sage:

"Observation: four noble houses failed to report today. Three sent liaisons. One silent." "Mana traffic spike: fourteen private correspondences from House Relventh. Encrypted."

Kael tapped his knuckles on the desk.

"They're probing. Seeing who'll flinch first."

Rimuru spun once midair and muttered, "Let me bite a few letters. Just a few. I'll eat around the ink."

Kael didn't smile.

This wasn't the day for it.

"Not yet," he said quietly. "Let's see who tries to speak without signing their name."

Just then, the chamber doors opened again—this time not with a scribe, but a steward from the outer court. The man approached too casually. Too slowly.

Kael's instincts sharpened.

Great Sage:

"Body temperature inconsistent. Mana residue present on coat interior. Object concealed."

Nyaro padded into the chamber from the adjoining hallway at the same moment. The panther didn't growl.

He stared.

Kael stood.

Rimuru floated lower, silent now, narrowing into a shieldlike crescent behind his back.

"Steward," Kael said, "you're off schedule."

The man hesitated. His smile twitched.

Then he bowed stiffly. "Apologies, Lord Kael. I was delivering a report from—"

Nyaro let out a sudden, sharp bark.

The man froze.

Great Sage:

"Object: glass capsule. Chemical signature matches alchemical combustion agent."

Kael's eyes narrowed.

"Rimuru," he said, voice calm. "Now."

The slime surged forward without hesitation—splattering across the steward's chest and slapping the concealed object from under his coat.

It rolled across the floor once.

And then began to hiss.

Kael raised his palm. Flame Manipulation surged—not to ignite, but to contain. A heat field wrapped the device, forcing the reaction inward until it popped—a harmless puff of white smoke that vanished into the wards.

Rimuru reformed instantly, pinning the steward with a stretch of hardened slime.

He didn't resist.

He just smiled. Too calm.

Kael stepped forward, eyes narrowed.

Great Sage:

"Intentional detonation test failed. Backup plan probable. Secondary threat possible."

Nyaro stalked to the far door, muscles taut, ears flattened.

Something else was coming.

Something worse.

Kael stepped out into the open courtyard behind the liaison wing, boots crunching over red-stone gravel. The day was warm, bright. Not the kind of day you expected to die.

Rimuru floated beside him again, reforming after splitting off her defensive mass. Her glow was tighter now, more focused. Nyaro stalked just ahead, ears pivoting constantly. They weren't walking—they were hunting, even as they moved like they weren't.

Kael's thoughts churned.

They weren't trying to kill me with that alchemical capsule. That was bait. To test reaction time, layout, who protects me and how. This next move won't be a distraction.

He was halfway across the courtyard, heading toward a cluster of stone benches where a merchant envoy from Ashenveil was waiting, when something clicked.

Not a sound. Not a motion.

A sense.

Great Sage:

"Mana surge detected. Alchemical signature matching sulfur resin and shrapnel gel—proximity alert: LEFT FLANK."

Kael spun—

BOOM.

A statue to his left exploded outward, not in flame, but in pressure. Shards of high-density stone scattered like daggers, a concussive force hammering across the courtyard. The envoy screamed. Dust rose like fog.

From the smoke—

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

A figure.

Cloaked. Masked. Rushing.

Their footsteps were muffled, but the dagger was real—wrapped in raw mana, glowing red and black like it had drunk from something foul.

Rimuru launched forward, reforming in midair as a spiked wall of slime and mana. The assassin slammed into her, bounced off, and rolled—but came up fast, unharmed.

Nyaro roared and lunged, claws out, tail snapping sideways to drive the attacker into Kael's line of sight.

Kael didn't hesitate.

He opened his palm and bent the flame in the courtyard torches—redirecting it into a whip of heat that wrapped around the assassin's legs.

"Flame Bind."

The attacker snarled, tried to leap again—too late.

The fire constricted.

They dropped hard to the gravel, locked in place by molten bands.

Dust settled.

Guards were shouting now. Civilians ran for cover. The envoy collapsed behind a pillar, screaming something about betrayal.

Kael walked forward slowly, his voice steady.

"Don't kill him."

Nyaro circled. Rimuru hovered, tendrils raised.

Kael knelt.

The assassin thrashed once, then stopped—realizing there was no escape.

Kael met his eyes.

"Who sent you?"

The man didn't answer.

Instead, he grinned.

A sick, knowing grin that showed cracked teeth and bitter resolve.

Rimuru suddenly pulsed red and flared a rune in midair—

The man's mouth vanished.

Sewn shut with magic. His lips fused clean.

Kael stood.

"He was silenced before he attacked."

Great Sage:

"Correct. Rune was pre-inscribed beneath his tongue. Triggered upon capture attempt. Attacker: magically gagged sleeper agent. House insignia hidden under illusion."

Kael reached down, burned the illusion off the cloak's shoulder.

A charred crest remained.

House Relventh.

Of course.

He turned to the now-watching nobles who had gathered on the upper balcony at the sound of the blast. Their eyes were wide. Uncertain.

Kael didn't raise his voice.

He just said:

"This is what fear does. It sends blades into sunlight." "But if they feared I would take the crown—what are they afraid I'll do if I don't?"

And he turned his back on the assassin—unharmed, unshaken.

The courtyard burned around him.

By the time Kael turned his back on the subdued assassin, the courtyard had changed.

What was once an open stone path ringed by ornamental flamevine trees had become a theater. Dozens of nobles and staff now lined the high balconies above, drawn by the blast and held in place by what they'd witnessed. Couriers had frozen halfway down stairs. Soldiers clutched spears with white-knuckled fists, unsure whether to run or salute.

The smell of burnt resin hung in the air. The scorched remains of the detonated statue still sizzled at the edge of Kael's vision.

Great Sage:

"Attention index: 91%. Emotional resonance: awe, fear, recalibration."

Rimuru floated beside Kael like a second cloak, arms folded, tendrils twitching around her like a dancer who'd just finished her set. Nyaro paced a wide circle around the still-pinned assassin, muscles taut beneath his golden fur, nose twitching with residual tension.

Kael turned to face the balconies.

He didn't speak yet.

He let them speak first.

"Was that House Relventh's seal?" "I thought they were pacified two seasons ago!" "Is he wounded? Did the Scourge bleed?"

Kael cleared his throat—just once.

Every voice stopped.

He pointed down at the smoldering assassin.

"This man used Emberhollow stone to shield his approach. He used alchemical resin to bypass flame wards. And he entered the courtyard in full view of your scribes, guards, and household staff."

He let that sink in.

Then, he pointed upward—toward the nobles.

"Ask yourselves not who gave him the dagger."

He stepped forward.

"Ask who opened the gate."

Murmurs rippled.

A few nobles turned to each other—whispering not in defiance, but in fear.

A flame burst from Rimuru's surface and flickered in the shape of a snarling cat. She said nothing. Her silence was louder.

Great Sage:

"Political impact: destabilizing. Targeted nobles retreating from visible response. Two houses dispatching emergency messengers now."

Kael crouched again by the assassin—not gently.

He pulled the cloak back further, revealing the remnants of the rune burned into the man's chest. An insurance glyph—if he'd died, he would've ignited.

"You were never meant to succeed," Kael said aloud, so all could hear. "You were meant to make me overreact."

He stood.

"But I won't. Because this… this isn't the real fight."

And with that, he turned away from the body.

Not a ruler reacting to an attack.

But a leader choosing his next move.

Kael sat by the wide window of his private chambers, the firelight reflecting off the glass like ghost flames. His outer robe had been removed, his mantle folded neatly on the chair nearby. But the tension in his shoulders had not eased.

Letters were piling up.

One after another, steward after steward, placing them at the edge of his desk without a word.

Some were formal—too formal. Wax seals still warm from hasty application. Script that tried to sound measured, but carried the scent of panic.

Others were strangely casual. No headers. No seal. Just short apologies written in expensive ink on fine paper. Cowardice in cursive.

And then… some sent nothing at all.

Great Sage:

"Out of 51 active noble families in Emberhollow's court jurisdiction: 16 issued formal commendations. 11 offered vague congratulations or condolences. 18 remained silent. 6 initiated discrete withdrawal of shared resources." "Subtext: fractured loyalties—no consensus forming."

Kael read one letter aloud, voice flat.

"'Lord Kael, we regret the incident and pray for your continued strength. We trust the guards will be more diligent in the future.'"

He dropped the letter on the desk.

"Not a word about who paid the assassin. Or why. Just fear pretending to be concern."

Rimuru lay curled on the windowsill beside him, gently poking a letter with her pseudopod. "This one's written in smug," she said. "Can I eat it?"

"Go ahead," Kael muttered.

She slurped it happily and muttered, "Tasted like guilt and lavender."

Kael didn't smile.

His eyes drifted to the Flame Circlet—a ceremonial piece of metal that had quietly appeared earlier that day, set in a polished case beside his desk. A steward had left it without a message.

But he knew who had sent it.

The King hadn't said a word since the attack.

And he didn't need to.

Great Sage:

"Strategic silence. Interpretation: the King is waiting to see whether the court rallies behind you… or breaks."

A soft knock came at the door.

Kael turned.

A servant girl entered, bowed once, and handed him a folded square of parchment—no crest, no mark.

He opened it.

Three words, in elegant handwriting:

"I warned them." – Mother

Kael folded the message slowly.

"Then I'll be the warning they remember."

The summons came with no fanfare.

No horns. No messengers in armor.

Just a quiet knock, and a single steward bowing low at Kael's door.

"His Majesty will see you now."

Kael rose without a word. Rimuru didn't follow this time. She simply nodded once from her perch on the window and whispered, "Don't flinch."

Nyaro paced once behind him, brushed Kael's wrist with his tail, then melted into shadow.

The halls were silent as Kael walked. No servants passed him. No nobles lingered.

It was as if the palace itself was holding its breath.

He stopped before the King's war chamber—a room sealed with fire-carved brass, the door shaped like a closed fist over a map of the continent. It opened without a sound.

Inside, everything was stone and firelight.

The King stood alone, facing the wide war table in the center of the chamber. It was carved from dark obsidian, rimmed in old bronze. A map of Emberhollow and its neighboring territories shimmered atop it—runes flickering softly with recent troop movements and merchant trail markers.

He didn't turn.

"Close the door," he said.

Kael obeyed.

A long silence passed between them.

The King finally spoke.

"You could have died."

"I didn't."

"Not the point."

He turned then—slowly. His expression was unreadable. Not angry. Not proud. Just… tired. As if he'd seen this moment coming for years but hoped it would wait just a little longer.

"They tried to kill a prince in broad daylight," the King said. "In front of nobles. With magic prepared in advance. And still… you stood up. You turned your back on the blade."

"I had to," Kael said. "They wanted me to explode. They wanted fear."

"And instead," the King muttered, "they got composure."

He walked to the edge of the table and placed both hands on it. His rings—plain and fire-worn—clinked softly against the obsidian.

"I spent years wondering if you would survive your titles," he said. "Wondering if they would define you, or bury you."

He looked up, and this time, there was no softness.

Just fire.

"You're not a child anymore. And this kingdom… is no longer mine alone."

Kael didn't respond. He didn't need to.

The King gestured at the map.

"You want to rule Emberhollow? Good. Then understand the weight you carry now. Every ally who supports you paints a target on their house. Every silence you leave gives fear time to grow."

Another pause.

"Speak as a ruler now," he said, voice low. "Not as a son."

Kael stepped to the table.

Met his father's eyes.

And answered.

"Then let me speak of what comes next."

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