"Your Highness," Commander Lena stepped forward, bowing low. "I bring you Lord Veylan of the Southern Empire, as ordered."
The heavy silence of the throne room lingered like a storm about to break.
Aiden gave a small nod. His expression was serene—eerily so—but his eyes were another matter entirely. They showed a storm barely concealed, a wildfire banked just beneath glassy calm.
He still stood in front of the throne.
He did not sit.
As the knights stepped aside, Veylan stumbled forward. The chains around his wrists clinked with every forced step, making balance difficult. His once-composed demeanor had cracked—his hair was disheveled, his breathing uneven—but his smirk remained.
Sharp as a dagger.
"Prince Aiden," he drawled, lifting his chin with forced arrogance. His voice carried that same familiar smugness, even as chains rattled around him. "I must say, I am surprised to see you so... well."
Aiden didn't move.
He stood tall, spine straight, expression unreadable. He wore cold fury like armor—and then, he smiled.
A slow, chilling smile.
That smile sent more of a shiver through the court's spine than any rage ever could.
"Disappointed?" he asked, voice dangerously soft.
Veylan chuckled, though it came out raspy. "Merely... surprised. Your little network of spies is more efficient than we anticipated."
"That it is," Aiden replied smoothly, his voice laced with venomous calm. "The palace was ambushed. A shame the knights got to the scene before I could. By then, there was nothing left but corpses. Truly unfortunate—I would've loved to get some action myself."
Veylan grit his teeth.
Everything had gone wrong.
All it took was one miscalculation.
The plan, on paper, had been flawless. Poison Elliott—a slow-acting toxin, lethal enough to incapacitate but not kill immediately. Chaos would follow. Blame would scatter.
Prince Aiden, assumed to be green and naive, would be overwhelmed by the sudden power vacuum. He'd burn with rage, but it would be aimless—reckless. Easy to corner. Easy to kill.
Two deaths. One throne. One fractured empire.
Then the Southern Empire would sweep in, cloaked in diplomacy and fake condolences, and seize the borderlands under the guise of "restoring order."
But they had misjudged.
They assumed Aiden would drown under the weight of sudden power.
They didn't know that Aiden had been the one controlling the military since he was sixteen. Not officially, of course. But it was Aiden who had handled the empire's dirty work behind closed doors—so that Elliott could be the gentle king.
And now, standing in front of the regent, Veylan realized—
They never stood a chance.
Not him. Not his plan.
Not his empire.
Aiden flicked his fingers.
Commander Ravenwood stepped forward, holding a small crimson vial in his gloved hands.
The court recognized it instantly.
Saffron.
Veylan's smirk faltered for a second. His spine stiffened. But he quickly recovered, replying with a confidence he no longer truly possessed. "A vial. How... dramatic. But tell me, Regent—how will you prove this is mine?"
Aiden tilted his head, mock innocence dripping from his voice. The effect was even more unnerving with his robe still stained from interrogations—faint spatters of blood visible at the cuffs.
"How will I prove it, you ask?"
Two knights stepped forward.
Each carried a golden platter, identical in shape. Both were covered with thick velvet veils.
Aiden stepped toward them and removed the coverings with a practiced, theatrical grace.
Gasps rang through the court.
Each platter bore a severed human head, blood still pooling on the polished gold.
"Does this answer your question?" Aiden asked, grinning. "Are these faces familiar, Lord Veylan?"
Veylan's blood ran cold.
He knew those faces. One belonged to his spy master. The other—to the palace servant he had bribed to switch the wine.
Before he could stammer a response, Aiden descended the marble steps from the throne.
His boots echoed with finality against the stone floor.
He came to stand in front of Veylan, leaned forward, and whispered—softly enough to be intimate, yet loud enough for the court to hear.
"Or would you perhaps prefer I show you the letter you wrote to your emperor? The one where you detailed your plan to kill Elliott first—then me?"
The court fell into a breathless silence.
Veylan's breath hitched.
He found it?
He hadn't known that was even possible to intercept.
Panic flickered in his eyes for the first time.
"You—You can't kill me," he tried, desperation creeping into his voice. "My emperor will see that as an act of war."
Aiden's smile only widened.
"War?" he echoed, his voice a velvet threat. Then he chuckled—cold and resonant, the sound bouncing off the gilded columns. "I welcome it."
Veylan's composure cracked. "Emperor Elliott would never allow—"
"Elliott isn't here."
Aiden leaned in, so close now that Veylan could see the glint of bloodlust in the young regent's eyes.
"But," he murmured, "since I swore to him I wouldn't kill you unfairly..."
He stepped back abruptly.
Before anyone could blink, he drew two swords from the adjacent knights' scabbards. The knights barely reacted—stunned into stillness.
"Let's make it fair."
Veylan's eyes widened. "Wha—"
Aiden gestured to Lira, who stepped forward and undid the shackles.
Then, Aiden held one blade out to him.
"Fight me. Fair and square," he said. His voice was deadly calm. "If you win, you walk free."
Veylan stared at the sword like it might explode. He was cornered. Caged. His plans were ashes.
He took the blade.
He had no other choice.
"And if I lose?" he asked warily.
Aiden's smile turned sharp.
"Then I get to keep my oath. Both to Elliott... and to myself."
The duel wasn't much of a fight.
Three swift moves.
That was all it took.
Veylan was a diplomat. A schemer. Not a warrior.
Unfortunately for him, Aiden was all three.
When the body hit the floor, the chamber remained deathly still.
Even Aiden's allies were silent in shock.
The knights whose swords he had borrowed stood frozen, as if afraid to reclaim their weapons.
Aiden calmly wiped the blood off his blade using Veylan's cloak.
Then, without a word, he pried the sword from the older man's cold fingers and returned both weapons to the stunned knights.
He turned to the Grand Admiral, though his gaze swept the assembled nobles.
"Send his head back to his emperor," he said coldly. "Tell them—this is what happens when someone dares to touch what is mine."
He didn't wait for a response.
With that, Aiden walked out—his boots clicking on the marble floor.
He left the throne room in silence.
And behind him, fear bloomed.