Chapter 6:
Fall of a king
The golden light of the chandeliers poured over the marble floor, dancing across silver goblets and plates of untouched delicacies. Servants moved like shadows at the edges of the room, refilling wine for laughing nobles whose eyes were sharper than their smiles.
Leo walked in without hesitation. His black coat swayed behind him, boots clicking against the polished floor. He had not been invited, yet his steps carried no apology.
The murmurs began instantly.
“Isn’t that…?”
“Why is he here?”
“Didn’t the King specifically…?”
At the center table, two princes noticed him first.
Prince Aldria leaned back in his chair, broad shoulders filling his velvet tunic. His child-like smile was almost innocent — but it carried the subtle curve of a man who enjoyed watching others squirm.
“Well, well,” Aldria called out in a voice that carried through the hall, “look who’s decided to crawl out from whatever hole he’s been hiding in.”
Prince Cyrus, sitting beside him, sipped from his goblet without looking away from Leo. His eyes were as cold as polished steel, his lips twisting into a cruel smirk.
“Careful, brother. He might think this is his birthday celebration.”
The laughter that followed wasn’t loud — but it was deliberate, cutting, meant to sting.
Leo’s expression didn’t change. He simply walked forward, each step steady, his gaze never breaking from theirs.
From the corner of the royal table, a figure rose.
Princess Aria — her silver gown flowing like moonlight, her dark hair braided with pearls — stood with quiet grace. Her eyes were calm, but there was a blade’s edge beneath their surface.
“That’s enough,” she said, her voice even yet carrying the weight of command.
The brothers glanced at her, irritation flashing across their features, but before they could speak, Leo stopped beside them.
“If not for Aria’s presence,” he said, his voice low and dangerous, “Roman himself would have executed both of you for daring to mock the king.”
Aldria’s smile faltered, just slightly.
Cyrus’s cruel eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.
Before more could be said, a deep voice rolled through the hall.
“Silence.”
The great doors swung open, and the King entered — robed in crimson and gold, the crown upon his head gleaming under the light. All conversation ceased as he walked to the head of the room.
“Tonight,” the King began, “we gather to honor the birthday of the first king, Roman — the man whose sword carved this empire into existence.”
The hall grew still, every noble leaning forward as the King’s voice deepened.
“He who stood alone against the Demon Lord, when all others had fallen. On the blood-soaked fields of Velkar, with the sky burning and the earth trembling, Roman drove his blade into the heart of darkness itself. The Demon Lord’s death shattered the chains binding this world, and his name has since been etched into eternity.”
Leo lowered his gaze, his fingers curling slightly. He could still feel the weight of that night — the smell of burning corpses, the ringing in his ears from the Demon Lord’s final scream.
“But tonight,” the King continued, “is not merely a celebration. It is a trial — a chance for those who believe themselves worthy of royal blood to prove it.”
A surge of magic pulsed through the hall, and a glowing rift tore open in the center.
“Within this space,” the King declared, “stands a perfect clone of Roman himself — wielding ten percent of his true power. Defeat him, and you shall earn a prize… a pendant crafted by Roman’s own hands.”
The crowd erupted in whispers. Ten percent of the first king’s strength was still more than most armies could withstand.
Leo’s eyes flickered with something dangerous. He remembered that pendant. He remembered why he had made it.
The King’s smile turned sharp.
“Step forward… if you dare.”
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