Interlude: Borrowed Power

The throne room shimmered with cold light. Walls of pure crystal caught the sun and bent it into fractured rainbows across the marble floor. At the far end, the King of Crystalor lounged upon his throne, one leg draped over the other, goblet of spiced wine in hand. His crown glittered, but his smirk glittered sharper.

“Patrols? Beyond the barrier?” He scoffed. “The Ironwood belongs to beasts and lunatics. My soldiers don’t waste their lives outside the crown’s reach.”

Draven stood below the dais, red cloak trailing across the marble, mask tilted slightly toward the king. His voice was low, but it struck sharper than steel.

“And that is why your kingdom rots in a cage of glass. You think yourself master of this land… yet you tremble the moment the titans stir.”

Draven’s voice rumbled lowly.

“Do not forget the power you sit on is not yours. It’s borrowed.” Draven paused, “You know what power I can provide. It’s the reason why I’m here in this hall.”

The courtiers gasped. Solon’s bootsteps rang as he moved forward, “You dare raise your tongue to His Majesty?” His tone was flat, but the anger beneath it simmered like fire.

“Normally he’d have someone beheaded for speaking to him in this manner.”

The king raised a hand quickly. “Enough, Solon.” He forced a dry laugh, though his eyes flicked uneasily toward Draven. He cleared his throat.

“Very well… Draven. Continue.”

Draven leaned forward, the faint glow beneath his mask flaring.

“I can make your soldiers untouchable. Even to the Aetheralyx.”

The throne room fell silent.

The king shifted, greed and fear warring in his eyes. “…Untouchable, you say?”

From the cluster of courtiers, an old man stepped forward — short, gray-haired, draped in silver robes— the king’s chief advisor, a fixture of the court. His brow was furrowed.

“Your Majesty… with respect, granting this stranger such authority over your armies—”

The king cut him off with a dismissive wave. “I do not recall asking your counsel, Bernard.”

Bernard’s brow furrowed. “And yet counsel is my duty, Your Majesty. I’d be remiss if I stayed silent.”

Solon turned, gaze sharper than his claymore, “His Majesty does not care to hear you right now, Bernard. You’d do well to hold your tongue.”

The advisor clicked his own tongue in reply, jaw tightening as though biting back harsher words. He looked at Draven with scorn.

And in return, Draven’s masked gaze lingered on the man for a fraction too long.

Bernard was the king’s right hand—and Draven’s sharpest thorn. From the moment the masked stranger arrived, Bernard’s gaze had carried only suspicion.

Draven didn’t like that. Not one bit.

He tilted his head ever so slightly, almost mocking. “Do you think I stand here for decoration? Take your men and I’ll show you. Maybe then your advisor will know what’s best for his liege.”

The king’s fingers tightened around his goblet until the crystal stem nearly cracked. Greed flickered in his eyes — ugly, hungry — yet beneath it lingered the shadow of unease.

For a heartbeat, no one dared speak. The courtiers exchanged glances. Even Solon’s jaw clenched, the silence stretching like a blade’s edge.

“Fine. Lead the way.”