The Concord’s Silence

Scales of Judgment

The Iron Concord Appears

And then I noticed them — the Legion of the Iron Concord.

Heaven’s law given steel. Enforcers of divine order. One Crownkeeper, two Twin Mantles, fifteen Officers of the Three Rings, and thousands of soldiers sworn to the Oath of Judgment.

Their sole purpose: weigh Heaven’s sins, strike down imbalance before it spread. No songs. No glory. Just verdicts.

When the Concord moved, it meant Heaven itself had spoken.
And right now? Heaven was watching me.

Clad in silver-and-black armor etched with scales of law, they stepped from the shadows like a divine execution notice.

The ministers froze. Conversations snapped shut like jaws. Even the nobles in their balconies sat straighter — nothing like the smell of judgment to ruin your silk cushions.

At their head was Captain Ayaka Sazanami, the Crownkeeper — the Storm-Scales Judge. Her hair was bound in a severe knot, her eyes like winter glass. She didn’t glare. She didn’t scowl. She just… weighed. And somehow, that was worse.

Beside her stood Riku Sazanami, her brother and one of the Twin Mantles. Fiery, protective, a man with scripture on his tongue and a silver judgment tablet never far from his hip.

They didn’t cheer. They didn’t condemn. They just stood. Silent. Waiting.

Nobody dared breathe too loud. Ministers who’d been mid-whisper suddenly found their robes very interesting. One even dropped his quill. Poor guy looked like he’d just signed his own obituary.

And then Father’s voice thundered, shaking the gold of the chamber:

Tenjin: “The Divine Tree has spoken. But should doubt remain… the Legion of the Iron Concord will decide.”

Translation? Step out of line, and these people get to measure your soul like it’s grain at a market.

Great. Totally comforting.

The Mask

So I did what I do best. I smiled wider, bowed lower.

Me: “I am grateful for Heaven’s faith. I’ll wield these gifts for the good of all.”

On the surface? Perfect heir. The golden boy. Heaven’s favorite miracle.

Inside? Sarcasm on fire.

Oh yes, dear council, I’ll definitely “use my gifts for everyone.” Heal the sick, bless the crops, polish your halos. Not like you’ll spend the next decade plotting how to dissect me like a celestial lab rat and sell the pieces in prayer jars.

But I held the mask. Because that’s what heirs do.

Through the corner of my gaze, I caught Kael.

His fists were clenched, fire flickering faintly at his fingertips — the element he’d fought tooth and nail for.

And me? I had fire, water, wind, earth, lightning, ice, and divine light. Everything.

He didn’t speak, but his eyes screamed plenty.

Why you? Why not me?

Rivalry wasn’t just rivalry anymore. It was suspicion.

Fantastic. Nothing says friendship like “I wonder if I should stab you before you explode.”

Lyra’s Quiet Flame

Lyra’s eyes found mine. Calm, steady, cutting through the noise like she always does.

Everyone else saw a weapon. She saw… me.

Which, honestly, was unfair. Ministers doubt me, Kael wants to strangle me, and here she is looking at me like we’re two pieces cut from the same puzzle.

Sarcasm brain: Perfect. Just what I need — someone who actually believes in me.

Her side? Easy. Let them whisper. Let them fear. He jokes, he hides, but he’s mine to trust. Always will be.

Her gaze lingered. My smirk twitched. And for a moment, we didn’t need words.

Mother’s Worry

My mother — Yumi — sat to Father’s left.

Her silver hair glowed under the chandeliers, her posture perfect, but her eyes? They never left me. Not the ministers. Not the Concord. Me.

Her hand pressed to her chest, clutching the pendant she always wore — a small crystal etched with our family crest. Her silent prayer.

I softened, just for her. For a heartbeat, the mask cracked.
If she saw through it, she didn’t call me out. She just prayed harder.

The Debate Spirals

The session dragged like a trial with no verdict.

“Should one heir hold what a council of gods could not?”
“Will other nations see this as imbalance?”
“Could this invite war?”

Blah, blah, blah. Same three questions, twenty times, in slightly different tones of panic.

Father silenced each wave with a glare, but the undercurrent never left.

By the end, the chamber stank of false praise and unspoken fear. The applause at my name was thunderous, but the cracks ran deep beneath it.

Cracks in Applause

Leaving the hall, I plastered the smile back on like it was glued there.

Servants bowed. Guards saluted. Kids waved little flags with my name on them like I was already king of the playground.

And still, beneath it all, the ember pulsed violet-gold in my chest.

They feared seven gifts.

If they knew about the eighth — the spark still caged inside me? They’d chain me to the Crystal Heart and call it “safety.”

Me, whispering under my breath: “Good thing I’m excellent at keeping secrets.”

Sarcasm tastes bitter when it’s the truth.

My Ears in the Dark

That night, after the court dismissed, the ministers gathered again.
Not in the hall. Not in the open.

A shadowed chamber. Lanterns burning low. Words whispered like knives.

I shouldn’t have been there. But I was.

I slipped after Arval’s shadow, cloaked by a Parallax Ghost — my echo walked left while I followed right. A neat little trick that kept guards chasing illusions while I ghosted after the real snake.

Every creak of the floorboard felt like thunder. Every lantern flicker like an eye. If I sneezed, I’d probably end up a footnote in a minister’s assassination report: Cause of death: allergies.

Through the seam of the wall, I pressed myself into silence. My echo breathed just enough to keep suspicion away.

Inside, their voices dripped like poison.

Minister 1: “It is too much power in one vessel.”
Minister 2: “If he cannot be controlled, he must be… contained.”

Arval: “Careful. Speak not of treason. Speak only of safety. Heaven’s safety.”

Silence. Heavy. Then a murmur of agreement.

And me? My fists trembled, the ember pulsing harder in my chest.

They didn’t see an heir. They didn’t see a boy.
They saw a threat.

And in that moment, I realized something worse than their fear:

They didn’t plan to wait for me to slip.
They planned to push.

End of Chapter 9 — Scales of Judgment