Towards the Heart of the Beast (Part 2/2)

Ciro's eyes fell upon Aiden. There was no trace of the contempt he had seen in them before, nor the arrogance of the outer gate guards. There was only the expression of someone at peace.

"Aiden."

The way Ciro used his name took him by surprise. "It's good to see you again."

For a moment, Aiden was speechless. In the past, he had admired Ciro; after all, he was the one who had led them to salvation after the cataclysm and ensured all the survivors reached safety. However, that was long in the past, because when Ciro became Commander, he had the power to do something, yet he did nothing to help his people or save Aiden from his fate. In the end, they had all abandoned him.

"You too," Aiden managed to say, the words feeling hollow.

"King Veilon awaits you," Ciro continued. "Please, accompany me."

It wasn't a request. It was an order wrapped in feigned courtesy. The captain and his men stepped aside without another word, their obedience blind. And they all began to move toward the Zephandor palace. They had left the functional districts behind, entering the true circle of power. The air here was purer, the sounds more muted, dominated by the echo of their own footsteps and the gentle flutter of the great banners of Zhailon on the nearby towers. The few citizens who walked here did so with a purpose and confidence that set them apart from the desperate crowds outside—they wore tunics of fine wool and their faces were serious, those of high-ranking bureaucrats or minor nobles. But it was the soldiers who dominated the landscape: members of the Royal Guard, motionless as statues of polished steel, their gazes following every move without even turning their heads.

The Commander was the third-highest authority in the kingdom of Zhailon; first came the kings or archons, and below them, the Commander, who controlled the entire military guard. His authority was absolute. As Aiden and Angellon followed him along the gleaming marble path, with the great banners of Zhailon waving from the nearby towers, Aiden felt as if he had just walked into the beast's maw. He was with Ciro, Angellon, and about to see King Veilon. Would he also encounter other old faces? The judges who had imprisoned him or the custodians of the Terum? Aiden clenched his fists at the thought.

"Officer," Ciro said, breaking the silence and addressing Angellon, "I've heard you've established a functional camp outside the Citadel. I trust you are not wanting for anything."

"I appreciate your concern, Commander. You have nothing to worry about; we have everything we need."

"I'm glad to hear it," Ciro said, picking up the thread. "I hold young Zen in high esteem. She is one of the finest healers the Sunset Kingdom has produced in a generation; a truly valuable resource for the realm."

"I agree. Zen's skill is exceptional," Angellon replied. "Which is precisely why I personally ensure she never lacks anything. Her inventory is my priority. I appreciate your concern, but we are covered. Your time is valuable, Commander; you shouldn't waste it on us."

Ciro wasn't offering help; he was looking for an excuse to inspect the camp and poke his nose into Angellon's unit. She, on the other hand, had chosen her words carefully to politely refuse him. Ciro, however, didn't stop there but changed his tactic.

"Speaking of self-sufficiency, the latest reports from Solvayne just arrived. Their steel production never ceases to amaze me, though their people lack a certain... robustness, don't you think? Too much time at the forges and not enough under the sun."

Angellon didn't even hesitate, her response was immediate. "Every domain has its strengths, Commander. Solvayne forges the steel that protects the kingdom. You can't ask them to also have the endurance of a warrior from Vharos, whose only forge is battle itself."

Aiden listened, trying to understand where the conversation was heading.

"Vharos..." Ciro murmured. "Certainly useful in combat, but tell me, Officer, don't you find their loyalty to be as stable as the activity of their volcanoes?"

The question was a probe. At first, it might have seemed that Ciro was seeking Angellon's strategic opinion, but it was apparently a way to steer the conversation toward Vharos, knowing the Officer's past with the Lyskaar guard. It hinted that Ciro was questioning Angellon's loyalty to King Veilon.

"I share that view. Xandreal laid the groundwork for unification, but once it was formed, Vharos ended up with their former territory. I've heard they never wanted to bow to the king, but their clan leader at the time had a very good relationship with Torvin Zephandor, the unifier."

"You seem to know a great deal about the matter."

"Of course. Gathering information is paramount to my family. It would be unwise of me to deny it."

It was a flawless answer. Although she had admitted to having considerable knowledge about Vharos and hinted at possessing important information from other sources, Angellon had stated it openly, making it clear to Ciro that she had nothing to hide.

"In that case, I'd like your opinion. If the army of Vharos were to attack the kingdom, how would you solve the problem?"

Aiden felt a subtle tension in the air. Angellon stopped for a moment in the middle of the path, causing Ciro and Aiden to halt as well, as if she were contemplating the best possible answer.

"In my case..." she said, a hand on her chin. Then her gaze turned grim. "I would kill every last one who dared to cross the domain's borders."

Both Ciro and Aiden were left speechless by her response.

They walked the rest of the way to the grand palace gates in a tense silence. Aiden was the most troubled among them. Angellon, for her part, wore a mocking, triumphant smirk, and that smile was what unsettled Aiden the most.

Doesn't she realize what she's just done? he thought, glancing at the woman's profile. This woman's arrogance was bottomless. Her confidence in her brute strength made her predictable to a man like Ciro. He had already taken her measure. He already knew how to provoke her. And worst of all, Aiden thought with a knot in his stomach, she had just dug her own grave. All he could do now was wait for the worst.

Being so close to the palace, Aiden could distract himself by noticing several details that were missed from a distance. The white marble it was built from wasn't entirely pure; it was veined with fine threads of gold that caught the sunlight, bathing the entire facade in a gleaming golden hue. The great entrance door was made of solid black iron, with the emblem of Zhailon forged in the center. On either side of the door, Aiden found small stone recesses that were almost unnoticeable, and peering inside the holes, he found eyes watching him. They weren't statues, but soldiers of the army, manning the surveillance network of the Zephandor palace.

As they arrived, the enormous iron gates swung open with a monumental creak, without a single word being spoken. They proceeded through the castle entrance, and the outside world vanished, replaced by the overwhelming grandeur of the royal hall.

Aiden looked up, awestruck in spite of himself. The ceiling, at a dizzying height, was supported by marble columns that disappeared into the shadows. From the walls hung the banners of all the domains of the kingdom, their colors and emblems a display of the unity forged under Zhailon's yoke. Unlike the palace exterior, the hall's interior was crowded, but not with courtiers or nobles engrossed in their intrigues. It was filled with farmers, peasants, artisans in simple attire, women with children clinging to their skirts... all waiting patiently for an audience, surely to ask the king for aid. Along the edges of the hall, guards in dark cobalt uniforms stood watch with their spears.

This is all just a theater, Aiden thought with contempt.

A grand stage for the king to play the savior of the people. He heard the murmurs of the crowd, the shuffle of their feet on the marble floor, and it all felt like a farce.

Ciro led them along one side of the hall, bypassing all the waiting people. Aiden felt their eyes on him—gazes of curiosity, envy, and resentment. He was sure some of them knew he was a Svalthren and looked at him accusingly.

He shouldn't be here, was surely what was going through their minds. He could see the details of their faces, the weight of their lives. A woman with her hair in a frayed braid cradled a sleeping child, her eyes fixed on the far end of the hall with a mixture of hope and supplication. Further back, a gray-haired old man, his hands gnarled and deformed by a lifetime of labor—perhaps a farmer or a blacksmith—clutched a worn straw hat, his back bent by the weight of years. Aiden noticed a young couple holding hands tightly; their clothes were those of farmers, clean but patched, and their faces reflected a silent panic. For a moment, he felt a strange, bitter connection to these people, to the destitute waiting for a crumb of the king's mercy. He had once been one of them. Now, nothing was left but pure hatred.

His attention finally settled on the raised dais at the end of the hall. And for the first time in fifteen years, Aiden saw the person who had walked beside him in the academy, King Veilon Thalmyr himself. The king wore a doublet of a deep, dark blue combined with gold accents, made from a quality fabric but without excessive adornment. His brown hair was short and tousled, falling to his jawline, and his eyes were a deep blue, characteristic of the Thalmyrs. The expression of that ambitious, roguish, and competitive youth had vanished, replaced by the hardened gaze of a king. The young man who had competed with him on the training grounds, the one who sometimes shared a mug of ale in a Common Circle tavern with their comrades, talking about who would one day rule Zhailon. In the end, his dream had come true.

Veilon sat on his quartz throne, which was adorned with gold pieces, ornamentation, and bits of leather, and beside him was Queen Rea Zephandor. At his side, seated on a less ornate throne, was the daughter of the former king. Aiden remembered her from the academy as a quiet and distant girl, serene at the court events of old. Now, she was a woman, her beauty found in her coffee-colored curls, her amber eyes, and her delicate, fine skin, matured with a melancholic grace, like an autumn flower. She wore a blue dress that matched Veilon's, a color characteristic of the Zephandors and now the Thalmyrs as well.

While Aiden was lost in thought, a farmer with calloused hands appeared before them.

"My king, my queen..." the man said, his voice trembling but clear in the silent hall. "My name is Gaelan, from the farms of Gray Hill. Your majesties, I come on behalf of my people, who find themselves in a devastating situation." Gaelan spoke in a tone of supplication. He lowered his gaze and continued, his desperation growing with each word. "The late rains, Majesties... they have been a curse... The wheat rotted on the stalk before it could ripen. What little is left is not enough to get us through the winter, and we have no grain for next year's planting. Our families..."

As he described his people's plight, his voice broke for a moment, and his composure vanished. Gaelan fell to his knees and bowed his head, a plea to his king and queen.

"Please... help us..."

Veilon leaned forward slightly at this, a flicker of concern in his eyes, his mind likely weighing the implications of such aid, from a bad omen for tax revenues to the geopolitical stability of the region. However, it was Rea who spoke first.

"Lift your head, Maese Gaelan. The crown never abandons its people, especially in a calamity. We are with you and your people. Rest assured, no one will go hungry," she said in a soft tone.

The farmer Gaelan, kneeling in despair, raised his gaze to Rea, some of the desperation draining from him at her calming words.

At her side, Veilon nodded, taking the floor.

"Commander Ciro has already informed me of the shortages in the Northeast Hills. It is not an isolated problem, noble farmer." He took a breath. "The Ministry of Economy has already been given its orders. Grain from the royal reserves will be released to your village and the surrounding ones. Not just to stave off winter hunger, but for planting as well. We will provide you with seeds infused with Terum directly from Ikaria to make them more resistant to water scarcity, ensuring you never lack a harvest and thus securing more prosperous winters."

Aiden had heard rumors of Terum infusions from Ikaria, where nature was intrinsically linked to the energy. In the past, they were just that—rumors, since Ikaria rarely allowed outsiders to enter. Could it be that they now had the domain's support?

Veilon paused to observe Gaelan's reaction. The farmer's tear-streaked face, his eyes fixed on the king as if he were a messiah, told Veilon that his spirits had been restored.

"Maese Gaelan, I hope this news is welcome to you and your people. Now, go and ensure your kinsmen know that help is on the way." Veilon gave the farmer an optimistic smile.

A performance, Aiden thought, his stomach churning. Veilon offering a textbook solution, and her feigning compassion.

How many Svalthren had starved in exile while they handed out crumbs to ensure the loyalty of others? Did his clan not matter?

Veilon signaled to a nearby soldier. "Escort Maese Gaelan to the Ministry of Economy. Ensure he receives this edict."

Veilon extended a sealed parchment to the farmer. Gaelan clutched it with trembling hands, his eyes filled with tears of gratitude. He bowed so low his forehead nearly touched the polished marble. "Thank you, my king... my queen. May the gods bless your path, today and always..." he murmured, his voice broken with emotion, before being led away by the soldier.

As the farmer departed, visibly moved, Veilon prepared to receive the next person in line. It was at that moment that Ciro stepped forward.

Aiden took the opportunity to whisper to Angellon.

"What in the world were you thinking?" he asked, unable to contain his anxiety. "Saying that to Ciro? 'I would kill every last one.' Really?"

Angellon let out a low laugh, devoid of mirth. "Well, he asked me a question, so I simply answered," she said, raising her arms as she looked defiantly at Aiden.

"Ciro isn't some gate guard, Angellon. What you did was foolish. You'll have them watching our every move."

"Relax. Nothing of the sort will happen."

"How can you be so sure?" he asked, clenching his fists. "He already had you in his sights, and now after what you said, he's certain of what he must do."

"You think I don't know that? Please, just drop it. If someone overhears us, then we'll really be in trouble."

Aiden let out an exasperated sigh and stared at the floor, thinking that Angellon had already dug her own grave. "I hope you know what you're doing."

* * *

"My king, with your permission," Ciro said respectfully. "They have arrived."

Veilon's attention shifted to Ciro. "Really? Excellent. Both of them?"

"Both, my lord."

A smile tugged at the corner of Veilon's lips, and he quickly glanced at a soldier standing beside the throne. "Announce a recess. I will attend to the others in a few hours."

He rose from the throne with grace, and Rea did the same. Veilon was a king in the prime of his strength, moving with the confidence of one who knows the world belongs to him. His eyes met Aiden's across the distance, and for a second, all the noise in the hall faded away.

It was then that Ciro reached them. "Follow me."

They left the royal hall through a side door, leaving the disappointed murmurs of the crowd behind. They walked through more private, silent corridors, where the only sound was the echo of their own footsteps. Aiden had never been in the palace corridors before; the most he had ever seen was the throne room. A blue carpet lay beneath their feet, and lamps with flickering flames were mounted high on the walls. Large windows to the sides allowed Aiden to see outside the palace, overlooking esplanades where royal troops were stationed under guard.

Finally, they reached a set of double doors made of dark oak, flanked by two elite guards who snapped to attention at the sight of Ciro. He gestured to them, and they opened the doors, revealing the king's private meeting room. Ciro motioned for them to enter. Angellon went first, followed by Aiden, who felt the heavy oak doors close behind him, sealing them inside the king's lair.

The scent of polished wood, leather, and old paper filled his senses. The walls were lined with shelves full of leather-bound tomes and scrolls of parchment. An unlit fireplace dominated one wall, and across a large oak table in the center were spread documents, maps, and domain reports sealed with wax.

And so, after nearly two decades of hatred and resentment, in the heart of the power that had destroyed his life, Aiden met the gaze of Veilon Thalmyr, with Queen Zephandor at his side. Back then, they had been equals, two sides of the same coin of ambition and talent, destined for greatness. The most promising of their generation and heirs to their respective clans. Fate had already made its move, and they were merely the survivors on a broken board.