Chapter Twelve – The Weight of a Kingdom

The imperial study was silent, save for the steady scratching of a quill against parchment. The king, seated at his massive desk, moved with an air of precision, his yellow eyes scanning reports with the kind of focus only a ruler could possess. The flickering candlelight cast sharp shadows across his face, deepening the creases of contemplation. He had long grown accustomed to the weight of leadership—the endless decisions, the unrelenting tides of politics—but tonight, something gnawed at him.

Then, the heavy wooden doors to his study were flung open with a force that sent a sharp gust through the room. The king's quill halted mid-stroke. His piercing gaze snapped up.

"Cedric?!" His voice was sharp, cutting through the stillness. "What is the meaning of this?"

Cedric, the ever-composed royal advisor, stood in the doorway. But tonight, he was different—his usual calm had been replaced with urgency, a flicker of alarm in his posture. He caught his breath, bowed deeply, and straightened before speaking.

"Your Majesty…" His voice was grave. "I bring urgent news. There has been an explosion at the Satoru estate."

The words landed with a heavy thud, but Cedric wasn't finished. His lips tightened as he forced the rest out.

"Both the Reaper and the Duke's son… are dead."

The silence that followed was suffocating.

The king's hand slammed onto the desk. The impact sent papers scattering, the inkpot tipping slightly before steadying again. His nostrils flared, his jaw clenched.

"Who did this…?" His voice was low, dangerous. "Who would dare?"

Cedric swallowed. He was no stranger to the king's fury, but there were few moments in his life when he had felt it so palpably. Still, he had to say it.

"…It was the second prince, Your Majesty."

The room froze. The air turned unbearably heavy.

The king's fingers twitched, his gaze locked onto Cedric as if willing the words to be false. He did not speak immediately. Instead, he let out a slow, measured breath, his hand coming up to rub his face. It was an uncharacteristic display of weariness—one that Cedric had never seen before.

"Why…" The king muttered, almost to himself. His voice carried no rage, no authority. Only frustration. Only disbelief. "Why did it have to be my son…?"

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head as if trying to push away the sheer absurdity of it all.

"Why… Why can't that boy just be simple? Why does he always have to act without thought?"

Cedric remained silent. There was nothing he could say to lessen the weight of those words.

The king sat back, his fingers pressed against his temples. He stayed like that for a long moment, his mind racing. Then, slowly, he lowered his hands, his expression hardening.

"That boy…" The king's voice carried steel now. "Now that my plans have been disrupted by my foolish son… I need you to go and destroy every piece of evidence or information that could reveal who or what killed the Duke's son and the Reaper."

There was no hesitation in Cedric's response.

"Yes, Your Majesty."

He turned to leave, moving with the efficiency of a man who had served the throne for decades. But just as his fingers brushed the door handle, he stopped. Something still lingered in the air. Something unsaid.

"Your Majesty…" Cedric hesitated. His voice, though still composed, carried a rare note of hesitation. "…What about the young prince?"

The question made the king's expression darken.

"Find out who my foolish son has been conspiring with." His voice was sharp, but underneath it was something else—something raw. "And summon him back to the palace. I need to have a word with him."

Cedric bowed. "Understood, Your Majesty."

As the door shut behind Cedric, the king sat motionless, staring at nothing in particular. His hands, steady and strong, rested against the desk, but there was an undeniable tension in them.

The room was quiet again. But this time, the silence felt unbearable.

Above him, the intricate frescoes depicting the kingdom's glory seemed to mock him now. How ironic. How cruel.

The Satoru family was meant to be kept in check. The Reaper served as a necessary counterbalance to power. The boy, the Duke's son, was never intended to perish. What worried him most was knowing the Reaper wouldn't succumb to a mere explosion

His plans had been precise. Controlled.

And now?

All shattered by the reckless actions of his own flesh and blood.

His fingers curled into a fist.

"The second prince…" he muttered, his voice carrying the full weight of a father's disappointment and a ruler's fury.

What was that foolish boy thinking? What did he hope to gain from this?

The future of the kingdom had just taken a dangerous turn.

In the night

The brothel was alive with voices—whispers of deals, drunken laughter, the occasional moan. Inside a private chamber, five men sat around a small table, drinking, their faces half-lit by the chandelier's flickering light.

At the head of the group was the Second Prince. He leaned back in his chair, swirling his wine, letting the others talk.

Duke Varlan, the oldest among them, smirked. "Your Highness, you've done what your father never could. The Reaper's death marks the beginning of a better rule."

Count Dorian let out a rough laugh. "A bold move! Finally, a man who understands how power works."

The Prince barely reacted. "He was in my way."

Viscount Thorne grinned. "And now he's gone, and we thrive. We all know it's you, not the king, who's truly in control."

Lucien, the youngest, slumped in his chair, nodding lazily. "And when the throne is yours, we'll be standing right beside you."

The Prince raised his glass slightly. "All I need is your continued support."

The men exchanged knowing glances before lifting their glasses in silent agreement.

The Prince stood, signaling for entertainment. Five women entered, draped in silk, their eyes trained on the gathered men. The nobles leaned forward, anticipation in their eyes.

The Prince turned away. He had other matters to handle.

________________________________________

The hallway was dim, filled with the scent of perfume and alcohol. Women passed by in soft fabrics, brushing against customers, laughing, whispering promises. The Prince walked through without slowing.

A man fell into step beside him—red hair, green eyes, a casual smirk. Angelo.

"Your Highness," he said, handing him a black cloak. "Might wanna keep a low profile."

The Prince took it without stopping. "Unnecessary."

Angelo chuckled. "Wouldn't want people wondering why the Second Prince spends his nights in places like this."

The Prince sighed but pulled the hood over his head. "Let's go."

They stepped out into a side alley. The moment they did, a sound cut through the air. A sharp, wet crunch. A low, broken gurgle.

Sara stood over a man, her boot pressing into his shattered leg. He was shaking, barely breathing. His fingers twitched, scraping against the dirt. Blood pooled beneath him, soaking into his torn clothes.

Sara tilted her head, watching him with cold eyes. "Still alive?"

The man let out a choked whimper. His mouth opened like he wanted to beg. Nothing came out but blood.

She sighed, lifting her foot. Then, without hesitation, she brought it down. Hard.

A sickening crack. His skull split. Bone and flesh gave way. His body jerked once, then stopped.

Angelo groaned. "Sara. Seriously?"

She ignored him, wiping her boot against the ground, then turned. When she saw the Prince, her expression changed instantly.

"Your Highness!" Her voice was light, sweet—completely at odds with what she had just done. She moved fast, wrapping her arms around him.

The Prince let her. "Having fun?"

She leaned into him slightly. "Not as much as I'd like."

Angelo crossed his arms. "Do you even try to be subtle?"

Sara pulled back just enough to glance at him, her face blank. "Do you?"

Angelo exhaled, rubbing his temple. "I don't even know why I bother."

The Prince handed him a small parchment. "This is for you. And your party."

Angelo unfolded it, scanning the names. His jaw tightened. "Assassinations?"

The Prince nodded. "These people can't be allowed to move freely. I can't use my usual men. My father's watching."

Angelo ran a hand through his hair. "You don't make things easy."

Sara took a step closer, peering at the list. A slow smile crept onto her lips.

"This'll be fun," she murmured.

Angelo shot her a look. "You're messed up, you know that?"

She shrugged. "You say that like I care."

Before Angelo could respond, armored footsteps echoed from the street.

The Prince moved quickly, pulling off the cloak and tossing it back to Angelo.

"Knights," Angelo muttered.

Sara tensed, but the Prince simply adjusted his coat. "I'll see you both soon."

Before leaving, he reached out, resting his hand lightly on Sara's head. Her eyes softened just slightly.

Then he was gone.

Sara watched him disappear, her lips barely parted.

Angelo sighed, flicking the cloak at her. "Come on."

She didn't move.

"Sara."

She blinked, then scowled, finally stepping away. "You ruin everything."

Angelo smirked. "You're welcome."

They slipped back into the shadows.