Chapter 18: The Throne Beneath the Storm

The guard lifted his head. 

"Your Majesty," he said, voice steady despite the weight behind the words, "the Crown Prince has returned." 

There was complete silence in the courtroom. It was the kind of silence that pressed against the skin—heavy, stifling—like the stillness before a storm. The golden chandeliers hanging from the arched ceiling no longer seemed to shine but stood frozen in the thick air. Ministers and nobles sat motionless, their gazes fixed on the guard as if time itself had paused. 

No one knew how to react. Even the young king, seated on the high throne draped in crimson velvet, was frozen in disbelief. His fingers, once casually curled over the lion-carved armrest, now gripped it tightly, the color draining from his knuckles. 

After all these years, the Crown Prince had returned. 

A whisper of memory seemed to ripple through the hall—the echoes of past parades, the sound of laughter in the royal gardens, the proud posture of a prince lost to time. There had been countless questions, endless searches, and fruitless missions. His name had lived on like a ghost, haunting conversations, lingering in every silence. Despite all efforts, no one had ever found a trace. Eventually, the people had mourned him quietly, as one mourns a wound that never heals. They had assumed he was dead. 

But now—now, he was returning. 

The shock struck the court like a sudden wind blowing through open windows, scattering every unspoken thought into chaos. Expressions shifted—from disbelief to fear, from confusion to dread. The very air seemed to shift, as though something ancient and powerful had begun to stir. 

With the Crown Prince's return at such a critical moment, the entire situation—the delicate, threadbare balance of power—was now unraveling thread by thread. The walls, once steady with tradition, now felt as if they trembled with uncertainty. 

The young king, his voice sharp but strained, broke the silence. "Where is he?" 

The guard, still kneeling with his head bowed, replied, "Your Majesty, he is on his way to the courtroom." 

A ripple of tension passed through the hall. The tap of a minister's ring against polished wood echoed too loudly. Eyebrows furrowed, lips pressed into tight lines. Each man and woman sitting there was a storm of questions in human skin. Where would their loyalties lie now? What power would shift hands in the next hour? What old truths would return from the past? 

They were already divided—two factions, locked in bitter opposition. And now, with the Crown Prince about to step into the very heart of the court, what new cracks would spread through the marble floor of unity? 

What would happen when the lost heir met the throne that had once been his? 

Everyone who had been sitting with Ryan inside the carriage was now accompanying the Crown Prince to the courtroom. The others had been led away to rest. Only five members remained, including the Crown Prince himself. 

They stood before a massive, towering door—ornate with gilded carvings of ancient beasts and curling vines, its surface darkened by age and time. The wood glowed faintly in the torchlight, polished to a sheen that reflected the flickering flames. The Crown Prince stepped forward and placed his hand on the cold, heavy iron handle. With a deliberate push, the door groaned open, the creaking sound echoing like distant thunder through the vast marble hall beyond. It was not just a physical movement—it was a declaration. His entrance wasn't loud, but it was powerful, each footstep falling like a measured drumbeat as he crossed the threshold with silent command. He walked ahead with the calm weight of a storm on the horizon, his presence bending the air itself. Behind him, the other four followed, their steps hushed but synchronized, like shadows drawn to his gravity. 

As they entered the courtroom, the air shifted—taut, charged, like the moment before a lightning strike. 

The king rose from his throne without a word, his robes rustling softly like leaves in the wind as he descended the dais to greet his brother. The throne behind him, high-backed and crowned with symbols of the sun and sword, stood silent, almost watchful. One by one, the court stood too, the scraping of chairs and sudden motion breaking the heavy stillness. 

Ryan's eyes scanned the room with cautious intensity. 

The young king stood directly in his line of sight. He was barely thirteen or fourteen, his face pale beneath the ceremonial circlet, which sat a little too large on his brow. His frame was slight, still soft with youth, yet wrapped in royal blue robes stitched with golden thread that shimmered with every movement. He looked like a boy wearing a king's mask, fragile under the weight of a crown. 

Ryan's gaze drifted to the ministers. Some leaned forward slightly, others stiffened in place. Every face told a different story. One held restrained fear, another raw calculation. Some eyes flicked toward the Crown Prince and then quickly away, as if afraid to linger too long. Their loyalties, once divided, now wavered like candle flames caught in a draft. 

With the Crown Prince now inside the courtroom, the old fire—the one that once raged behind closed doors—was beginning to spark again. 

Whether they liked it or not, the game had shifted. 

Confusion swirled like smoke in the air. A low current of whispers passed between the robes and shadows. Eyes darted. Hands twitched. Words sat poised on tongues but dared not be spoken. A thick tension pulsed through the chamber, alive and humming, as if the very walls were holding their breath. 

No one knew what would happen next. But everyone knew that nothing would ever be the same. 

The court was adjourned because no one knew what to talk about—what to say, and what not to say. The silence had hung thick in the chamber like smoke after a failed ritual, choking every voice before it could find form. As soon as the court ended, many of the ministers began to move—hesitantly at first, then with growing urgency—toward the Crown Prince. Their robes rustled like dry leaves against the polished stone floor, their voices hushed but charged with purpose. They wanted to know what was on his mind, what their next move should be, because this would shape the fate of the Jira Nation. 

It was no secret—he was the elder brother. The Crown Prince of the Jira Nation, with a presence like calm before a storm, wished for peace. That much was evident in the quiet restraint etched into his face, the way his eyes sought compromise rather than conquest. 

Ryan wasn't sure why Annos had started bringing him to these meetings—gatherings thick with murmured strategies and layered intentions. Annos did all the talking. Ryan, by contrast, sat like a shadow in the corner—silent, disinterested, yet absorbing everything. The dim lighting cast long streaks of gold and shadow across the marble walls, and through the haze of incense and the droning tone of political pleasantries, Ryan began to piece together a truth: many of the ministers wanted to stop the war. The capital of Jira was bleeding out. Roads cracked under the weight of neglected carriages, the markets thinned, and the air had taken on the metallic stench of decay and unrest. 

But the young king—barely more than a boy—was wrapped tightly in the web of his butler and the ministers loyal to his cause. They fed him dreams of glory and tales of fallen enemies, and the boy listened with eyes burning for battle. He would never agree to peace. Not now. 

The king of the Jira Nation—his name was Archie—was just thirteen. A boy in age, but crowned in gold, cloaked in velvet, and gripped by the feverish fantasy of victory. He saw war not as blood and loss but as a game of conquest. He was ready to toss everything into the flames of war—troops, treasury, even his own people. 

There was no time now to replace him. No time to start a civil revolt. But he had to be turned. Convinced. Persuaded. 

That was the unspoken weight behind every whispered word in the room. That was the unspoken mission of the meeting. 

After it ended, Ryan quietly stepped beside Annos. The tension in the room still clung to the walls like cold mist. 

"Don't worry about your brother, Archie," Ryan said, his voice low and steady. "I'll handle it." 

Annos turned sharply, brows knitting. "How? Why you?" 

Ryan didn't answer. Instead, he offered a small, unreadable smile—a flicker of something between mischief and certainty—before turning and walking away, the echo of his boots fading down the corridor. 

He had an idea. A plan, sharp and quiet like a knife beneath silk. 

An idea he would use on the thirteen-year-old king. 

It was dark that night. The moon, veiled behind drifting clouds, cast only a pale silver glow over the palace. Maya, Ryan, and Samuel Deep all entered the King's bedroom through different routes—silent as shadows slipping through cracks. It wasn't very difficult. The young king was asleep—deeply asleep, his breath steady, oblivious to the trespassers circling his sanctuary. 

They scanned the room cautiously, eyes sweeping over every corner, ensuring no unforeseen variables could disrupt the plan. The King's bedroom resembled a private royal gallery—expansive and gleaming, adorned with gold-inlaid furniture, velvet drapes, and polished crystal chandeliers that caught the faintest moonlight like hanging stars. Even Ryan, usually indifferent to wealth, felt a flicker of envy stir within him. 

After inspecting every inch of the room, Ryan turned to Samuel. "Place the sound barrier. Nothing leaves this space." 

Samuel nodded. He began muttering under his breath, his fingers weaving a faint pattern in the air. The very air around them changed—thicker, denser—as if the walls had swallowed every sound. Outside, wind rustled through the night, slipping easily into the room through its exposed design. Two sides of the chamber opened directly to a balcony, flanked only by white marble pillars. Curtains fluttered like ghostly hands, and the night breeze carried the scent of wet stone and flowering vines. Ryan frowned, half-amused, half-concerned. What had the builders been thinking, making the King's chamber this vulnerable? 

A few seconds passed. The spell settled like glass around them. Silence hardened. 

Samuel straightened. It was done. 

"Now, let's start with the plan," Ryan said, his voice low and precise. 

Samuel hesitated. He looked down at his hands. "I am an angel. Do you want me to become a demon?" 

Maya and Ryan froze. They turned slowly, their gazes landing on Samuel like the weight of tombstones—cold and absolute. Samuel met their eyes. Then he exhaled, accepting the necessity. 

With a surge of energy, he shifted. His form grew taller, broader. Muscles rippled beneath his skin as it turned a deep, dark crimson. The soft white light that once danced around him evaporated like mist. His wings, once symbols of grace, vanished. Symbols—jagged, ancient, alive—glowed faintly across his bare chest and arms. His loose black pants swayed as his transformation completed. He no longer looked human. He looked like a walking nightmare—more powerful than ever before. 

Ryan and Maya vanished into the shadows, hiding behind thick curtains and carved furniture. 

Samuel muttered under his breath, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "I used to kill people… now I'm scaring kids."