Cierra

"Does anyone here recognize any of these six men?"

A long silence settled over the room. All eyes had turned to the drawings laid out on the table. No one spoke at first. Then, Lord Reginald leaned in slightly, examining the papers more closely.

Lord Reginald's eyes widened in astonishment—for these men were the most skilled operatives his house had ever trained in secret. Until now, they had only been deployed on covert night raids and sabotage missions deep within enemy territory. 

That the newly crowned King Etharell somehow knew of their existence, Reginald assumed, must mean the king intended to praise their service. After all, what else could it mean?

And yet, Reginald found himself deeply impressed by the king's reach—by the efficiency of his intelligence network. Not even the late king, Etharell's father, had ever been aware of these secret men.

Slowly, Lord Reginald straightened up, a smile curling his lips. But his expression carried more triumph than sincerity. Puffing out his chest, he spoke with a rich voice tinged with concealed pride.

"Your Majesty," he said, his tone firm, measured. "These six men… are elite agents sworn to my house. Their loyalty lies with me—but of course, their service has always been for the good of the kingdom. For weeks, they have infiltrated enemy lines, delivering critical intelligence. Some of our most decisive strikes were planned directly through them."

He stepped forward and gestured to the drawings on the table with unmistakable pride.

"And now, their work is in your hands. My men—are at your service, Your Majesty. And I assure you, there are more where they came from. They were raised in loyalty. I believed… their success deserved recognition."

A ripple of unease passed through the council. No one knew what to expect after such a bold admission. All eyes turned to Etharell.

The king had not moved.

His face betrayed nothing—not surprise, nor approval, nor anger. Absolutely unreadable.

Then Etharell spoke, his voice like a blade drawn in winter:

"So… these men are your private force. Your intelligence network. Raised entirely by your family."

Reginald raised his brows, still smiling. "Indeed, Your Majesty. But they've always served—"

Etharell stood.

Suddenly. The scrape of the chair echoed against the stone floor, followed by the hard clink of armor. The hall fell utterly silent. Even the sound of breathing seemed to vanish. Etharell walked toward Reginald, each step striking the stone with deliberate weight.

No one spoke. No one moved. The king stopped directly in front of Reginald, locking eyes with him. In those few seconds, time seemed suspended.

Without a word, Etharell raised his hand.

Everyone held their breath.

But his hand did not go to his sword. Silently, it came to rest on Reginald's shoulder.

The king's face remained devoid of emotion. Yet when he finally spoke, his voice was clear and resolute:

"Men raised in loyalty… And a lord raised the same."

Silence.

"The kingdom needs such men."

He withdrew his hand. For a moment longer, their eyes remained locked. Then Etharell turned away and walked toward the door with steady steps. Behind him, Sir Caelen, the king's chief knight, followed without hesitation.

Reginald's eyes gleamed faintly. The weight of the king's hand on his shoulder still lingered. His chest swelled with pride. In that moment, he felt not just a lord, but a cornerstone in the future of the realm.

The other council members exchanged glances. None could quite understand what had just transpired, but all sensed something had changed. Their new king was unlike any ruler they had known—unpredictable, unreadable.

Reginald stood still, unmoving. A single tear slipped from one eye, but he wiped it away swiftly. With new purpose in his gaze, he stepped forward and followed his king out the door.

The rest of the council sat in stunned silence for a moment longer. Then, one by one, each recalled duties awaiting them. They rose and departed in turn. The strange council meeting had come to an end—but without a doubt, it had left its mark on them all.

The silence that followed was more ominous than any storm to come.

Sir Caelen walked a few steps behind his king, his eyes drawn to the certainty in Etharell's stride. The echoes of their footsteps carried through the stone halls of the palace. Servants slipped into the shadows, avoiding their gaze.

Just before they reached the own room, Etharell came to a stop. Sir Caelen halted a few paces behind.

"Caelen," said Etharell, his eyes still fixed on the mosaic floor beneath his feet, "I want a full list of Reginald's agents. Their mission logs. Their encryption methods. And find out where each of them is currently stationed. Immediately."

Sir Caelen bowed his head.

"As you command, Your Majesty."

-----

Lord Reginald sat silently in the carriage on his way back from the palace. As the scenery passed by beyond the window, only one thought echoed in his mind:

"He only placed his hand on my shoulder… yet under that hand, I felt ready to rewrite my entire life."

He smiled to himself. What he had seen in the king's eyes was not arrogance. Not anger, nor disdain... but absolute dominion. Etharell had made him feel, without drawing a single sword, that every string of power lay firmly in his grasp. And it made an incredible impression on Reginald.

By the time he arrived at the estate, night was beginning to fall. The servants greeted him quietly, respectful and discreet. Reginald walked straight to his study and ordered a scribe to bring him the latest reports without delay. His mind was still trapped in the aftermath of the council meeting.

When the door opened softly a few moments later, the identity of the person who entered was evident by the sound of her footsteps alone.

Cierra.

Without lifting his head, Reginald spoke.

"Curious that you were nowhere to be seen while matters concerning the kingdom's future were unfolding."

"My beauty is far too precious to be squandered in council chambers, Father,"

She replied playfully. Her voice was silky-smooth, yet carried a needle-sharp edge beneath the softness.

The flickering candlelight in the room framed her not as a mere figure entering the space, but as a portrait come to life.

Her golden hair, cascading down to her waist, shimmered faintly in the dim light. Eyes as clear and piercing as the sky itself didn't look at her father, but rather, seemed to challenge the very world. Her body had been shaped with divine generosity—elegant curves and firm lines that didn't detract from her nobility, but completed it.

Yet her beauty was not only in form. There was composure in her every movement, and venom-laced intellect in her words. Cierra was not just beautiful—she was watchful and dangerous. In the places where she smiled, most men would kneel—either in awe or in fear.

Her hips moved with a grace that was impossible to ignore. The dark blue dress she wore clung perfectly to her form, accentuating her chest with tasteful precision. The neckline was measured—enough to draw attention, but no scandal. There was neither the coldness of a noblewoman nor the vulgarity of cheap allure. It was balance—refined, deliberate beauty.

Her face looked as though a sculptor's devoted hand, with noble and sharp features: high cheekbones, finely shaped brows, and full lips had carved it. When combined with those piercing blue eyes, the result was disarming—almost inescapable. But the genuine danger lay deeper, hidden in the sharp clarity behind her gaze.

She walked over and sat beside him silently, resting her elbow on the armrest, tilting her head slightly to the side.

"How was your day, Father? And how did you find our new king?"