Fury Unleashed & Crumbling Veils

The great hall of Caledonia's palace had never seemed colder. Golden chandeliers hung overhead, their flames flickering nervously as though even fire feared what might come. The scent of polished marble and ancient tapestries did nothing to soften the tension that pulsed through every breath.

Arthur stood before the throne, blood still singing in his ears from the confrontation hours earlier. His identity lay bare now—no longer just the stray healer, but Arthur, son of Cecilia, the sister branded traitor. And across the hall, the Second Prince—Cecilia's brother, Arthur's uncle—watched him with a gaze sharp enough to cut stone.

Yet it wasn't the prince's stare that truly chilled Arthur.

It was Draven.

Draven, the prince's son. His cousin by blood, though they shared nothing else. Tall, broad-shouldered, armored in the colors of the Crimson Line. Where the prince's fury burned hot and loud, Draven's anger lay buried under a polished calm—a calm far more dangerous.

And beside them sat the King himself, the lines of age and regret deepening in his features as he looked upon Arthur as though seeing a ghost.

---

"Step forward," the King commanded, voice worn yet heavy with authority.

Arthur obeyed, Fenrix at his side, shoulders tense. Umbra watched from the shadowed beams above, silent witness.

The King's gaze searched Arthur's face, eyes haunted. "Your mother's likeness rests in you," he murmured. "And so does her stubbornness, it seems."

Before Arthur could speak, the prince cut in, voice venom-laced. "He is no rightful heir, Father. He is the spawn of betrayal—raised in the wild, wielding forbidden magic. His presence here dishonors the bloodline."

Draven's gauntleted hand tightened around the hilt of his blade, but his eyes never left Arthur.

Lilith, standing near the dais, spoke quickly, her voice firm. "He saved my life more than once. That cannot be denied."

"And what of his attempt to kill me in the yard?" the prince snarled. "You'd let such insolence pass, sister?"

Arthur's jaw clenched. The memory of that moment—the surge of Anti-Heal magic, the prince's sneer, the almost-fatal strike—flashed before his eyes.

"I regret nothing," Arthur said, voice low but steady. "You spat on her name, and I will not stand for it."

The words echoed through the hall, and Draven's calm finally cracked.

"You dare speak so to my father?" Draven hissed, stepping forward.

---

The room seemed to shrink around them. Arthur felt mana gather in his veins, darker and colder than ever before.

"You speak of honor, Draven?" Arthur shot back. "While you stand beside the man who betrayed his own sister?"

In that moment, Draven moved—blade flashing from scabbard in a single, practiced motion, cutting a silver arc through the air toward Arthur's chest.

But Arthur was already moving too, Anti-Heal coiling like a serpent around his outstretched hand. The curse struck Draven's blade, sending a shockwave that cracked stone tiles underfoot.

The blow didn't stop Draven. His sword came again, a blur of steel aimed for Arthur's shoulder.

Arthur's fury surged, pushing his mana harder. The curse writhed outward, its black-violet glow searing into Draven's breastplate, denting the enchanted steel.

Draven staggered, teeth clenched, but recovered instantly—raising his blade to guard.

They locked eyes across the space of a breath.

And then Arthur's curse lashed forward again—this time not at the sword, but at the man.

Draven pivoted, blade intercepting the curse at the last instant. Mana shrieked against steel, and the hall blazed with violet light.

Even as the block held, the edge of the curse scraped across Draven's side, slicing through steel and cloth. Blood blossomed, darkening the crimson of his armor.

Draven gasped, stumbling back, eyes wide in shock and fury.

The silence that followed rang louder than any battle cry.

---

The prince lunged forward, face twisted with rage. "Guards! Seize him! Seize that cursed bastard now!"

But the King raised a hand, his voice cutting through the uproar. "Enough!"

The command froze the guards mid-step.

The King stood, slowly, his gaze never leaving Arthur. In his eyes, Arthur saw something unexpected: sorrow… and memory.

"You are Cecilia's child," the King said, voice roughened by years and guilt. "I see it clearly now. Even your defiance is hers."

Arthur swallowed hard, his anger trembling on the edge of grief. "She was your daughter. And you let them hunt her."

The words stabbed deeper than any blade. The King flinched, shoulders sagging as though the weight of the crown had doubled in that instant.

"And you," the King turned to the prince, "mock her memory still. Even now."

The prince stiffened, mouth opening to protest, but the King's glare silenced him.

---

Draven's hand clamped over his bleeding side, blood seeping between his fingers. His eyes, once calm and unreadable, now burned with unspoken promise: This is not over.

Arthur lowered his arm, breath coming hard. The curse still hissed faintly around his hand, reluctant to fade.

In that moment, the veil of courtly pretense fell away, leaving only raw truth:

Arthur had attacked the Second Prince. Had drawn blood from the heir's only son. And had revealed himself before all.

No more masks. No more half-truths.

Lilith stepped closer, her voice shaking but clear. "He is Cecilia's son. We cannot pretend otherwise."

The King closed his eyes, as if weighing the kingdom itself. "And so the past returns," he murmured. "What shall we do with it?"

The prince's face twisted. "Banish him. Exile. Execution, if you have any sense."

Arthur's chest heaved, but his voice stayed steady. "I will not flee. And I will not bow."

Draven's blood dripped onto the marble, each drop marking the end of pretense.

---

In the quiet that followed, Arthur felt the weight of every choice, every step that had led him here.

His mother's love.

The forest and Fenrix.

The nightmares of burning roses.

And now, the raw truth burning brighter than any crown.

He stood unbroken, the curse alive at his fingertips.

And though the palace trembled under old secrets and new wounds, Arthur knew one thing:

He had become a blade in his own right—tempered by loss, honed by wrath, and driven by a promise that no prince or king could smother.

The veils had crumbled.

And Arthur would never hide again.

---

To be continued...