Chapter 81 – Whispers of War

Kaelian's Game Begins Anew

**

The scent of blood hadn't left the palace marble since the King's funeral. It clung to the velvet drapes, the golden tapestries, and the wary eyes of every courtier who still dared to play the game. Civil war hadn't been declared—but it had already begun.

And Kaelian? He stood at its center. Silent. Calculating. Dangerous.

**

The tension was thick in the air, the kind that clings to skin like sweat before a storm. Kaelian stepped into the Grand Hall of Mirrors, his boots echoing on the polished obsidian floor, each step deliberate, each motion controlled. Beneath the cold surface, chaos brewed—noble houses arming their banners, whispers of secession, factions rising like serpents from the shadows.

His entrance did not go unnoticed.

"Prince Kaelian," croaked an aging duke, his gaze sharp behind a veneer of civility. "You're a difficult man to find these days."

Kaelian offered a thin smile. "Perhaps it's because I am not fond of tombs masquerading as courts."

The insult was intentional. And it struck.

But no one dared respond—not openly. The death of the king had fractured the court like cracked porcelain. No heir had been named. No unity held. And now, the illegitimate prince—the one everyone had tried to erase—moved like a ghost with purpose.

A shadow loomed beside him. Dorn Valek.

"You're baiting them," murmured the counselor under his breath. "Too openly."

Kaelian didn't flinch. "Let them see the storm before it arrives."

**

The Meeting of the Houses was a farce. Nominally a "Council of Stability," it had been convened by the Queen Mother to prevent a descent into war. In truth, it was a theatre of power, and each noble family came armed not with swords—but with promises, threats, and spies.

The Queen sat at the far end, draped in violet mourning, her face veiled. Her eyes burned behind the fabric.

Théor was absent. Rumor said he was gathering loyalist troops in the East.

Kaelian noticed.

Good. Less noise.

As each noble pledged their "loyalty to the Realm," Kaelian remained silent until the end. When all eyes finally turned to him, it was as if the room held its breath.

"I bring no army," he began, voice calm. "No fleet. No noble house with centuries of glory. But I bring reason. And a plan."

A murmur. The Queen stirred.

Kaelian stepped forward. "War will break this kingdom. Before a throne is claimed, the nation will be split into ashes. But a central figure—not necessarily a king—can maintain stability."

He let that hang.

A pause.

Then—

"You speak of a regent," Valek said aloud, picking up the cue.

Kaelian turned to him slowly. "No. I speak of a strategist. A shadow steward. Someone who doesn't wear the crown—but holds the sword behind it."

The room shifted.

And in that moment, Kaelian stopped being the bastard prince.

He became something far more dangerous.

**

Later that night, Lyssa found him in the old observatory, surrounded by dust and forgotten charts. She was pale, her voice tight.

"You're stoking war while pretending to prevent it."

He didn't look at her.

"I'm guiding it. Channeling it. Better a knife I can aim… than chaos I cannot."

She approached, pressing a hand to his arm.

"You're losing yourself."

"I already lost myself. In another life. This one? This is survival, Lyssa."

She hesitated. Then: "There's a message. Smuggled through the kitchens. Someone wants to meet."

He turned, eyes narrow. "Who?"

"Lady Serrane of House Vordalis. She says she has proof Théor murdered the King."

Kaelian's heartbeat quickened.

"If that's true," he murmured, "then the war isn't just political. It's personal."

**

In the catacombs beneath the palace, lit only by flickering rune-lamps, Kaelian met Lady Serrane. She was younger than he remembered—barely seventeen, wrapped in noble silks and fear.

"They killed him," she whispered. "Your father. Théor and the Queen. I saw the poison. My mother brewed it. They forced her. She's dead now."

Kaelian's mind moved like lightning. If this was true, he had more than a cause—he had a weapon.

But lies were common currency here.

"Why come to me?" he asked.

"Because you're the only one who doesn't lie about what you want."

That surprised him. For a moment, it almost hurt.

"Give me the proof," he said.

She handed him a vial—silver etched with glyphs of silence and concealment—and a letter bearing the King's private seal. It named Théor as a threat. As a traitor.

It named Kaelian… as the one who must stop him.

**

The next morning, Kaelian moved swiftly.

A secret meeting with Dorn Valek. A message sent to neutral houses. Rumors leaked—just enough.

A spark. That's all he needed.

And the court, so dry with tension, caught fire.

By sunset, House Vordalis had declared support for Kaelian's claim—not to the throne, but as Regent of Stability.

House Miroen followed, citing the King's letter.

By midnight, two minor noble factions declared fealty.

And in the East, Théor responded.

With fire.

**

The civil war began without declaration. Théor's forces struck first—ambushing caravans supplying the capital, setting fire to outer watchposts. It was tactical. Brutal. Precise.

But Kaelian was ready.

He had trained in another world where armies fell to strategy, not strength.

In the war room beneath the palace, Kaelian marked territories on a map.

"Cut the grain lines. Force him into supply desperation. Then corner him between the mountains and the sea," he ordered, his tone sharp. "We won't face him head-on."

One of the generals sneered. "You plan to starve a prince?"

Kaelian's smile was cold. "No. I plan to unmake a symbol."

And as he stared at the map, he didn't see territories.

He saw pieces.

And he would play them all.

**

Three days into the conflict, Kaelian stood in the silent garden behind the palace, moonlight casting long shadows.

A raven landed on the balustrade, bearing a scroll sealed with obsidian wax.

He opened it.

"To the bastard prince who thinks he can play at kings.

You are no longer merely inconvenient. You are next.

–T"

Behind him, the wind shifted.

Kaelian turned just in time to see a hooded figure lunging at him—dagger gleaming with cursed light.

End of Chapter 81 – To Be Continued…

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