Chapter 12: The Crown’s Teeth

Smoke still rose from the west wing of Caelan's estate, black tendrils clawing at the morning sky like the last gasps of a dying beast. The scent of scorched stone and blood clung to the air, mingling with the stench of betrayal.

They had struck hard.

But not clean.

Caelan stood in what had once been the drawing hall, now nothing but soot, splinters, and ash. The heavy iron chandelier lay smashed into the marble floor. One of the servants—Mira, barely sixteen—had died trying to shield a courier from falling debris. Her body hadn't been found until dawn.

"She was a child," Lys said softly, her voice hoarse from smoke and exhaustion. "She didn't even fight."

"No," Caelan said, kneeling to touch the shattered floor. "But she died in a war."

He didn't flinch. He couldn't. Not anymore.

Behind him, Siran emerged from the shadows, face streaked with ash, a gash across his cheekbone. "The assassins were House-trained. Three of them carried Oresth rings. One had the sigil scorched off—but it was royal."

"Confirmation?" Caelan asked.

"Enough. One of them lived long enough to talk."

Caelan's eyes turned like steel toward the broken windows, the distant spires of the palace shimmering through the haze.

"Then we give the Queen her reply."

That morning, news of the attack spread like wildfire across Vireon.

But not by rumor.By design.

Caelan's allies circulated a message, penned in sharp ink and sealed with a raven crest:

"If a Queen cannot protect her Tribunal from assassins nor her city from fire, what authority does her crown hold? Let justice rise not from lineage but from merit. And let the people choose who stands unburned by flame."— C. Aurelian

It wasn't just defiance.It was declaration.

The streets buzzed. Whispers turned to roars. Students, merchants, even minor nobles began to echo Caelan's words. Copies of the letter were posted on chapel doors, tavern walls, and Tribunal steps.

The Queen's silence in response was deafening.

By evening, Queen Elaria summoned Arlin Verrian to her private solar.

"I've ruled for twenty years," she said, pouring herself dark wine. "I've ended rebellions, broken duchies, silenced priests. And yet I feel I'm losing a war I cannot see."

Arlin's expression didn't change, but he poured his own glass more slowly.

"He's outplayed us. Politically. Morally. And soon, militarily."

The Queen's hand froze mid-pour.

"You think he has the strength to raise arms against the crown?"

"I think," Arlin said, choosing his words with care, "if we don't end him now, we will face a civil war."

She stared at the red in her goblet.

Then drank.

"All right," she whispered. "Then we tear out the teeth before he can bite."

That same night, Caelan convened his circle—not at the estate, which was now being repaired and patrolled by hired wardens, but in the ancient Vault of Sable, an underground relic once used by royal tacticians.

Maps sprawled across the carved stone table. Sigils of major houses marked in red or black. Lines drawn between shipping lanes, troop deployments, and key loyalist bastions.

Siran lit a long taper.

Lys unrolled the final dossier.

"The Queen's strongest faction lies in House Verlain and House Oresth, both now weakened from your financial sabotage. But not broken."

Caelan nodded. "Then we push the blade deeper."

He turned to Lady Merea, quiet until now.

"Can House Othiel still produce the evidentiary writs for Tribunal intervention?"

Merea's lips thinned. "Yes. But if I move openly, my House will lose its neutrality."

"You won't," Caelan said. "You'll pass it through the Tribunal's clerks anonymously."

She tilted her head. "And what evidence am I submitting?"

Caelan slid a parchment across the table.

On it: proof of the Queen's direct authorization of illegal assassinations. Thanks to Serreth's infiltration, the Queen's orders—once hidden in the royal archive—were now in Caelan's hands.

"The Tribunal reconvenes in two days," Caelan said. "She'll expect resistance. She won't expect a knife in open court."

The Tribunal Hall had never been so full.

The great crescent chamber, carved from obsidian and veined marble, was packed with nobles, emissaries, guildmasters, and foreign envoys. The crown's colors—white and gold—draped the walls, but the air felt brittle with something far older than ceremony: fear.

Even the Queen noticed it.

Seated upon the highest throne, Queen Elaria wore crimson, not royal white. A warning. A reminder.

But Caelan's eyes didn't waver.

He entered through the central gate, flanked by Siran and Lys. Behind them came House allies, robed in their own colors, House banners polished and sharp. Not a soldier, not a sword—but power.

The kind that makes kings.

A chime rang. The Tribunal convened.

Chancellor Vaer, newly restored after surviving the earlier explosion, stood with his left arm in a sling. His voice was tight but resolute.

"We reconvene the Tribunal to address the matter of attempted regicide, illegal assassinations within city walls, and the use of royal writs beyond constitutional allowance."

Gasps echoed.

Queen Elaria narrowed her eyes.

"Who brings such accusation against the throne?"

Caelan stepped forward, voice steady and cold. "I do."

He unfurled the scroll.

"Signed by Elaria of House Vel'Raeth, sealed in blood, dated six days prior. Authorization of lethal action against citizens within Tribunal protection. Including Judge Helric, and unnamed targets tied to the Aurelian estate."

The scroll glimmered as arcane glyphs activated—authenticating the signature in real time. The Tribunal's truthseal flickered green.

Real.

Undeniable.

The Queen did not rise. She didn't need to.

Instead, she smiled.

"A boy quoting laws he does not understand. Tell me, Lord Aurelian, do you believe that the throne bows to parchment?"

"No," Caelan said. "But I believe even a throne burns when set alight from the foundation."

She tilted her head. "Then you admit to sedition?"

"I admit to survival. The sedition lies in the blade you sent into my hall."

He turned to the judges.

"The Tribunal exists to safeguard the people against tyranny. That includes a monarch."

The chamber buzzed. Three of the nine judges stood, robes rippling.

"The evidence is sufficient to justify further inquiry," Chancellor Vaer said. "A formal review will proceed. During that time, the Queen's power to enact private military orders is suspended."

The Queen rose now.

Her voice was still velvet—but each word carried the edge of frost.

"You are declaring open war on the crown, Chancellor?"

"No," he replied. "We are upholding the Charter."

"Then allow me to remind you what crowns are made of."

With a flick of her hand, guards stormed the hall.

But they didn't move on Caelan.

They moved on the judges.

Three were seized. One was slain outright.

The hall erupted.

Gasps turned to screams. Noble guards drew weapons. Magic sparked across the air like wildfire caught in a storm.

Lys stepped between Caelan and a bolt of crimson energy.

Siran threw a blade that embedded in a guard's throat.

Caelan remained still.

Watching.

Measuring.

Then he turned to the nearest open balcony and raised a scroll, enchanted to magnify his voice.

"People of Vireon! The Queen has struck down the Tribunal. She has murdered judges in open session. The crown is in rebellion against its own law!"

The entire capital heard him.

Across rooftops, towers, and courtyards, the sound echoed.

And with it came the long-awaited truth.

From the shadowed alleys of the Merchant's Ring to the battlements of House allies, Caelan's agents were ready.

Flags changed.

Sigils burned.

The city turned.

By nightfall, open rebellion had begun.

Not against the nation.

But against its Queen.

And at the center of the firestorm stood one unbowed figure, black cloak billowing in the wind, voice a blade that cut through centuries of silence:

Caelan Aurelian.

The sky over Vireon burned.

Not with fire—yet—but with tension wound so tightly it crackled through the air like lightning caught in a net. The Tribunal Hall was barricaded by Caelan's allies, the outer guards defecting one by one as the city's loyalties fractured.

But far above, in the high tower of the royal keep, Queen Elaria stood unmoved.

"Summon Lord Marshal Tirien," she ordered. "And wake the Bloodcourt."

Her chamberlain hesitated.

"The Bloodcourt has not been summoned in thirty years, Your Majesty."

"And they will not wait thirty-one."

The chamberlain bowed and fled.

The Bloodcourt.

An elite unit of arcane assassins bred by the royal family in the First Era, bound by blood-rites to obey only the ruling monarch. It was said they once slaughtered a desert capital in a single night.

Caelan knew what it meant when the Bloodcourt was unleashed.

This would no longer be about law or rebellion.

This would become annihilation.

Back in the Vault of Sable, Caelan gathered his core council.

"We have until dawn," he said. "After that, she sends death incarnate."

Lys stood with arms folded. "We fight them head on?"

"No," Caelan said, voice sharper than steel. "We cut off their command before they draw blood."

He turned to Serreth, the masked spymaster returned from the inner court.

"Status?"

Serreth bowed. "The Queen's military command lies in Marshal Tirien's hands. He will take the field by noon—unless he's stopped."

Caelan's gaze didn't shift.

"Then we stop him."

That night, a strike team moved under cover of arcane veils. Siran led the unit, handpicked from loyalists trained in both espionage and shadow combat. Their goal was simple:

Remove Marshal Tirien before the Bloodcourt could mobilize.

The plan was surgical. Flawless. Untraceable.

Until it wasn't.

Siran returned bleeding, eyes dark with fury.

"He knew. Tirien knew we were coming. He wasn't there."

Caelan stilled.

"How many did we lose?"

"Two. But that's not the worst part."

Siran unrolled a black cloth, revealing a royal token—one carried only by court operatives.

"She fed us the location herself."

Caelan's eyes narrowed.

"The Queen?"

Siran nodded grimly. "She wanted us to strike."

A trap.

A message.

A warning.

She had allowed them to move, only to show she was ten steps ahead.

A game of blades played with kingdoms as pieces.

Caelan said nothing for a long moment.

Then he turned to the map of Vireon, marked with all strongholds and escape routes.

"We'll respond in kind."

By dawn, the Queen's announcement echoed across the capital:

"Let it be known that Caelan Aurelian is declared a traitor to the crown. All noble and common hands aiding him will be treated as enemies of the realm."

But it was followed, moments later, by Caelan's own proclamation, read aloud by thousands in the streets:

"When the Queen murders justice in its own hall, it is not I who betray the crown—but she who defiles it."

And beside those words stood proof: images of slain Tribunal judges, evidence of forbidden assassination orders, and testimony from royal insiders.

The Queen wanted war.

Caelan would give her one.

But not on her terms.

The final blow of the chapter came just before dusk, when a mysterious fire erupted at one of the Queen's outer barracks—her Bloodcourt's staging ground. No one knew who lit the fuse.

But Caelan knew.

Because he ordered it.

And as he watched the flames rise, bathing the royal crest in red and gold, he whispered to no one:

"Even queens bleed."