Chapter 21: The Oathbreakers’ Court

The High Halls of Ravencall had not seen war in centuries.

Carved into the mountain cliffs and etched with the names of every Great House that had ruled or fallen, the hall stood as a relic of a time when negotiation still meant something. It was here that kings were once chosen by majority vote, that treaties were etched in blood and sealed in flame.

And now, for the first time in a hundred years, the Council of Lords had returned.

Twelve seats formed a crescent around a dais shaped like a broken crown. At its center, a single throne of blackwood — no sigils, no crests — symbolizing neutrality.

No king sat there now.

Only a challenge.

Caelan arrived at dawn.

He wore no crown, no armor, no insignia of any house — only a cloak of black wool clasped at the shoulder with a silver dagger. Flanking him were Vale and Lys, silent shadows in a room full of watching eyes.

The nobles gathered murmured.

Some turned their faces away.

Others watched with fascination, as one might a wolf brought into a lion's den.

At the far end of the chamber, Lord Harren Vayle — the acting Head of the Council — stood and raised his staff.

"By decree of the Charter of Blades, let this emergency summit be opened. Let grievances be voiced, claims be challenged, and truths be unmasked."

Caelan stepped forward into the ring of nobles.

Twelve houses. Twelve enemies. Twelve fangs waiting to bite.

House Thorne was the first to speak.

Lady Ilvara Thorne, known as the Iron Widow, rose from her chair in a gown of slate-gray silk and said, voice cold as frost:

"You call yourself the last son of House Seraphine. Yet Seraphine was stripped of nobility and condemned for treason. What right do you have to summon this council?"

Caelan met her gaze.

"My mother's name was Seraphine Valen. She was executed without trial. Her lands seized. Her banners burned."

He stepped onto the center dais.

"The charges against her were fabricated by House Marell. That house no longer stands."

Ilvara raised a brow. "A convenient revenge story."

Lord Talvos Yren of the Marshlands spoke next. "You took Hollowspire by force. Slaughtered Marell's heirs. Is this what you plan for the rest of us?"

Caelan's tone was sharp. "I do not seek to rule by fear. I seek to end the rule of corruption."

Laughter rang out from the other side of the chamber.

It came from Lord Albrecht Dorne, a man with too many rings and not enough morals.

"You preach like a martyr, yet you sit on a mountain of blood. Don't pretend to be different from us, boy."

"I'm not pretending," Caelan replied. "I'm declaring."

He turned, addressing them all.

"You've all seen it. The Queen's grip tightening around your throats. Taxes doubled. Lands reassigned. Heirs imprisoned. Trade routes sanctioned if you don't kneel fast enough."

Some looked away. Others froze.

Caelan pressed on.

"You're not lords anymore. You're slaves with crowns."

A murmur spread through the chamber.

Then Lady Ravelyn Corven, the matriarch of House Corven — sharp-eyed and dressed in widow's black — stood and said:

"And you would offer us what? Another throne? Another tyrant in a younger face?"

"No," Caelan said. "Not a throne."

He reached into his cloak — and withdrew a scroll sealed in silver wax.

Vale handed it to the Council clerk.

"This is a new Charter," Caelan said. "Drafted with the help of six independent lords. It proposes the formation of a High Council with rotating leadership. Decisions made by majority vote. Veto power only in times of war. Land rights reinstated. Military oversight shared."

Silence.

Heavy.

Then disbelief.

"You're proposing a republic?" Lord Dorne spat.

Caelan's voice cut through the rising tension.

"I'm proposing freedom. Shared power. Protection from bloodline monopolies. No more executions without trial. No more exiles based on rumor. No more stolen heirs and silk-wrapped poison."

He took a breath.

"I'm not here to be king. I'm here to end the game."

They didn't agree immediately.

Of course they didn't.

But they listened.

Because for all his youth, Caelan spoke like someone who'd watched his world burn and had memorized every scream.

He stayed after the summit ended for the day. Held private talks. Played wine-and-salt diplomacy with minor lords. Offered assurances, trade incentives, and oaths not to interfere in regional disputes.

Vale organized them.

Lys kept watch — and killed a spy posing as a chambermaid.

By the third night, three houses had joined his cause: Corven, Estros, and Halren.

By the sixth, two more wavered.

And then came the turning point.

A letter arrived at dawn.

It bore the seal of House Aurelian — once the Queen's strongest ally.

Caelan opened it before the Council.

Lady Talia Aurelian's voice rang out as Vale read it aloud.

To the Lords of the Realm,For too long, we have bowed to the illusion of order. The Queen's justice is ash. Her rule is rot wrapped in roses.House Aurelian withdraws support for the crown. We cast our vote for a new Charter. For a new future.And for the boy who bled to give it to us.

—Lady Talia Aurelian

The room erupted.

Three houses stormed out.

One lord fainted.

And Lady Ilvara Thorne, ever the tactician, simply sat down with the quiet resignation of someone who had just realized the tides had shifted beneath her.

That night, as Caelan stood on the balcony of Ravencall, Vale joined him.

"We're winning," Vale said quietly.

Caelan didn't smile.

"Not yet. The Queen will come. She'll strike hard, and she'll strike soon."

He looked east.

Toward the capital.

Toward the city where his mother's bones still lay buried under a traitor's monument.

"I gave them a future," he whispered. "Now I have to make sure they live long enough to see it."

Back in the hall, the Council cast their votes.

Eight in favor.

Four against.

The Charter passed.

The Kingdom was no longer a monarchy.

It had become a battleground.