Storm
"Aren’t you curious why your king is greeting you all alone in this hall?"
Yvain sat before his gathered nobles, his youthful visage belying the weight of his words.
Duke Eldric raised his voice, not even answering to Yvain’s greetings. "My, it seems Your Majesty's court is too indolent to grace us with their presence today. Your Majesty, you should—"
“Fire them?” Yvain cut off his words.
"Well, I did. I find myself alone today by choice," he began, his voice steady, imbued with a calm authority. Cold man. So cold.
"I've dismissed those who dared to insult me and my decision. It seems I needed to make room for those truly loyal to Edensor. Or at least curious enough to witness its fate firsthand."
Duke Eldric Olfield frowned.
Alongside him, the faces of the other high nobles soured as well. Duke Merweather, Marquis Reune, and even Duke Velaryon shared in the collective displeasure.
Yvain paused, surveying the room with a satisfied eye. "Let me share a little prophecy with you, a glimpse of what would have transpired had I not made the difficult decision to accept Emperor Burn’s offer."
Yvain's tone took on a biting sarcasm as he painted the hypothetical scenario.
"Our esteemed lord of the west," he nodded slightly towards Marquis Reune, "would not have hesitated for a second. They would’ve sprinted to join Emperor Burn, tripping over themselves in their eagerness to switch allegiances."
The room tensed, nobles shifting uncomfortably as Yvain’s gaze swept to Olfield and Merweather.
"Our friends in the north would have fled inland, seeking refuge in the heart of the continent, while our southern brethren would have taken to the seas, hoping to escape the reach of Emperor Burn’s iron grasp."
A wry smile played on Yvain's lips as he turned his attention to Duke Velaryon, who stood rigid and alert.
"And then, there’s Duke Velaryon. A valiant stand would be made, no doubt, swords drawn and banners flying high. But alas, when the dust settled, and the reality of defeat became apparent, your plea to manage Edensor under the flag of Soulnaught would surely follow."
The hall was filled with a charged silence, each noble absorbing the young king's words.
"Imagine that, each of you, playing your part in this conquest opera as though you were mere characters in a play scripted by fate, or rather, by Burn."
The young king was just spoiling the written fate word for word, right from Burn’s own mouth.
Yvain’s tone softened slightly, but the underlying steel remained. "I chose to surrender out of strategy, not fear. By aligning with Burn, I’ve secured a measure of control over our destiny, rather than leaving our fate to the chaos of war he is going to declare forward and the whims of turncoats."
He clasped his hands on his scepter. "So, yes, I sit here alone, because I will not surround myself with those who doubt or deride. From this moment forward, our course is one of cautious cooperation with Soulnaught, not blind submission."
“But.”
With a flick of his wrist, King Yvain summoned the ethereal equivalent of a high-tech surveillance system.
Magical images flickered into existence, hovering like ghostly screens. Each one offered a live feed of Soulnaught's army, ominously assembled near the domains of Edensor's elite families.
"There, as you can see," Yvain began, "our friends from Soulnaught are enjoying a little camping trip just outside your estates."
The images could as well be praised as a well-directed documentary, showcasing rows of Soulnaught soldiers who seemed more equipped for a parade of power than a quiet picnic. The troops were arrayed in perfect formations already!
"Marquis Reune," Yvain continued, nodding towards the western border's representative, "your neighbors have polished their armor just for you. How thoughtful, right?"
The scene shifted to the north, where Duke Eldric's lands lay. "And Duke Olfield, it seems the northern winds bring more than just cold air this season. Perhaps a hint of steel and gunpowder as well."
Next, the southern coasts under Duke Merweather's stewardship came into view. "Duke Merweather, your shores are about to host more than just seagulls and ships. I hope your docks are ready for a different kind of tide."
Finally, the focus landed on Duke Velaryon’s territory. "And dear Duke Velaryon, it appears a siege might be part of your upcoming social calendar. I'd advise against planning any large banquets."
Yvain's tone held a sharp edge as he manipulated the magical displays, each swipe and tap punctuating his points. The nobles around him shifted uncomfortably, their expressions ranging from alarmed to downright terrified.
They were accustomed to the comfort of their high stations, but now found themselves grappling with the immediate reality of a military threat at their doorsteps. Worse, they were helplessly distant from their lands, wealth, and families, unable to defend them.
"Your Majesty! This is preposterous! Are you waging war against your own people?!" Duke Olfield bellowed, his voice echoing through the throne hall, outraged and in disbelief.
"Are you truly allowing Soulnaught to parade their forces through our lands unchallenged? This is a disgrace!" Duke Merweather added, his tone sharp and accusatory, his gaze piercing Yvain with every word.
"And what of our sovereignty? Are we to bow and scrape while they march on our soil?" Marquis Reune chimed in, his words fuelled by a fiery indignation, filling the room with a crescendo of protest that rattled the ancient windows.
Together, their voices melded into a tumultuous uproar, challenging Yvain's authority and questioning his strategy. Just like the brewing storm outside.
Yvain knew this was as expected. Seizing the moment of vulnerability, he fixed his gaze on his vassals. “It will be me.”
"Again, let me be clear," he began, "a single command from ME could send Soulnaught's forces to dismantle everything you hold dear. Your lands, your titles, your very lives hang by the thread of MY goodwill."
It was a threat. He must remind them of the young king's resolve and authority. Sensing their wavering spirits, Yvain pressed on.
"This kingdom," he declared, "will no longer be a playground for your personal ambitions or corrupted interpretations of 'good.' From this moment forward, your allegiance will be secured not just by oath but by magic. Bound to the very essence of Edensor's stability, glory, and lawful order."
He raised his hand, and ethereal strands of light began weaving around the assembly. It materialized into tangible symbols of the pact they were about to enter.
This magic…!
Oh! How exciting!
It was a binding agreement! A pact that would enforce their loyalty through the inescapable grip of enchanted compulsion. A magic pact~ What fun! Yes. Yes! Slavery!
"As your king, I demand your absolute submission," Yvain continued. "Refuse, and you face a literal disintegration of all you command under this pact."
This was it, the old dual threats of military annihilation and magical enforcement. Look at them finding their options narrowing to one. Absolute compliance.
But in the middle of it all, Duke Velaryon suddenly grinned.
Of course the bad guy would have his trump card, right?
CRAAAAAAASH!
The guard mechs and battle mech armors made their grand, uninvited entrance into the throne hall.
Several tons of metal indifference, bulldozing through the walls!
Yvain, oh, Yvain, my boy, how are you going to escape this?
Aaah, the crumbling masonry accompanied their every step, a dramatic soundtrack to their destructive debut. As dust settled like the aftermath of a particularly aggressive confetti cannon, these behemoths of steel planted themselves amidst the aristocracy.
CRASH! CRACKLE! CRACKLE!
“AAAH!”
“WHAT?! WHO?!”
“WHAT IS THIS?!”
In the midst of it all, Velaryon spread his arms.
“There you are!”
Beep! Crackle!
“Lord Velaryon! On your command!”
As the mechanical minions clanked and clattered into the hall, the nobles gasped, clutching their pearls and medals as the scene unfolded. They started to scramble for cover, faces white as sheets, as the walls crumbled around them.
Yvain, caught in the midst of weaving a magical pact spell to ensure their submission, now found himself ensnared in a more tangible form of coercion.
Shock reflected in his eyes, panic causing his hands to tremble.
Over the past three years, since Morgan Le Fay's mysterious vanishing, the Duke had been quietly weaving his web of influence throughout Edensor's palace and military.
The palace guards might as well have worn Velaryon crests on their uniforms, so thoroughly had he bought their loyalties. It seemed Edensor had been waltzing to his tune, especially after young King Yvain lost his support.
Crap.
Now, with the mechanical might of guard mechs and battle armor from the kingdom’s military, operated by those whose pockets jingled with Velaryon gold, crashing through the throne room doors, Benjamin Velaryon decided the time was ripe for a bold move.
Treason? Yes, but more like a strategic realignment of royal assets, as he would put it at the next high society dinner.
“Oh, oh dear.”
Velaryon’s voice cut through the chaos, his tone full of condescension as he addressed the young king.
"Oh, dear Yvain, playing a king was a charming endeavor, wasn’t it?” he sneered. “But let’s not kid ourselves.”
The man shook his head.
“Absolute submission? To you? Don’t you realize that this kingdom was mine already?"
