Chapter 178: Weak
Chapter 177
The king’s words send ripples of shock through the room.
"Your Majesty, no—"
"Your Majesty—"
"Your Majesty!"
They speak over each other, voices rising, overlapping, desperate. The councilors surge forward like a wave, hands outstretched, faces pale.
"ENOUGH!" The king yells.
Silence crashes down like a physical weight.
No one moves. No one breathes. The marble floor gleams under the chandeliers, reflecting the frozen tableau of nobles and officials caught mid-protest.
The king stands in the center of the room, chest heaving, face flushed. His hands are shaking—whether from rage or exhaustion, no one can tell. His crown sits slightly askew, knocked loose by the force of his own fury.
"I said enough."
The councilors shrink back. Some lower their eyes. Others stare at the floor, at the ceiling, anywhere but at the man who holds their futures in his hands.
Russell steps forward. His voice is measured, careful. "Father, perhaps we should discuss this further—"
"No." The king cuts him off.
"The consequences of this matter are far too large. Swift action needs to be taken."
The old councilor a white-haired, stoop-shouldered, a man who has served the crown since before Richard was born,steps forward.
"My King, he simply made a mistake. Throughout his life, the boy has made no faults. He has contributed to this kingdom with espionage missions, catching spies, protecting our borders." His voice trembles.
"I beg Your Majesty to please reconsider this decision."
He lowers himself to his knees.
The king sighs. It is a heavy sound, weighted with years of decisions that no one else wanted to make.
He walks to the throne. Lowers himself onto it. Suddenly, he looks like he has aged decades.
"Very well," he says. "Then what do you propose?"
No one speaks.
The councilors avoid the king’s gaze. Some study their shoes. Others examine the ceiling. The old man on his knees stares at the floor.
"I’m aware of what’s done to the ones that escape," the king says finally. His voice is tired.
"But these are no longer the times of our grandfathers, when we could simply publish a newspaper and sway public sentiment. Technology is far too advanced to maintain a strong hold on information."
He pauses.
"We needed to come up with something new anyway."
Jack watches from the edge of the room. He hears the words. The ones that escape. Not the ones who leave. Not the citizens who emigrate. Escape.
As if Solmere is a prison.
No one in the room seems to have any empathy for those citizens. They speak of them as problems to be managed, not people who have been hurt. Not families who have lost loved ones.
Jack thinks to himself: Wow. I suppose it’s not surprising. These are people in power. Obviously not good people.
The king leans forward.
"I understand, boy, that you probably panicked. That you took matters into your own hands in an attempt to rectify the situation."
He looks at Richard,still standing, still silent, still pale.
"But your decision was wrong."
Richard’s jaw tightens. "Your Majesty—"
The king raises his hand.
Richard falls silent.
The king scans the room slowly, deliberately, letting his gaze rest on each councilor in turn.
"Anyone with any other solution," he says, "other than letting the young duke step forward to pay for his mistake?"
No one speaks.
But everyone hears the underlying words.
Duke Richard Roderick is to be the scapegoat for this whole mess.
Jack watches from the edge of the room. He sees the realization dawn on the councilors’ faces. He sees them do the math—calculating losses, weighing loyalties, deciding which side will benefit them more.
The king doesn’t wait.
"All those in favor of my decision?"
A pause.
Then, slowly, one by one, hands begin to rise.
Richard watches. His eyes move from face to face. Men who dined at his table. Men who asked for his favors. Men who owed him their positions, their wealth, their lives.
They avoid his gaze.
Their hands stay up.
The old councilor who knelt earlier...his hand is up too. His eyes are on the floor.
It is understandable.The nobles have all suffered from the recent events. Their businesses looted. Their properties damaged. Their reputations stained. And if Richard takes the fall—if he becomes the face of this disaster—then public anger might be appeased.
Richard stands there. Impossibly still. His hands are clasped behind his back, but Jack can see the white of his knuckles.
Powerless.
The men who rode on his coattails, who kissed his ring, who called him friend...they are voting to strip him of everything.
"All those opposed?"
No hands.
Richard Roderick feels an emotion he’s never felt in his life.
Helplessness.
Weakness.
Not one of them meets his eyes.
Their hands are still raised. Still voting against him. Still choosing themselves over him.
Cowards.
The word burns in his throat, but he doesn’t speak it. He can’t. His voice feels like it belongs to someone else. Someone small. Someone powerless.
Weak.
He has never been weak. He has never been helpless.
He was born a Roderick—a name that meant strength, protection, loyalty. He was raised to be a shield for Solmere. He was trained to fight, to lead, to win.
And now—
Now he stands here, stripped of everything that makes him him.
The king’s voice cuts through the silence.
"The motion carries. Richard Roderick, you are hereby relieved of your command. Your authority. Your title. All privileges granted to the Duke of Roderick are revoked." He pauses.
"You may keep your personal assets, but all assets belonging to the title are to be handed back to the crown."
Richard doesn’t move.
He feels like he’s in a nightmare he’s unable to wake up from. The marble floor seems to shift beneath his feet. The faces around him blur at the edges.
This isn’t happening.
This can’t be happening.
"In one day, we’ll hold a press conference," the king continues,but Richard Roderick is unable to hear anything further.
The words fade into static. The faces blur. The room spins at the edges, distant and unreal.
His gaze turns.
And he makes eye contact with Prince Jackson.
The bastard prince stands near the edge of the room, half-hidden behind the crown prince’s shoulder. His posture is relaxed. His hands are clasped loosely behind his back. His expression is calm—neutral, even.
But his eyes.
His eyes are smiling.
It’s him.
The realization crashes through Richard like a wave of ice water.