Chapter 196: THE UNSTOPPABLE VOICE
Two weeks passed like smoke scattered by the wind.
Hexagon Hall once again stood as a silent witness to the gathering of the most powerful figures in the Kingdom of Aethelgard. Nothing had changed within the room—the polished black stone walls, the six hanging crystal chandeliers representing the six provinces, and the ancient blackwood round table with its intricately carved map. The silence runes along the corners still pulsed with a faint glow, ensuring that not a single foreign ear could eavesdrop on tonight’s proceedings.
However, the atmosphere was palpably different.
Two weeks ago, the tension had been wrapped in layers of pleasantries and diplomacy. Tonight, it was naked. Every soul seated around the table already knew where this meeting was headed. There was no more room for doubt. No more time for deliberation.
King Edward IV sat in his high seat. In the past fortnight, his face seemed to have aged decades—as if each passing day had stolen a year of his life. His hair, once only streaked with grey, was now almost entirely white. The lines on his face had deepened into crevices. Yet, the most striking change was in his eyes. The eyes that were once sharp as an eagle’s, once capable of piercing through the lies of cunning nobles, now appeared dim and hollowed.
To his right, Queen Eleanor sat with the same rigid posture as before: spine straight, hands clasped on the table, her black gown shimmering with gold embroidery. But this time, there was a shift in her countenance. It wasn’t an overt smile of victory—that would be too vulgar for a queen. Instead, there was an air of absolute composure. The calm of a chess player who had seen the final move and knew her victory was inevitable.
To the King’s left, Queen Marianne sat in her simple light blue gown. Her face was pale—paler than it had been two weeks ago. She brought no notes, no documents. Her hands were simply clasped in her lap, fingers gripping each other tightly—the only sign of the storm she was suppressing beneath her calm exterior.
Prince Leonardo sat to Eleanor’s right. His small notebook lay open on the table, but this time he wrote nothing. His eyes moved slowly, observing every face around him—his weary father, his frigid mother, the tense Marianne, and Alexander, who was as still as a tombstone. He was calculating. Not numbers, but weight. The weight of voices, the weight of influence, and the weight of consequences.
Prince Cedric sat beside Leonardo. His Royal Archmage robes, deep blue with silver thread, pulsed faintly under the crystal light. He leaned back, one leg crossed over the other—the posture of a man who already knew the outcome of the match and was merely waiting for the time to celebrate.
Princess Isabella sat across from Cedric. Her wavy black hair cascaded over her shoulders, her blue eyes staring straight ahead—toward the empty chairs across from her, toward the space that symbolically represented Northreach. Her hands were balled into fists on the table. She did not hide her hatred. She didn’t need to.
To Marianne’s left, Princess Valerine and Princess Adriana sat side by side. Valerine, as usual, chose to remain inconspicuous. Adriana, however, was different. Her green eyes darted around, observing, calculating, preparing the remarks she would hurl if the situation forced her hand.
And at the far end of the table, distanced from the royalty yet somehow at the very heart of power, sat Archbishop Alexander. His white robes, embroidered with gold, stood out against his black chair. The golden sun pendant around his neck glinted with his every movement. His face was calm—too calm. Like a frozen lake hiding deadly currents beneath.
King Edward let out a heavy sigh. His voice was raspy when he finally spoke.
"Two weeks have passed."
Silence hung in the air. No one dared speak before the King finished his sentence.
"I have considered everything." He paused, his eyes tracing the surface of the table—as if the map of Aethelgard carved into the wood could grant him an answer he couldn’t find elsewhere. "I have read the reports. Listened to the testimonies. Prayed. And... I have made my decision."
Eleanor did not smile. But there was a glint in her eyes—the glint of a serpent watching its prey weaken from the venom.
"Northreach," King Edward continued, his voice growing heavier, "has overstepped its bounds. They have built an army without royal decree. They have allied themselves with Draconia—the natural enemy of mankind—without the crown’s knowledge. And they... they murdered my son. Marcus."
The name fell like a sledgehammer. Isabella looked down, her jaw tightening. Cedric turned his face away, though not fast enough to hide the flash of rage in his eyes.
"I cannot ignore this." King Edward finally lifted his head, meeting the gaze of everyone around the table. "As a father, I want justice for Marcus. As a king, I cannot allow a single province to act as if they are an independent kingdom. Northreach must be stopped. Before they become a threat we can no longer control."
Marianne opened her mouth. "Your Majesty—"
"I am not finished, Marianne." King Edward’s voice cut her off, not with anger, but with profound exhaustion. Marianne closed her mouth.
The King continued. "I will not send troops tomorrow. I will not start a war without preparation. We need time. Three months." He looked at Eleanor, then Alexander. "Three months to gather the forces, devise a strategy, and ensure that when we move, we move to win. If the preparations are not complete in three months, the war is cancelled. I will not send my soldiers to die in vain."
Eleanor nodded slowly. "Three months, Your Majesty. The army will be ready in three months." Her voice was calm and measured, devoid of excessive triumph. But everyone in the room knew—she had already won.
Alexander raised his hand in a gesture of blessing. "The Goddess of Light blesses this decision, Your Majesty. The Church will prepare its finest Paladins to purge the tainted land."
Marianne could no longer restrain herself. "This is madness." Her voice trembled, not from fear, but from suppressed frustration. "We are going to war against our own province. Against our own people. On what basis? Reports? Testimonies from unknown sources? Where is the proof, Eleanor? Where is it?"
Eleanor turned toward Marianne, a thin smile on her lips. "The evidence has been submitted to the council, Marianne. If you failed to read it, that is not my concern."
"I have read all of it!" Marianne stood up, both hands pressing against the table. "And all I read were baseless accusations, witnesses whose faces I’ve never seen, and reports written by people who clearly despise the Sudraths! This isn’t justice—this is a persecution!"
"Marianne." King Edward’s voice cut in, louder this time. "Sit."
Marianne stared at her husband. For a moment, there was something in her eyes—not anger, but a disappointment so deep it resembled grief. She sat back down, her hands still balled into fists in her lap.
Valerine touched her mother’s arm, offering silent support. Adriana glared at Eleanor with eyes that were hard to read—a mixture of hatred and something colder.
Leonardo, who had been silent until then, finally spoke. "Father."
All eyes shifted to the Crown Prince.
"I will lead the army." His voice was calm, devoid of emotion. "If this is indeed the kingdom’s decision, let me be the one to lead. I will not allow anyone else to take this responsibility."
Eleanor looked at her son, her eyebrows arching slightly. There was surprise there—small, almost invisible. But she did not object. "Of course. The Crown Prince should indeed lead."
King Edward stared at Leonardo for a long time. There was something in his eyes—perhaps pride, perhaps sorrow, perhaps both. "Are you certain?"
Leonardo nodded. "I am certain."
The King sighed. "Very well. You shall lead the royal army."
He then looked toward the table, at the map of Aethelgard carved into the blackwood. His finger touched a point in the south—Highgarden.
"Alistair Solari will lead the cavalry from the south. He has already stated his willingness."
Eleanor smiled. Of course Alistair had stated his willingness. She had been preparing this for a long time.
"And the Church..." The King looked at Alexander. "Your Paladins will join the main force under Leonardo’s command."
Alexander bowed slightly. "A great honor, Your Majesty."
King Edward straightened his back. For a fleeting second, he looked like the king of old—the king who led armies in his youth, the king who built alliances and conquered his foes. But that light faded quickly, replaced by the same crushing weariness.
"The decision is made." His voice echoed in the silent room. "In three months, the royal army will march north. Northreach must surrender, or be destroyed. There is no middle ground."
Eleanor nodded. Alexander nodded. Cedric and Isabella followed suit.
Marianne did not nod. Neither did Valerine or Adriana.
Leonardo remained silent, his eyes fixed on his empty notebook.
The meeting was adjourned.
One by one, they left Hexagon Hall. Their footsteps echoed in the long marble corridor, creating an unsynchronized rhythm—like a kingdom starting to crack from within.
Marianne walked quickly, followed by Valerine and Adriana. Once they reached a balcony overlooking the palace gardens, she stopped. Her hands gripped the stone railing, her knuckles turning white.
"Caelus..." she whispered, her voice nearly swallowed by the night wind. "May you stay safe."
Valerine stood beside her mother, taking her hand. "Can we not send him a message?"
Marianne shook her head. "It’s too dangerous. Eleanor has eyes everywhere. If our message is intercepted, Caelus will be in even greater peril."
Adriana crossed her arms over her chest, her eyes fixed toward the north—toward Northreach. "So we just stay silent? Let them march to war without knowing what awaits?"
Marianne didn’t answer. She just continued to stare north, toward where her youngest son was, and hoped—to any god that would listen—that Caelus would survive the coming storm.
Meanwhile, in her private chambers, Eleanor sat at her writing desk. Before her, a blank sheet of parchment waited. She dipped her quill into the black ink and began to write.
The letter was brief. It didn’t need to be long.
Alistair,
The King has agreed. Three months. Prepare your cavalry.
I will be sending the War Decree shortly. Ensure you and your forces are in Sol-Regis before the deadline.
Do not fail me.
— Eleanor
She sprinkled fine sand over the wet ink, then blew it off gently. Once the ink dried, she folded the letter and poured dark black wax over the seam. Her personal seal—not the royal seal—pressed into the wax, leaving an imprint of a crescent moon surrounded by three stars.
Eleanor smiled.
Three months.
Marcus, your mother will have her vengeance.
In the distance, outside the palace window, the moon shone dimly behind the clouds. The night wind blew from the north, carrying an unusual chill—as if nature itself knew that a storm was imminent.
And in Northreach, in a castle surrounded by snow, an old Duke did not yet know that a war decree was on its way to his desk.
Three months.
The clock was ticking.
And the history of Aethelgard was about to be rewritten in blood.