Chapter 373: The King’s Last Council
The King’s Last Council
Leon’s mansion on that night was devoured by passion. Behind doors, the walls shook with laughter, sighs, and the type of breathless gasps that caused time itself to lose track of how to proceed. Leon and his wives gave themselves over completely—skin to skin, whispers against lips, their bodies entwined in a wild dance that continued until the first light on the horizon threatened to compromise them.
There were no queens’ roles, no duty burdens, no masks—just women who loved, and the man in whose hands their hearts lay. The night became wild, tender, unfettered; each room seemed to resound with their cries and laughter until weariness at last conspired to pack them into a twisted knot of heat and perspiration.
In the halls of the mansion, even the servants felt the aftershock. The atmosphere was more subtle, exhilarating, as if the ardor of their master spilled into every nook and made the big house hum with subdued delight. Candles burned lower than they should have, the corridors infused with warmth. Even the household’s great warriors slept for once with serene smiles.
But far away, in the center of the Moonstone Kingdom, there was no such comfort.
Moonspire—the capital city. A city that shone under the silver eye of the moon. Its towers stood sharp and proud, and at its center towered the palace of the royal family, a monument of white stone streaked with veins of crystal. Tonight, its most hallowed room awaited—the grand courtroom of the Moonstone throne.
The court was a room designed to impress and to frighten. Its ceiling rose high, vaulted beams sculpted with thorn-like patterns that twined together like a storm caught in ice. Above, chandeliers of silver and diamond hung in massive clusters, casting light that glittered like a thousand imprisoned stars. The walls were covered in tapestries showing centuries of conquest and offering, threads woven in dark blues and blacks, pierced by threads of glittering silver.
In the middle of the hall, nobles and ministers sat in rows of increasing rank, their garments embroidered with gold and jeweled clasps. They did not just don apparel—they donned wealth, power, and pride, each of them attempting to outshine another in an unspoken rivalry of opulence. But for all their finery, their faces were strained, their spines weighed down by tension.
Above all of them, at the top of the chamber, lay the great throne—enormous, made of obsidian through which veins of burning blue crystal glowed, sharp as lightning had carved it. On it was seated none other than King Aurelian.
He was a presence that demanded quiet. His short beard had lengthened, darkening to cast a shadow on his sharp, near-blade-like jawline. His black hair, streaked indistinctly with steel-gray threads of age and battle, framed a face that seemed to be carved from stone. His cold, bright blue eyes burned, weighted with storms and assurance of kingship. The air felt heavier just because he stood there.
This evening was not one of regular meeting. It was the final one before he would go off to war.
The room, which was normally filled with murmurs, with creaking papers and hushed plots, was today engulfed in a sea of silence. Even breathing sounded subdued, the anticipation of the next day’s war sealing every throat.
But from the ranks of the seated, one man stood up. His knees trembled as he rose, holding to his robes as if they were the sole thing that allowed him to stand. All eyes regarded him.
He was the Minister of Revenue. Usually ignored, dismissed as a man of numbers and money. But tonight, his forward steps bore the weight of despair. He bowed deeply, his words shaking as he dared speak.
"My king..."
The sound broke the silence like thin glass. Aurelian’s eyes shifted, slow and calculated, freezing him where he stood. The Minister felt it at once—that suffocating pressure of being watched by the King. It was as if Aurelian’s gaze bored through his forehead, revealing all his fears, every doubt.
Nevertheless, he gulped down his terror and managed to get his words out.
"My king, forgive me for presumption... but need we actually march tomorrow? Might we not... take another path?"
The air in the room changed, a ripple of unease spreading among the nobles. Aurelian remained motionless. He didn’t say anything. His immobility weighed more than a sword. The Minister’s Adam’s apple bobbed, but he didn’t flinch.
"We are not just facing King Vellore," he went on, his voice trembling but rising, "but a crafty monster who conceals traitors among his own soldiers. Already we have been grievously betrayed by Edric Starlight. The Moonwalker Duchy is in shambles—our treasury depleted, our soldiers injured, our defenses breached. My king... we are exposed. If we attack now, there is a possibility—a strong possibility—that seventy percent of our troops will be destroyed."
His breath quickened, words tumbling in a rush now.
"Please, my king. Can we not negotiate? Just once—sit at the table instead of the battlefield? For the kingdom’s survival—"
Thud.
The noise ripped through the room. The Minister’s knees gave way as if hit by an invisible hammer, sending him crashing onto the marble floor. His body convulsed, his face contorted in terror as he understood—he had been crushed beneath nothing more than his King’s whim.
The court erupted in gasps. Robes shook as the ministers and nobles alike rose from their chairs, white-faced and shaking. All eyes went upward, to the throne.
For King Aurelian sat no more.
He stood.
The obsidian throne now appeared empty, diminished, since its real master stood above it. His imposing stature loomed, wide shoulders enshrouded in black and silver armor that shone dimly in the crystal light. His beard fell across a face unyielding like iron, blue eyes blazing with the tempest of a storm to erupt. The very air bore down upon each and every man and woman in the room, choking with sheer pressure.
When he spoke, thunder rolled from his throat. Every word lashed like a whip across the room.
"How... dare you ask that I kneel before my foes?"
The words weren’t bellowed, and yet they shook every bone. The marble beneath felt to vibrate with the power of his fury.
"Do you forget who I am?" Aurelian’s eyes roamed the hall, hard and unforgiving. "I am no merchant to trade coin for peace. I am no beggar to bow before a clever hound like Vellore." His fist curled at his waist, veins standing out on his skin. "I am still Monarch-grade. I still have the authority to turn the course of this war with my own hands!"
The Minister of Revenue quaked, brow against the floor, unable to confront those piercing eyes. The nobles around him shivered, some tightening their robes, others paralyzed like a caught animal before the eye of a predator.
Aurelian’s voice grew louder, echoing in every nook of the room, relentless.
"Better to die on the battlefield with a blade in my hand than to atrophy behind walls, whining like beggars!" His words echoed like an oath, like an imprecation. "This kingdom was not founded on fear. It was founded on conquest, on sacrifice, on the blood of men who would not kneel. And so long as I occupy this throne—Moonstone shall not kneel!"
His last roar boomed like thunder, echoing through the chamber. Ministers staggered, some almost falling under the sheer weight. Even the chandeliers shuddered, their crystals singing like scared bells.
All souls in that hall understood one thing: their king would march tomorrow, regardless of what it cost. And woe to him who dared mention surrender again.