Marcus stood before the throne like a soldier before battle, the Covenant blade resting at his side, golden glow fading into quiet embers. The council chamber was still. The nobles who had moments ago knelt in stunned allegiance now rose slowly, exchanging wary glances and whispered thoughts that slithered through the air like unseen smoke.
He could feel their uncertainty. Their fear. Their doubt.
But he also felt something else, faint yet rising—
Hope.
Erin stepped beside him, scanning the room, her gaze lingering on Elric, who now stood with his arms bound behind him by two palace guards. Blood trickled from a shallow wound on his wrist where she'd disarmed him. He didn't speak. Just watched Marcus with a mixture of disdain and calculation, as if already crafting another scheme behind those cold eyes.
"He won't stop," Erin murmured under her breath. "You know that, right?"
Marcus nodded. "Then we stay one step ahead."
Lord Merrin cleared his throat, stepping forward. He was old, yes—his beard white, his shoulders stooped—but his voice carried the authority of decades.
"You've reclaimed the Covenant blade, Marcus Valebourne. You've broken the enchantments that bound half this chamber. But before this council can recognize your claim to the throne, tradition demands trial and testimony."
Marcus met his gaze without flinching. "Then bring your questions."
Merrin nodded. "You disappeared five years ago after the death of your father, King Dorian. Rumors said you were dead. Some said you fled. Others claimed Elric banished you for treason."
"Elric did banish me," Marcus replied, his voice clear. "He framed me for the poisoning of my own father. With the help of the Crowborn."
Gasps rippled through the room.
Erin stepped forward. "We found proof buried in the ruins of Hollowmoor. Crowborn sigils, letters, and spells linking this man—" she motioned to Elric "—to a blood pact with the shadow cult."
Elric finally spoke. "Lies. Convenient lies spoken by a girl who masquerades as a noble."
"I'm many things," Erin snapped. "But I don't lie."
Marcus raised the sword again, and for a moment the chamber was bathed in light.
"This blade recognizes only one bloodline. It chose me. Not because I'm powerful, but because I'm rightful. You want tradition? This is tradition. Ancient, unbroken, and unshakable."
The silence that followed was heavy, but not empty.
One by one, more councilors stepped forward—Lord Veran, Lady Iris of Wyndhall, the bishop of the eastern cathedral. Some placed their hands on their hearts. Others knelt.
By the time the echo of their pledges faded, more than half the room stood with Marcus.
Only a few—Elric's loyalists—remained on the fringes, tense and quiet.
Erin leaned close. "This isn't over. Not really."
"I know," Marcus said. "But it's a beginning."
Just then, the chamber doors creaked open again—and a breathless soldier rushed in, face pale with urgency.
"Sire—" he stopped, catching himself as he looked to both Marcus and the bound Elric. "My lord… urgent message from the outer provinces. Smoke over the skies of Ashvale. Villages razed. They bear the black sigil of the Crowborn."
Marcus's heart sank.
"They're moving faster than we thought," Erin said grimly. "That wasn't their only infiltrator. They've had time to spread, recruit, build armies."
Marcus turned back to the council. "Then we don't waste another moment."
He finally stepped up to the throne—not to sit, but to speak.
"I do not ask for a crown today. I ask for a kingdom to stand together. Ravelle is under attack. And not by armies we know—but by shadows. By lies. And by men like my uncle, who would sell our future for their own greed."
He raised the Covenant blade high.
"I will fight for this realm. Not as a prince. Not as a politician. But as one of you. And if you'll stand with me, I swear—we will drive the darkness back together."
The chamber exploded in thunderous applause. Swords were drawn—not in threat, but in salute. The sound echoed across the halls of Silverholde like a war drum, shaking the dust from banners that had hung dormant for years.
Erin stepped up beside him, voice low. "You're not bad at this king thing."
"I haven't even sat down yet."
"Don't," she said with a grin. "Not until we win."
He smiled, but it was brief. Because already his thoughts were turning—
—to Ashvale.
To war.
And to the final reckoning that loomed ahead.