The echo of scandal still clung to the court walls like smoke after a fire.
Word of the trial had spread like wildfire through Valebourne.
"The young Duke dares challenge the Crown."
"He embarrassed the Church."
"He smiled while doing it."
The High Court's pillars still bore the echoes of gasps, whispers, and silences too heavy to name. Yet as the nobles trickled back in for the continuation of the hearing, a strange energy filled the air—expectation, like the hush before a storm or a feast before a slaughter.
And there, standing once again in the center of the court, dressed in a deep navy cloak embroidered with golden thread—was Theo.
The firelight caught in the sharp lines of his jaw. His long coat fluttered slightly as he turned on his heel with a performer's grace. His voice, when it rose, didn't echo—it commanded.
"Lords. Ladies. Clergy. Thieves and would-be saints."
"You asked for proof. I brought it."
He tossed the first scroll across the court floor. It unraveled like a silk ribbon—stopping at the feet of the Justicar.
"Signed by High Priest Calvus. A bribe accepted from the merchants of Riverend to overlook slave routes. Seven hundred gold pieces."
Gasps.
Another scroll flew.
"Here, a decree. Treasury funds redirected from plague aid to expand the Royal Falconry. Why? So the Crown could hunt while peasants buried their dead."
The crowd shifted. Uncomfortable. Alive. Hungry.
"And this," Theo said, with a dramatic pause as he retrieved a small ledger bound in aged leather, "is the Crown's secret salt tax, never disclosed, buried under Exceptional Military Operations."
"There haven't been any operations in five years."
He tossed it to the center of the court.
The book made a soft slap as it hit the marble.
The king did not speak.
His eyes were locked on Theo—not with fury, but something worse.
Recognition.
This was not a rebellious boy.
This was a star. A threat with an audience.
From the upper balcony behind the latticed screen, a figure watched silently. Her veil was gone. Her crown hidden. But her eyes never left the stage.
The Princess.
She sipped her tea without trembling.
He was doing it.
He was turning truth into theatre.
Theo raised his hand and turned slowly in place, addressing the court like a playwright unveiling the climax.
"You want to accuse me of crimes?"
"Then do it. But know this—my people are fed, sheltered, and working. Can you say the same?"
No one answered.
So he smiled wider.
"No? Then let's rephrase."
"If I'm guilty, then so are you. Every one of you who took a coin. Every one of you who looked away."
He turned toward the dais, meeting the king's cold, calculated eyes.
"You wanted a trial."
"But now everyone sees this for what it truly is."
"Not justice."
"A purge."
"A desperate king lashing out at the only part of his kingdom still standing."
That did it.
The nobles murmured louder.
Even some clergy shifted in discomfort.
The king's knuckles whitened around the throne.
"ENOUGH!" Albrecht's voice cracked like thunder. "You think your tongue can outmatch my Crown?"
Theo stepped forward into the very center of the throne's light.
He bowed low, slowly.
"No, Your Majesty."
He looked up, eyes glinting with something too dangerous to be called respect.
"I don't intend to outmatch it."
"I intend to replace it."
The court erupted.
Some nobles rose from their seats. Some priests shouted sacrilege. Some foreign envoys whispered in delight. The Princess grinned.
And yet Theo stood still, basking in the fire.
He was home.
In the chaos.
In the spotlight.
And then… from the high balcony, a single hand clapped.
Once.
Twice.
Then a few more.
And soon—strangely—a nobleman from the Federation joined in.
Then Lady Zariah of Kavir.
Then two minor dukes of the western marches.
Applause. Not thunderous. But unmistakable.
A crack in the mountain.
Theo closed his eyes for a breath.
His performance was over.
For now.
But the war for the kingdom had just begun.
"Court adjourned until the morrow."
The king's decree echoed through the High Hall like the toll of a cracked bell.
Theo stepped down from the central platform, calm and composed, but a fire raged behind his eyes. He had won today's battle—not with swords, but with words. Tomorrow, he would come for their necks.
The crowd stirred. Nobles whispered. Envoys scribbled furiously in their little books. Outside the gates of the High Court, the city buzzed like a wounded beast.
"My lord," Elric said, adjusting his cloak as he joined Theo, "we should leave quickly. Too many eyes."
Theo smirked. "Then let them watch. Let them see what change looks like."
Lira rolled her eyes behind him. "One of these days, that pride will kill you."
He turned to her, grin wide.
"If I'm going to die, Lira, let it be while I'm shining."
The trio descended the marble stairs into the open square below.
The sun was low, casting the capital in crimson gold.
And then—
Screams.
A shadow moved in the periphery.
Theo's eyes snapped left.
A robed man leapt from the crowd, robes trimmed in red flame sigils—a Church zealot.
"HERETIC!" the man howled, voice cracking, wild eyes wide with fanatic fire. "YOU DARE MOCK THE FLAME?!"
He lunged.
Theo barely had time to react before a blade of silver bone sliced through the air, aiming straight for his heart.
"THEO!" Lira shrieked.
Guards scrambled. Elric drew steel.
But the zealot was too close.
Time slowed.
The blade gleamed in the sun.
Theo turned, instinct taking over—but too late.
The blade plunged forward—
And then—
It stopped.
Not in Theo's chest.
But in mid-air.
Frozen.
Hovering.
Quivering.
Held back by something unseen.
Then the air itself began to hum.
A deep, resonating thrumming—like the growl of a mountain.
The ground beneath their feet rumbled.
Pebbles rolled. Horses shrieked in terror. Nobles stumbled back.
Then it came.
A crack like thunder.
The sound of stone splitting.
The carriage—Theo's carriage, parked just outside the square—burst apart from the inside, the wood blown back by a surge of magic so raw and ancient that it burned the air.
And from within the wreckage—
A roar.
Not a scream.
Not a whimper.
But a roar of birth.
A cry that had slumbered for a thousand years beneath forgotten eggshells.
Theo turned, eyes wide.
From the smoking wreckage stepped a beast, small yet regal, glowing with embers and coiled with instinctive majesty.
Its wings unfolded slowly—membranes of molten gold.
Its eyes—slit, intelligent, ancient—locked onto Theo with terrifying calm.
The dragon had hatched.
Gasps tore through the crowd.
Some dropped to their knees.
Others fled.
The zealot fell back in horror, his knife clattering to the stone.
"Abomination," he whispered, trembling. "False god—false flame—"
Theo didn't say a word.
He simply stepped forward.
Past the guards.
Past the frozen nobles.
To the creature born of fire and fate.
The dragon lowered its head.
And with a quiet, graceful movement…
It knelt.
As if in reverence.
As if it knew him.
As if it had always known him.
The flames around its body simmered. Its breath curled like incense.
Theo reached out slowly and touched its head.
And in that instant—
Magic surged through his veins.
Visions.
Flashes of sky and storm, of ancestors in armor, of temples buried beneath ash.
Of dragons circling ancient thrones.
He stumbled, breath stolen.
And then laughed—sharp, incredulous, alive.
"Well," he said hoarsely, "guess I'm their god after all."
From above, watching through the royal tower's high windows, the Princess stared—eyes wide, breath caught in her throat.
"By the gods…" she whispered.
"He's not just going to shake the kingdom."
"He's going to set it on fire."