Chapter 17: The Arena of Wolves
Treasurer Dunstan had never felt the Royal Council Hall of Vaelmont quite this frigid.
Though a ravenous fire roared in the marble hearth at the far end of the room, licking at dry oak logs and casting an orange sheen upon the armor of the guards standing stiffly against the walls, the chill in this chamber did not stem from the temperature. It crept from the gazes, from the taut silence, from a disbelief colder and sharper than the castle stones themselves.
He sat in his unyielding chair, the massive ledger before him weighing down like a tombstone. Its pages, awash in red ink, seemed to scream without sound—a mute chronicle of a kingdom bleeding dry.
Dunstan cast his weary gaze around the oval table crafted from ancient weirwood, its dark surface marred by the scratches of generations of nobles who had debated in this very spot. There, of course, sat Marquess Caerdwyn Althario. The guardian of tradition sat perfectly perpendicular, his back never once gracing the chair's rest, as if he were a living statue of the ancestors he so revered. His visage was the cold, unmoving mask of the Ancient Faction's authority. Behind him, his loyal advisor, Micheal Payne, whispered incessantly, lips moving like the mandibles of an insect, likely citing ancient legal precedents for treason from some dusty chapter of the Vaelmont Law Code.
Across from him, as if a polarized reflection, sat Lady Nyelle Viremont. Dunstan could practically feel the sharp, electric energy radiating from the leader of the Reformist Faction. Her intelligent eyes darted rapidly, scanning every face, analyzing every gesture, as if she were drafting a new reform bill merely by observing the cracks in the hall's walls. At her side, her efficient aide, Elsa Barrera, sat with a neatly organized stack of parchment, armed with data and figures to shoot down any argument. They were fire and ice, yet today, Dunstan saw they were equally taut with tension.
Most startling of all, at the far end of the table, sat Duke Halvern Duskmere of the Regionalist Faction. His face, hewn like rock, betrayed no emotion. To undertake the perilous week-long journey from Clyssal Reach, the matter must have been grave indeed. The sabotage of the iron supply had not only crippled the capital but directly threatened the western border defenses. His presence was an ill omen—a death knell for Vaelmont's unity.
Among the ranks of Duke Morcant's supporters, Harold Whitney smirked as usual, his arrogance palpable, as if he already knew the outcome of this meeting and was simply enjoying the performance.
The heavy hall doors swung open with a low groan, and the silence thickened into a suffocating fog. Duke Morcant Vaelmont strode in, trailed by his loyal shadow, Wayne Dahmer. The Duke offered a genial smile to the room, his eyes sweeping over them with a counterfeit warmth that made Dunstan's skin crawl. His demeanor was as tranquil as if he were arriving for afternoon tea, not to face accusations that could sunder the kingdom.
The meeting commenced with rigid formalities. Dunstan, his voice hoarse, laid out the reason for the emergency assembly: financial anomalies threatening to paralyze Vaelmont within weeks, exacerbated by a sudden, inexplicable scarcity of salt and iron.
Before Dunstan could finish presenting his grim figures, Harold Whitney was already on his feet.
"With all due respect, Lord Treasurer," he said, his tone dripping with feigned politeness. "The problem is not an 'anomaly.' The problem is gross mismanagement and obsolete traditions. We continue pouring coin into a system that leaks like a sieve." He cast a cynical glance toward Marquess Althario. "Perhaps it is time we formed a special oversight committee, led by someone with real experience in managing vast assets and understanding modern needs—someone like Lord Duke Morcant—to stabilize the economy."
It was an attack. A subtle political coup, wrapped in a proposal that sounded entirely reasonable.
Lady Nyelle retorted instantly, her voice as sharp as shattered glass. "A new committee will only add another layer of bureaucracy that already paralyzes us, Lord Whitney. What we need is not new oversight, but total transparency." She signaled to Elsa Barrera, who swiftly unfurled a scroll. "According to our records, expenditures for the Ancient Faction's 'ritual maintenance' and 'artifact restoration' have risen by twenty percent in the last three months. Meanwhile, the budget for Border Guard armor repair was cut by fifteen percent. So I agree—let us open every ledger. Not just the Treasurer's, but that of every guild, every mining concession, and every noble family in this kingdom." Her gaze locked directly onto Morcant and Althario.
"Transparency without honor is anarchy," Marquess Althario interjected, his voice deep and commanding, unfazed by the assault. "This crisis is a symptom of a deeper malaise: we have strayed from the path of the ancestors. Vaelmont's strength lies not in ledgers, Lady Viremont, but in its oaths, in its traditions. You speak of armor, yet you forget the soul of the warrior who wears it. That soul is forged by honor, not coin."
"I care nothing for your traditions or your transparency," a low, rough voice cut through the debate. Duke Halvern Duskmere leaned forward. He slammed something onto the table with a harsh clank.
It was a fragment of chainmail, rusted and snapped.
"This is what one of my soldiers wore during the last patrol. My troops on the border need spearheads, not souls. They need rations preserved with salt, not honor. If Nightholm cannot provide them, then Clyssal Reach will provide for itself, by any means necessary."
The veiled threat silenced everyone. This was no longer about politics. It was about the potential for civil war.
In the midst of that tense silence, Commander Gregor Vance stepped forward. He carried no sword, but his aura, forged in the fires of decades of battle, felt sharper than any steel.
"I speak on behalf of and by the direct order of His Highness, Prince Eldrin Vaelmont," he stated, his heavy voice echoing, severing all debate. He did not mince words. He opened a copy of a page from the ledger, placing it in the center of the table for all to see.
"Over the past six months," Gregor began, "ninety percent of the kingdom's strategic salt reserves and the entire production of iron ore from the northern mines were diverted through a series of transactions to a single trading entity: 'The Rising Sun Merchant Guild'." He paused, letting the name sink in. "A shell company which, after being traced through registry records at the Merchant Guild by Captain Hanssen, falls under the ultimate ownership of... Lord Duke Morcant Vaelmont."
The hall erupted in suppressed murmurs. Nobles whispered frantically to one another, their eyes darting between Gregor and Morcant.
"Slander!" shrieked Harold Whitney, jumping from his chair, his face flushing red. "This is a baseless attack on the Lord Duke's honor! You dare accuse a Vaelmont of treason?"
"Honor?" Marquess Althario's cold voice cut him off, his sharp eyes pinning Harold until the young man fell silent. "This is no longer a matter of personal honor, Lord Whitney. This is a desecration of the treasury and the kingdom's security. This potentially constitutes high treason. I demand a full investigation!"
"An investigation is indeed necessary, Marquess," Lady Nyelle chimed in, her eyes gleaming with triumph. "This is the proof of systemic corruption I have been speaking of. I demand total transparency and the freezing of all assets belonging to the 'Rising Sun Merchant Guild' until the investigation is complete!"
For the first time in council history, the Ancient Faction and the Reformist Faction stood on the same side, staring down a common enemy.
Amidst the chaos, Duke Morcant merely chuckled softly. It was a calm, amused, confident laugh that instantly silenced the entire room. All eyes turned to him.
"A very serious accusation," he said calmly, as if commenting on a theatrical performance. He looked at Gregor. "And your evidence is merely a business transaction? Of course that company is one of my investments. Is a noble forbidden from seeking profit now, Commander?"
He swept his gaze across the council, meeting the eyes of every member, as if daring them to speak.
"The fact is, the royal supply lines are grossly inefficient and riddled with low-level corruption. I took the initiative to secure these vital resources through private, more efficient channels, ensuring that our troops on the border do not starve and our blacksmiths still have materials to work with while the bureaucracy led by Lord Dunstan fails utterly. I am, in fact, protecting Vaelmont from its own paralysis."
It was a genius maneuver. In an instant, he had inverted the accusation of treason into an act of pragmatic patriotism, while subtly insulting the Treasurer's competence.
"If you accuse me of sabotage," Morcant challenged, his eyes now glinting coldly as they fixed on Gregor, "then show me the proof. Show me one witness, one cancelled shipping manifest, one written order proving malicious intent. If you cannot," he paused, a thin smile curling his lips as he glanced toward the empty throne, "then this is merely the wild imagination of a panicked treasurer and a prince who... seems to have far too much free time."
The council had hit an impasse again. They held strong suspicions, but they lacked undeniable, direct evidence.
However, something fundamental had shifted. The seeds of doubt had been planted, and now, everyone in the room—save for his most loyal sycophants—looked at Duke Morcant with a different gaze.
The battle had begun in the open. And the chessboard was set for a far more dangerous game.