Chapter 10 : The Serpent Delayed
The arena chamber of the Great Castle resembled something built for beasts rather than men. Stone walls rose thirty feet high, scarred from decades of blade strikes. The ground was packed earth stained dark with old blood and sweat. It looked less like a training facility and more like an ancient colosseum where violence was spectacle.
"You're weak, General."
Prince Darian Aurevane—twenty-three years old, six-foot-one, built like a warlord—drove his practice sword against his opponent's shield with devastating force. He wasn't even breathing hard.
General Ramonga, a veteran of thirty-eight years who'd survived two wars and countless campaigns, struggled to hold his ground. "Prince Darian, you surpassed me long ago."
Near the spectator seats, a man with a bent back watched the sparring with calculating eyes. His deformity forced him to lean on a cane, but there was nothing weak about Judas Aurevane's gaze.
"Who would win?" he asked the court minister standing beside him. "My nephew or a Platoon Knight?"
War Minister Graham considered carefully. "I believe Prince Darian would prevail, Sir Judas. But Platoon Knight Ethelia is one of twelve Death Knights in the world. We can't underestimate her."
Judas's smile turned cruel. "Even she needs to be careful for two weeks out of every month, doesn't she?" He let out a shallow, dark chuckle. "Women's weakness... ha!"
Graham tensed, discomfort and understanding crossing his features in equal measure. He recognized manipulation when he saw it—and Judas wielded it like a master craftsman. "Perhaps, Sir Judas."
The nervous laugh that followed was entirely political.
Across the arena, Darian knocked General Ramonga to the ground with a final, crushing blow. He approached the spectators radiating strength and heat, sweat gleaming on his muscular frame. He gestured for two nearby maids to come closer, placing his hands on their lower backs with casual possession.
They flushed crimson, mortified at being touched so openly in front of high-ranking officials.
Darian kissed one of them on the mouth before releasing them both, laughing as they fled in embarrassment. Where Lucien seduced with calculated precision in private, Darian wielded his power like a blunt instrument—crude, direct, utterly unconcerned with subtlety.
"Uncle Judas, what brings you here?" Darian wrapped a robe around his shoulders, still grinning from the display.
"Watching my nephew surpass warlords." Judas reached up—his bent back making the gesture awkward—to pat Darian's shoulder. "And bringing news. My other nephew has arrived in Siena. Just moments ago."
Darian's expression soured immediately. "I don't understand why Father needed to send Ethelia just to escort him here. It's ridiculous." He adjusted his robe with sharp movements. "And what about the matter of Zyrick? Even Ethelia and her platoons could have handled that."
"Prince Darian—" Minister Graham spoke carefully, testing whether the Crown Prince would listen or explode. "Zyrick is a state of Aurelith. We shouldn't kill our own people blindly. And the Death Knights aren't fully ours. They're semi-autonomous. They serve kingdoms by choice, not command."
"What?" Darian's tone turned sharp. "But we have Connoisseur Knight, Platoon Knight, Iron Knight—all of them are more than enough for a single rebellious state. I'd be enough with just my personal army."
"You're absolutely correct, Prince Darian." Graham's agreement was immediate, practiced. The survival instinct of a man who'd learned when to stop pushing.
"We should head to the court before His Majesty grows impatient with our absence," Graham added, smoothly redirecting.
"Why does Father need to wait for Lucien anyway?" Darian's frustration spilled over like wine from an overfilled cup. "We already have a Connoisseur Knight at State Maru, which is close to Zyrick. We don't need—"
"Darian." Judas's voice cut through the rant like a blade through silk. He moved slowly, his cane clicking against stone with each deliberate step. "Lucien is evil. He understands destruction better than most men understand their own names." The words dripped like honey mixed with poison, sweet and toxic in equal measure. "Your father doesn't want the Death Knights—or you—to do anything too... forceful. Lucien can handle these situations with a lighter touch."
The flattery worked perfectly. Darian's anger transformed into something like pride, his chest swelling slightly.
"You're right, Uncle Judas."
They walked together toward the great hall, Judas's bent back forcing him to look up at his nephew like a supplicant—but the power dynamic was entirely reversed.
---
The court chamber was not merely a room. It was a statement of imperial dominance made manifest in architecture and excess.
Hundreds of ministers lined the walls in precise formation, their robes color-coded by rank and function. Courtiers and advisors occupied designated spaces with military precision. Several maids stood ready to serve at a moment's notice. Hundreds of guards in ceremonial armor flanked every entrance and window.
Red carpet stretched from the entrance to the raised imperial throne. Golden furniture gleamed under countless chandeliers. Every surface seemed designed to overwhelm, to remind anyone who entered that they stood in the beating heart of an empire that had swallowed kingdoms whole.
Majestic. Overwhelming. Powerful.
And utterly suffocating.
Emperor Emrik sat on his throne—forty-eight years old, blonde hair showing traces of silver, calculating golden eyes that missed nothing. Beside him sat Empress Althaea, his second wife, watching the assembled court with the patient attention of a spider monitoring its web.
Everyone was present.
Except the Second Prince and the Platoon Knight who'd escorted him.
The delay felt deliberate. Disrespectful, even.
Ministers shifted uncomfortably. Whispers began to circulate like poison in water.
And somewhere beyond the massive doors, Lucien Aurevane walked at his own pace, in his own time, toward a confrontation that would reshape everything.
Or perhaps toward nothing at all.
With the Serpent Prince, you could never quite tell.