The Grand Throne Room was beautiful, if you liked that sort of thing, but the polished white marble was cold—the kind of biting chill that cuts right through wool trousers and settles deep in the marrow. To the Scott bloodline, those gold veins running through the stone were a map of divine right and ancient victories. To Elian, they were just the last thing he'd ever see.
He wasn't some master spy from a storybook. He was just a man from Solmere with shaking hands and a daughter back home who still thought her father was away on a merchant trip.
The Reality of the "Wretch"
The "ragged wretch," as the guards called him, didn't look like much of a threat anymore. He just looked like a mess. The anti-magic cuffs weren't just heavy; they were cruel. Every time he shivered, the iron teeth bit a little deeper into his wrists.
He'd been caught near the southern armory, his fingers—still stained with charcoal—trembling as he tried to trace patrol routes he barely understood. He hadn't done it for a crown, or a cause, or some grand political upheaval. He'd done it because a contact in the shadows promised him enough gold to pay off the debt that was suffocating his family.
Now, stripped of his dignity and his hope, he was just a wet, pathetic stain on a floor that was meant to be perfect.
"I have a wife," the spy sobbed, pressing his forehead to the cold marble floor. His voice cracked. "Two daughters. They're waiting for me in the East. I only did it for the money. I'm not a soldier. I'm just… I'm just their father."
High above him, King William Scott sat on the Throne of Dawn, elbow resting on the armrest, chin against his knuckles. He didn't look angry. He didn't look moved. If anything, he looked bored.
The Royal Guard stood on either side of him, polished armor catching the light from the tall windows. They didn't shift. They didn't speak.
"A father," William said at last.
The word carried through the chamber, flat and sharp.
"You crept into my home," the King continued, his voice steady, almost quiet. "You counted my walls, measured my gates, and planned to sell what you learned to Solmere. You would have handed my people to slaughter." His eyes finally focused on the man kneeling below. "And now you speak to me about being a father?"
Silence settled over the hall.
Then the King's gaze drifted toward the pillars lining the chamber. In their shadow, a tall figure leaned against the stone, arms folded.
"Alex."
Prince Alex Scott straightened and stepped forward. At nineteen, he already stood taller than most of the guard. His hair fell loosely over his brow, and his pale blue eyes were calm—too calm.
He didn't look angry either.
That was the unsettling part.
There was something in the air when he moved. Not magic. Not fury. Just a quiet certainty that whatever happened next had already been decided.
"Yes, Father?" Alex asked.
His voice was calm—almost polite—but there was a faint edge of impatience beneath it. The spy noticed. Somehow, that frightened him more than the King's coldness.
"Dispose of him," William replied, giving a small wave of his hand as if brushing away dust. "The noise is tiresome."
Alex smiled.
It was neat. Controlled. The kind of smile meant for court gatherings and formal portraits. It never reached his eyes.
He stepped forward.
His boots struck the marble in steady beats that echoed through the chamber. No rush. No hesitation.
The spy tried to crawl backward, palms slipping against the polished floor. "No—please! Prince Alex, wait! I'll talk. I'll tell you everything. Names, locations—whatever you want. I can be useful!"
Alex stopped a few feet away.
He looked down at the man for a long moment, head slightly tilted—not curious, not angry. Just considering.
"Mercy?" Alex repeated quietly.
He let the word sit between them.
"If we showed mercy to every man who betrayed us," he said, "there wouldn't be a kingdom left to protect."
His tone wasn't cruel. It was practical.
He raised his right hand.
From the back of the hall, nothing seemed to change. The guards remained still. The air didn't shimmer or spark.
But the court mages stiffened almost instantly.
Something shifted—subtle but unmistakable. The air grew tight, heavy in the lungs. The kind of pressure that makes your instincts scream before your mind understands why.
And in that moment, everyone who could sense it knew the same thing:
Alex wasn't angry.
He was simply about to act.
It didn't feel like anger.
Whatever gathered around Alex wasn't heat or light or even emotion. It was pressure. A tightening in the air, as if the room itself were holding its breath.
Light magic was meant to glow. To warm. To heal.
What formed around Alex's raised hand did none of those things.
The brightness there bent inward instead of outward. It folded in on itself, compressing into something small and dense. The mages in the chamber stiffened. One of them took an unconscious step back.
"You said you have a wife?" Alex asked quietly, moving closer.
The spy nodded frantically, tears streaking down his face. "Y-yes! And two daughters. They're innocent. They've done nothing!"
Alex regarded him with mild interest, like someone listening to a story that had already reached its ending.
"It would be cruel," Alex said softly, "to leave them waiting for someone who will never come home. Hope can be… painful."
The air above his hand shimmered faintly. The distortion stretched, thinning into the faint outline of a blade—though it reflected nothing. Light seemed to vanish at its edge.
"So I'll make you a promise," Alex continued, his smile widening just enough to show teeth. "When I'm finished here, I'll send word East. I'll have your family found."
The spy froze. "W-what?"
"I'll see that you're reunited," Alex said, almost kindly. "No one in my kingdom should suffer loneliness."
Understanding hit all at once.
The spy's scream tore through the throne room—but it didn't last.
Alex didn't lunge or shout. He simply lowered his hand.
There was a sharp crack, like stone splitting under sudden strain.
The force struck in a single, brutal line. The marble floor fractured beneath the impact, thin veins racing across its surface. When the distortion faded, the spy collapsed in two separate motions, the damage clean and absolute.
Blood spread quickly across the white floor, dark and glossy. The chamber filled with the metallic scent of it.
No one moved.
Alex stood where he was, untouched. Not a stain marked his clothes. He looked down at what remained, his expression flat—neither pleased nor disturbed. It was the look of someone who had completed a task.
"Clean this," he told the guards.
They moved at once.
Alex turned back toward the throne. King William had watched the entire thing without flinching.
For a moment, father and son held each other's gaze. There was no approval spoken aloud, no visible pride.
Only recognition.
"Done," Alex said.
"Good," William replied, already reaching for the documents at his side. "Your brother is wasting resources in the laboratory. See that he produces something worthwhile."
Alex inclined his head once, then turned and walked from the chamber, the sound of his boots echoing long after he was gone.