The hall fell into a deathly silence.
Lucien stood frozen, the blood of his fallen knight still warm on the polished stone, steaming faintly in the cold air. The crimson pool spread outward like a blooming flower—vivid, damning.
He had faced tyrants before. Mad kings and fanatics. But never this.
Never a boy-king willing to spill diplomatic blood so cleanly. So coldly.
No trial. No outburst. No hesitation.
Arthur Tesla had drawn blood in a throne room meant for words, not war. And in doing so, he made it clear—the next head to roll could be anyone's.
Lucien raised his eyes to the throne.
Arthur had not moved. He remained seated—composed, regal, deadly. The flickering torchlight etched sharp lines across his face, but his expression betrayed no fury or guilt.
Only precision.
Those weren't the eyes of a desperate ruler grasping at power.
They were the eyes of a man who knew exactly what he was doing.
