Aera stared at the small pouch of coins in front of her, its drawstrings twisted shut like a secret waiting to be undone. Then she gasped dramatically, eyes gleaming. "Ah! I know exactly what to do with this money!"
Kael blinked, mid-chew. "That sounds ominous. What kind of grand idea are you cooking up now?"
But Aera didn't answer. She merely cradled the pouch like a cherished treasure and gave him a wicked little smirk—the kind that made Kael shift uncomfortably. He hadn't known her long, but that expression spelled trouble in bold, capital letters.
Before he could press further, Aera stood, brushing crumbs from her skirt. "I'm heading back to the servants' quarters to change. Let's meet at your dining hall later."
She left like a storm in human form—sudden, impossible to track, and leaving behind a sense of chaos.
---
Imperial Court – East Wing Throne Hall
The massive, domed court hall shimmered in the morning sun as light filtered through high-stained glass windows. The marble floor was polished to mirror shine, and the royal insignia of Velmoria blazed proudly from every carved column.
From the elevated throne, Prince Raelth lounged like a king of old, eyes half-lidded with calculated boredom. Yet beneath the languid pose, he was watching.
Watching his brother work.
Zairen stood at the heart of the court, ledger in one hand, the other idly resting on the hilt of his ceremonial dagger. Gone was the smirking troublemaker. In his place stood a predator in noble silk.
"And how," Zairen's voice cut through the air like a blade, "did two thousand imperial gold disappear from the defense fund, Lord Cedric?"
The noble in question—a paunchy, balding man in brocade—was trembling.
"P-prince Zairen, I—I have no idea—perhaps an accounting error—!"
"Oh?" Zairen flipped a page lazily. "An error that conveniently funnels money into the estate renovations you've been boasting about for weeks?" His eyes lifted—piercing, unreadable. "Curious."
Lord Cedric collapsed to his knees, sobbing and banging his head to the marble. "Mercy! Mercy, Your Highness! I was misled—"
Zairen stepped forward. One boot landed squarely on the noble's hand. A sharp cry followed.
"Misled?" His voice was cold honey.
"The Alvarien family has been many things over the centuries, Lord Cedric," Zairen said, his voice calm and laced with amusement. "Merciful, however, has never been one of them. Wouldn't it be a disgrace to our legacy if I, the fourth prince of Velmoria, suddenly grew a conscience? Still, let us consult our ever-gracious third brother. Perhaps he's in a benevolent mood today."
He smiled softly, almost sympathetically—as if pitying Lord Cedric.
Catching the cue, Vaelor's lips curled into a smirk. His voice, smooth and deceptively gentle, followed. "You're right, dear brother. I've been feeling unusually generous lately. Beheading might be... excessive. Perhaps peeling the skin from his flesh would suffice. Or maybe just a hand. Yes, that sounds merciful enough."
"No! Your Highness, please—have mercy!" Lord Cedric cried out, his voice cracking with panic.
One of the older lords stepped forward, voice trembling, "Prince Vaelor, he may have erred, but he is a nobleman. His family has served House Alvarien loyally for generations."
Others murmured in agreement, echoing the plea.
Zairen tilted his head slightly, eyes scanning the room. "Oh? Such concern. Perhaps I do need to brush up on this whole mercy thing." His smile sharpened. "Very well, let's reconsider…"
A pause. "For theft from the crown and dishonor in court, I sentence you to ten days in the dungeons. In ice. Stripped of rank and land."
Gasps rang through the noble rows. Some paled visibly. Though lord Cedric survived apparent death, but for a noble stripped out of his rank death seems a better punishment.
Raelth's lips twitched. Pride, amusement. That's his baby brother, alright.
The guards dragged the blubbering man out, leaving red streaks across the pristine floor. A few nobles opened their mouths to protest—only to find Raelth's gaze bearing down on them like judgment itself.
Silence returned.
'Idiots,' Raelth thought lazily. 'They keep thinking their small scraps of inherited power mean something. Spoiled mutts fattened on old war stories and ancestral pride. They forget what true power looks like. They forget it was our blood that won the last great war. Not theirs.'
He cast a sidelong glance at one of the intervening nobles—a man with too many rings and too few brain cells. 'That one weeps at paper cuts, and yet dares to question the ruling bloodline? Laughable.'
'These nobles talk of titles and ancient legacies, as if any of that matters in the face of raw, divine strength. Our generation—the four of us—are not merely royalty. We are born of the curse and the storm. When the day of Rising comes these fools will know that we are walking judgment.'
He folded one leg lazily over the other, exhaling through his nose. 'Why do we even keep these fools around? Entertainment, maybe. It's amusing watching them scramble. And every kingdom needs someone to tax, to marry off, or to throw into dungeons when we need to make an example.'
One noble tried again to rise and speak, but a shift in Raelth's gaze was enough to make the man sit right back down, swallowing whatever petty defense he had planned.
The court resumed, his brothers deftly managing the flow of politics, trade matters, border disputes. Raelth remained reclined, sipping wine from a gold-gilded goblet, seemingly uninterested.
But he missed nothing.
Let them play their games. Let them squabble over titles and tributes. When it mattered, when real power was required, it would not be these mewling aristocrats who stood at the front.
It would be him.
And his brothers.
And the world would tremble.
"What a spectacle," the Crown Prince remarked, his voice echoing through the silent chamber. "Justice, as always, remains our guiding principle—and today, it was delivered flawlessly." With that, he turned with regal poise. "The imperial court is hereby adjourned."
He walked away without another glance.