The decision has been made in the basement of the palace—five shadow leaders of Gaia have declared Fitran Fate as the next king. But as the news slowly leaked into the party rooms, faction meetings, and dining halls of the nobility, a wave of rejection quickly grew like a tidal wave before a storm. Whispers of disbelief and breaths held in anxiety echoed among the crowd, mingling with the aroma of delicious food that felt bland on their tongues.
In the Lauenbrug family hall, the main nobles gathered, their faces grim and tense. Lord Edwin Lauenbrug—brother of one of Fitran's past victims—stood, his voice trembling with suppressed anger. Sweat dripped from his temples, creating wet trails on his pale skin, while his fingers gripped the wooden table tightly, turning his knuckles white.
"Must we all kneel to the man who once shed the blood of our family? Has Gaia forgotten who wielded the sword on the night of the massacre of traitors and rebels?" His voice thundered, shaking the atmosphere, making the bell in the corner of the room vibrate softly. "If Fitran Fate ascends the throne, the blood of the nobility will be in vain!" Frustration covered his face, his eyes shining with determination and unease.
Lady Mirabelle of House Astral interjected, her soft voice seeming to try to balance the storm raging in the room. "True. We may owe our lives to Fitran in this war, but history can never be forgotten. We never chose him as our protector; we were forced to obey the Council's decision, and every decision born of coercion will grow into poison!" Her voice trembled, accompanied by the gentle movement of her hands, as if displaying her doubts—a brave yet worried gesture. The atmosphere grew tenser, like dark clouds looming in the sky, ready to swallow the light of hope, warning everyone of the impending disaster.
Marquess Lucian von Reichen, young and fiery, slammed his hand on the table, echoing in the tension-filled room. "Today we surrender Gaia to the hero who killed half of the old leaders. Tomorrow, who can guarantee he won't kill us all if we refuse his orders?" His eyes blazed, creating a chilling silence, while the breaths of the attending nobles halted for a moment, realizing the weight of his words.
The conversation turned into a heated debate, voices blending into a symphony of uncertainty. Some young nobles insisted on defending Fitran, emphasizing his role in saving the city and ending tyranny. They straightened their backs, trying to appear steadfast, while their faces radiated the spirit of revolution. But the majority of the old faction, with fingers intertwined on the table, remained trapped in old wounds, visible in the furrows on their brows and the anxious blinks of their eyes.
An old noble—a former senior sorceress who had witnessed Fitran's duel with one of the prominent Dukes—whispered softly, her lips trembling, "He is not a king. He is a shadow. No matter how brave his people are, a kingdom built on blood will not endure." Her gentle voice nearly drowned out, yet its impact spread, filling the room with a deeper sense of doubt. Tension hung in the air, as if every word was absorbed by the black-laminated walls around them, which seemed to harbor dark secrets.
In the basement, Lord Alaric Vantess received the news of rejection, his face cold and expressionless, though his eyes shone sharply like an old eagle long flying in the stormy winds. The rumble of uncertainty echoed in the cold corridors, assaulting the senses of thought, making the air heavier and more unsettling.
"We anticipated this would happen," he said to the other pillars, his voice heavy like dark clouds ready to unleash rain. He snapped his fingers to emphasize his words, while his face was covered in shadows of worry. "But we cannot retreat. Gaia needs someone strong enough to unite, but also feared enough to hold Earth. Even if not Fitran, who can fulfill this task? We have seen the princes and barons: they only know heritage, not meaning." His eyes scanned the silence in the room, searching for reactions from everyone around him.
Seraphine Valeora nodded, her eyes somber yet resolute, contrasting with the disbelief flashing on the faces of the other pillar members. Her right hand gripped the table tightly, as if urging it to stay connected to the complex reality. "We must prepare two paths: an approach to calm the young nobles, and strict oversight for the old factions that may sow rebellion. Every newspaper, every magical message, must be directed to build the narrative: Gaia survived because of Fitran, not because of blue blood."
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Marquess Octavian added, his low voice vibrating like the sound of distant bells. He leaned back in his chair, as if bearing the weight of increasingly heavy decisions. "And if necessary, we invite the people to a public meeting. We force the voice of the people to be heard—because in the end, if the people choose, the nobles have no reason left." At the end of his sentence, he looked at each pillar member with an intensity that showed how he himself doubted this step, sweat beginning to trickle down his temples.
Sir Thalor emphasized, exhaling a heavy breath filled with pressure, his right hand forming a small fist on the table. "But remember, if treachery occurs, we must be ready to face a small civil war. Not all power transitions happen peacefully." His voice contained a threat that echoed in the basement, while each pillar's heart raced as if sensing a rumble greater than mere words.
That afternoon, the main delegation from the noble factions arrived at the basement chamber, bringing dozens of rejection letters. The air felt stiff, filled with the damp aroma of earth and sharp-scented paper. They walked with uncertainty, each step echoing like the sound of death bells. Cautiously, they maintained a facade of composure, but their eyes revealed a thousand deep fears.
Lord Edwin, representing the majority, spoke loudly, all his eyes glaring sharply at the other members of the delegation, "If Fitran Fate is appointed as King of Gaia, we—and the great families who remember their blood—will withdraw our support. Gaia could fracture, even before Earth attacks again!" His voice trembled in the air, adding weight to the atmosphere in this dark and damp room.
Alaric stared at them for a long time, unmoving, as if the weight of responsibility had silenced all the words in his mouth. He shifted his gaze to the small fogged window, imagining how dark the future would be if the power of the nobility was not united. "We appreciate your opinions," he said, his voice calm yet firm, "But the world has changed. What Gaia needs now is not a king born of noble blood, but a king who proves himself in the blood and mud of battle." He scanned each face, seeking empathy. "We prefer a king who kills to defend meaning, rather than a king who hides behind an old name." Each word was spoken with a bitter feeling that vibrated between them, surrounded by a suffocating sense of urgency.
Tension peaked, the air felt heavy as if filled with dangerous gas. Some nobles even threatened to call their private armies, their hands gripping the arms of their chairs, invoking their rights of inheritance, and spreading slander about Fitran beyond the kingdom. In one corner of the room, an old noble sneered cynically, worsening the atmosphere.
Seraphine stood, her body straight with an aura of determination, her voice cold and sharp, as if capable of cutting through the tension in the room, "Do not forget, the war is not over. Tiamat has not been destroyed." Her voice echoed among the stone walls, adding weight to her statement. "If you prefer civil war over peace, do not blame anyone but yourselves when Gaia truly falls apart." She gazed into the darkness in the corner of the room as if she could see a fractured future, and the faintness of hope.
That night, news of the debate in the kingdom spread slowly, like whispers of poison among the remnants of the people. The common folk largely supported Fitran, seeing him as a savior; the aroma of wet earth and smoke from burning outside added layers of sadness enveloping the environment. But the tension within the noble circle grew, threatening to crack the roots of Gaia, like fine cracks spreading across the surface of seemingly strong ice.
In the distance, the sound of war had not completely faded. But within the palace, a new battle—the battle against the shadows of history and old grudges—had just begun. The majestic walls of the palace trembled softly, as if harboring the poisonous whispers swirling in the air. A distinctive metallic aroma, even pungent, filled the gleaming space, emphasizing how life and death coexisted in every corner. The cracks in the ornate walls showed remnants of battles left behind, both physical and mental.
And Fitran, who was unaware of the entire drama behind the walls of power, would slowly be faced with the hardest test: Not against Tiamat or Earth—but against the hearts of his own noble people. As he stepped further into the room, his presence marked by suspicious glances and whispers of conspiracy flowing like cold wind. The sound of the clock ticking seemed to fill the void, leaving an impression of a looming threat. An old noble, with a wrinkled face, stared at Fitran sharply, as if assessing his decisions with every step he took. Her trembling fingers revealed uncertainty behind her cold demeanor, signaling an unspoken truth, a loyalty that could waver according to the existing political interests.
