Royal Council Chamber – The Politics of the Past

  The grand council room of Elenora pulsed with quiet tension.

  Stained-glass windows filtered sunlight onto the ancient elven marble, casting patterns of gold and emerald across the floor. Around the long crescent-shaped table sat the royal nobles—cloaked in fine robes and prideful silence.

  At the center sat King Thalorian, tall and commanding in his throne. On his right, Queen Syltharia, elegant and poised, with Princess Guinevere seated beside her.

  On the far end, hunched yet dignified, sat the Old Royal Seer, his withered eyes closed as if listening to the winds of fate.

  And beside him, with an icy glare and folded arms, sat the king’s own brother—Prince Malric, stone-faced and silent.

  But amidst the velvet and gold, the air was thick with murmurs.

  Whispers of unrest.

  Of politics.

  Of old scars.

  Guinevere leaned toward her mother, whispering, “Mother… why are we here?”

  Before the Queen could answer—

  King Thalorian rose slightly, his deep voice cutting through the noise.

  “Why are we even arguing about this?” he said, voice sharp. “You summoned a council on the very night we’re meant to celebrate the return of my daughter—and then bring dishonor into this hall? Speak your reasoning, Duke Albwin.”

  All heads turned to the far end of the table.

  There sat Duke Albwin, draped in crimson robes, eyes like cold steel, his thin lips curved in disapproval. The villainy on his face was practically theatrical.

  “With all due respect, Your Majesty,” he said coolly, “this human boy—this outsider—was allowed to step foot into our sacred kingdom.”

  Murmurs stirred.

  “You all know the history,” Albwin continued. “Of what their kind did to us. The race war. The mana purges. Do you forget so quickly?”

  Thalorian narrowed his eyes.

  “That boy saved my daughter,” he said, his voice rising. “He risked his life for the heir to Elenora. The one who will soon wear the crown.”

  Albwin scoffed.

  “And yet you trust him so easily? Have we forgotten that it was humans who enslaved our kind in centuries past? That their lust for power nearly destroyed us?”

  He rose to his feet.

  “Yes, Arthur Reigns saved us once. But it was his own kin who brought the Fire Demon Dragon upon us. The Round Table? Outsiders, all of them.”

  Gasps.

  The nobles murmured in agreement—quiet, but growing louder.

  The Queen looked displeased, her violet gaze sharpening.

  Guinevere stood.

  “No!” she shouted, her voice echoing off the marble walls.

  “All of you—stop bringing up the past! Artreus Reigns is not the same as those who came before. He is my savior, my friend. The younger brother of Arthur Reigns—the hero who defeated Demon King Azazel!”

  She stepped forward, emotion rising.

  “He fought against a powerful Archdemon to protect me—bled for me! If you wish to call yourselves noble, then show some honor!”

  Albwin sneered.

  “Princess, you are too young to see how history repeats itself—”

  CLACK.

  The chamber doors burst open.

  All heads turned.

  “Yo.”

  Samson casually stepped into the chamber, sleeves rolled up, arms crossed, and that familiar cocky grin on his face.

  “I heard you noble peacocks flapping your feathers in here. Something about throwing out my student?”

  Gasps and scoffs erupted.

  Albwin snapped, “Samson! You have no right to barge into a royal council!”

  Samson strolled forward casually. “Oh, but I do. I saved your kingdom a hundred years ago, remember? Long before your ancestors started growing gray beards and long memories.”

  He gave a respectful nod to the king.

  “Your Majesty. You’ve grown.”

  King Thalorian smiled faintly. “And you’ve stayed the same, Samson. Rude as ever.”

  Samson bowed with mock politeness. “My apologies, my king. And… nobles.”

  The nobles murmured uneasily.

  Samson turned to the Old Royal Seer and gave a respectful bow.

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  “Good to see you, Old Tree Eyes.”

  The elder smiled faintly, but said nothing.

  Then Samson faced the room.

  “The princess is right,” he said. “Artreus Reigns brought your future queen back home safe and sound. And instead of celebrating—you’re dragging up old wounds?”

  He pointed at Albwin.

  “You talk of betrayal, of bloodlines, of fear. But that boy fought an Archdemon with his bare hands. Something most of you would piss yourselves doing.”

  Murmurs. Glares.

  Samson smirked.

  “Now how about you stop whining, pour some wine, and celebrate the princess’s return?”

  King Thalorian sighed but nodded slowly.

  “As of now, this council will come to a close.”

  He looked at the room, voice firm.

  “Artreus Reigns shall remain in Elenora as a guest of honor. He is to be treated with respect—as the savior of our daughter.”

  Albwin growled under his breath.

  “But Your Majesty—”

  “Enough,” the King snapped.

  The nobles slowly stood and began filtering out, many casting glances at Guinevere and the Queen.

  As the room cleared, Thalorian turned to Samson.

  “…Samson. A word.”

  Samson arched a brow. “You’re not gonna give me a lecture, are you?”

  The king gave a small, tired smile.

  “Just a conversation.”

  The chamber doors slowly closed behind them.

  And so—one storm had passed.

  But others were still on the horizon.

  Royal Council Chamber – The Hidden Truth

  The grand chamber had emptied.

  Only three figures remained beneath the dim golden light of ancient elven chandeliers.

  The room was still, but thick with tension. Quiet. Heavy.

  King Thalorian sat at the head of the obsidian table, his fingers wrapped around a crystal goblet filled with deep violet wine.

  To his left, the aged Royal Seer sat motionless, his old eyes closed, as though listening to the voices of the wind and time itself.

  Across from the king stood Samson, arms loosely folded, his expression more serious now, but still laced with that ever-present grin.

  He whistled low.

  “Ho… what a good crowd of noble peacocks you’ve got there,” Samson muttered, letting out a dry chuckle.

  King Thalorian smiled faintly and swirled the wine in his goblet.

  “Yes… nobles with long memories and longer grudges,” he said. “Their scars haven’t faded. Not since the fire demon dragon razed our city eight years ago… and the dark night creatures broke our camouflage wards.”

  He took a slow sip.

  Samson leaned his arms on the back of a nearby chair. “Yeah… but they forget who saved them.”

  The king’s eyes narrowed.

  “Arthur. And his Round Table knights.”

  He poured a second glass and slid it across to Samson.

  “A tale no statue has been allowed to tell.”

  Samson caught the glass, raising it slightly in a toast.

  “To forgotten heroes,” he muttered before taking a slow drink.

  The king stared into the fire burning at the center hearth.

  “…Those monsters only got in because they were led by a traitor. A Round Table knight… one of your own. Another chapter in the long and bitter book of human and elf distrust.”

  Samson sighed. “We all live in the same damn world. But it’s always the old pages that keep getting re-read.”

  He set his glass down.

  “Anyways—how’s life been? You were just a snot-nosed kid last time I saw you… what, six hundred ninety years ago?”

  King Thalorian groaned, rubbing his forehead.

  “Don’t bring that up. I’m a king now, Samson. Show a little dignity.”

  Samson grinned. “Your Highness can’t take a little banter?”

  Even the old Seer let out a quiet, amused breath.

  Then Thalorian’s tone shifted, becoming steel.

  “So… let’s get to it. The night bandits. The ones who wielded magic—and that demi-human… the lion beast who took my daughter.”

  His eyes darkened. “Who were they working for?”

  Samson leaned back, resting one hand on the hilt of his gauntlet.

  “Their leader was a beastkin named Liones,” he said. “He’s dead now. Took everything I had to bring him down.”

  Thalorian frowned. “And?”

  Samson’s voice lowered.

  “Before he died… he told me something. Something that doesn’t sit right.”

  The king’s jaw tightened.

  “He said this was all part of a bigger plan. That someone fed him the knowledge of the princess’s whereabouts. Someone who knew about your daughter’s mana bloodline… and about Elenora’s ancient wards.”

  The Seer opened his eyes slowly. “…That knowledge lies only with the court.”

  Thalorian stood slowly, the gravity of Samson’s words settling into the chamber like frost.

  “…You’re saying someone within Elenora betrayed us?”

  Samson didn’t answer right away.

  He stared into his half-empty glass before setting it down.

  “I’m saying there’s a mole in your court, Thalorian. Someone with power. A noble.”

  The silence stretched.

  Then the king’s voice dropped into a growl.

  “Who?”

  Samson met his gaze.

  “That’s what I plan to find out.”

  He turned toward the flickering firelight.

  “And if it’s who I think it is… you’d best start watching your council meetings more closely, Your Majesty.”

  The Seer slowly leaned forward, his voice like the wind on old stones.

  “The shadow in your house… is darker than you know.”

  The Royal Dressing Room Chaos

  Inside a lavish elven dressing room, the chaos of resistance was underway.

  Artreus glared at the mirror, tugging at the tight collar of his formal tunic.

  "Seriously? We’re supposed to wear this?" he grumbled, wriggling in discomfort.

  Mikael, arms flailing, tried to evade the elegant but determined maidens. "Nuh-uh! No way am I wearing that frilly nightmare!"

  Aidan, his eye twitching in fury, growled, "Hands. Off. Me."

  The head maiden, calm but firm, smiled sweetly. "Young travelers, by the order of Her Majesty, you must wear proper formal attire."

  Suddenly—an ambush.

  Dozens of elegant, excited elven maidens swarmed the boys like a tactical unit.

  "Hey—what the hell are you doing?!" Artreus yelped.

  "It tickles! KYAAH!" Mikael squealed, flailing as they tucked in the sash of his robe.

  "Touch me again and I’ll burn this palace to the ground!" Aidan warned.

  "NO AIDAN!!" Artreus and Mikael yelled in unison.

  Moments later, the three emerged from the dressing chamber in full formal attire—polished, princely, and...extremely uncomfortable.

  Mikael adjusted his collar, grumbling, "This outfit's choking me. Good thing I still have my purple scarf... I’m not losing my identity."

  Aidan stood stiffly. "Tch. This is hell."

  Artreus glanced down at himself. "So this is what it’s like being royalty… I feel like a peacock."

  Suddenly—a familiar voice called out from the doorway.

  "Artreus."

  His eyes lit up.

  "Princess!"

  Guinevere stood before them, radiant in a flowing royal gown, her white-silver hair cascading over her shoulders, her violet eyes glowing with soft affection.

  She smiled warmly. "How are you feeling?"

  "I, uh…" Artreus cleared his throat, awkwardly straightening his collar. "I slept alright. Glad I woke up before these two stormed the room."

  He motioned to Aidan and Mikael.

  "These are my friends—Aidan Kronus and Mikael Kier."

  Mikael gave a small wave, trying to act cool. "Sup."

  Guinevere smiled warmly. "It’s an honor to meet the young heroes who fought alongside Artreus."

  Mikael's face flushed. "Oh—uh, yeah… Nice to meet you too… Princess."

  She turned to Artreus again, eyes twinkling. "You look good in those clothes."

  Artreus groaned. "I look ridiculous. Your mom forced the maidens to suit us up like this."

  Guinevere raised an eyebrow. "My mom?"

  She grinned mischievously, sticking out her tongue.

  "That wasn’t my mom. That was me."

  "Wait—what?!" Artreus gawked.

  She giggled. "Anyway… there's someone who wants to meet you."

  Guinevere stepped aside and gestured behind her.

  From the shadows of the hallway emerged a young elf girl—poised, delicate, and undeniably royal.

  She looked like a miniature version of Guinevere, just a few years younger. Her hair was silvery-blonde and tied in flowing ribbons, her pale cheeks slightly flushed with nervousness.

  "This is my little sister," Guinevere said proudly. "She’s close to your age."

  The girl bowed slightly, her voice soft but clear.

  "Thank you… for bringing my sister home safely. My name is Odette Elaria Aragorn. It’s nice to meet you, warrior boy."

  Artreus blinked.

  He stared for a moment, then leaned slightly toward Mikael and whispered under his breath.

  "Mini-princess…?"

  Mikael nodded, whispering back.

  "Yup. Adorable. Dangerously adorable."

  Aidan rolled his eyes. "Tread carefully. Royals are landmines."

  Odette tilted her head shyly. "Is something wrong?"

  Artreus quickly straightened up. "N-No! It’s nice to meet you too, Princess Odette."

  The air lightened, and for a brief moment—it felt like peace.