CHAPTER 85: THE SHADOW OVER LIONHEART

The Shadow Over Lionheart

The Royal Court of Lionheart was a place built to impress gods.

Every inch of it spoke of pride, legacy, and power. The ceiling arched high above like the ribs of a cathedral, painted in deep crimson and gold leaf, the colors of the Lionheart crest. Sunlight streamed through tall, arched windows set with stained glass lions—each one glimmering in shades of amber and scarlet. Crystal chandeliers hung from golden chains, each one heavy with jewels and crafted fireglass, scattering fragments of light across the marble floor.

The hall was vast enough for an army to march through. Ornate pillars lined both sides—each carved with roaring lions that looked almost alive under the glow of a hundred flickering torches. Red velvet banners trailed down the walls, each embroidered with the Lionheart emblem: a lion standing atop a broken crown, symbol of domination and honor.

And in this breathtaking court, nobles filled the chamber—fat, thin, graceful, old, each wrapped in silks and jewels worth a merchant’s lifetime. Gold-threaded robes brushed against marble; rings glittered on thick fingers. Perfume and tension hung heavy in the air.

Every gaze pointed toward the far end of the room.

There, upon the raised dais, sat the King of Lionheart himself.

Ben Lionheart.

He sat upon the royal throne—a masterpiece of golden filigree and crimson velvet. The arms of the throne were lion heads carved from pure gold, their jeweled eyes glinting beneath the chandeliers. Behind him stood two colossal banners, marking the dynasty that had ruled for over three centuries.

Ben’s expression, however, was anything but majestic. His face carried the weight of sleepless nights. His jaw was set, and his eyes—sharp yet weary—flickered with quiet dread as he read the sealed parchment clutched in his hand.

The court murmured in cautious tones. No one dared speak loudly, but everyone could feel it—something was wrong.

The King finally lowered the scroll and exhaled, slow and heavy. "It cannot be true..." he muttered under his breath, voice barely audible, yet it carried in the tense silence.

Across the chamber, his advisors exchanged uncertain glances. The golden-haired Minister of Trade shifted uncomfortably. The High Priest’s fingers tightened on his staff. Even the guards at the door looked uneasy, hands resting closer to their hilts.

Ben leaned back slightly, eyes drifting toward the massive double doors at the far end of the hall. "Where is the scout?" he asked at last, his tone calm but threaded with impatience.

"He should’ve arrived moments ago, Your Majesty," said the old Chancellor, bowing his head deeply. "He brings news from the eastern border."

Ben’s hand flexed against the armrest. "News," he repeated softly, "or confirmation of disaster."

A chill swept through the chamber.

Minutes passed. The whispers returned—quiet, desperate, like the rustle of silk.

Then—

Bang!

The double doors swung open with a hollow boom that echoed down the golden pillars.

A man stepped through the entryway.

He wore a dark, dust-stained robe—plain, travel-worn, and damp with sweat. His hair was black, short, unkempt from the wind. Despite his youth, his face bore lines of exhaustion, and his eyes—sharp, alert, and shadowed—spoke of what he had seen.

The nobles stiffened as he approached, boots striking the marble in firm, unhurried steps.

When he reached the center of the hall, he fell to one knee. "Long live Your Majesty," he said, voice low but steady. "I bring report from the border."

Ben’s fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the throne. "Rise," he ordered, though his voice trembled ever so slightly. "Speak, messenger. Is the report true?"

The man hesitated—just for a breath—and then bowed his head deeper.

"...It is true, my King."

The words hit the air like a blade through silk.

"The Moon Eagle... they’ve gathered on our border. Around fifty of them."

Silence.

A suffocating silence fell over the royal court.

No one moved. No one even breathed.

For a heartbeat, it was as if the world itself had stopped turning.

Ben’s face froze—shock first, then disbelief, then a grim, dawning realization. He rose slowly from the throne, his shadow stretching long across the marble floor. "Fifty," he repeated, his voice low and hoarse. "Are you certain?"

"Yes, Your Majesty." The scout’s tone faltered. "Their banners carry the black crescent—the mark of the Moon Eagle. They’ve formed ranks near the north ridge... preparing for something."

The King’s eyes narrowed. His pulse roared in his ears.

The Moon Eagle.

An assassin order older than the Lionheart kingdom itself. They answered to no crown, no empire, no god. They were the rulers of the dark—the hand behind every unsolved death, every vanished noble, every burned city that no one claimed.

And now... fifty of them were gathering at Lionheart’s border.

A storm of whispers erupted across the hall.

"They’re mad—fifty of them?"

"Gods preserve us, that’s a declaration of war."

"We’re doomed, the Moon Eagle doesn’t appear unless they intend—"

"Silence!"

Ben’s voice cracked through the noise like thunder. The court froze.

He stood tall, eyes burning, his voice no longer uncertain but heavy with command. "Panic will not save us. Fear will not protect our walls. Every word you speak in cowardice weakens this kingdom’s heart."

No one dared meet his gaze.

He turned back toward the scout. "You said they’re at the north ridge. What of our outposts?"

The man swallowed hard. "No contact for two days, Your Majesty. We... we fear the worst."

A vein pulsed in Ben’s temple. He stepped down from the dais, the golden hem of his robe brushing the marble. For a moment, he looked every bit the king the people believed him to be—unbreakable, regal, proud. But his eyes... his eyes betrayed the storm inside.

His mind raced—images of burning villages, fallen knights, his children, his people.

He clenched his jaw and spoke, his tone low, almost growling, "Summon the generals. I want eyes on that ridge before sundown."

"Yes, my King!"

The messenger bowed deeply and turned to leave, his boots echoing against the marble as he disappeared beyond the doors.

As they closed, the court seemed to exhale as one. Murmurs returned—nervous, fragile.

"What do we do now?" whispered a noblewoman, clutching her pearls. "If the Moon Eagle strikes, we’ll—"

"—We’ll die like the rest," hissed another. "You think the walls will save us?"

"This is the end," someone muttered under their breath.

The noise swelled again—fear twisting through the air like smoke.

Ben’s patience snapped.

SLAM!