CHAPTER 88: THE CORRIDOR OF SILENT EYES

The Corridor of Silent Eyes

The great doors of the throne room closed behind him with a deep, echoing thud.

Ben stood still for a moment. The noise of the court—the whispers, the nervous shifting, the faint rustle of robes—was gone. Only the distant hum of torches and the sound of his own heartbeat remained. His hands unclenched at last.

He drew a slow breath, straightened his coat, and began walking.

The corridor stretched ahead, long and ornate, lined with polished marble pillars and golden sconces that held steady flames. Every few steps, stained glass windows filtered pale sunlight across the walls, scattering colored fragments that danced over his boots. The air smelled faintly of sandalwood and old paper.

As he moved, his reflection followed in the polished floors—shoulders squared, stride even, expression hard to read. His footsteps echoed faintly in the empty hall, a measured rhythm of command and restraint.

Guards stationed at each bend straightened as soon as they saw him. Metal plates gleamed as they lifted their halberds in salute.

"Your Majesty," they said in unison.

Ben gave a curt nod. "Carry on."

He never slowed.

A pair of maids appeared from an adjoining corridor, their heads bowed as they carried linens and scrolls in their arms. One of them hesitated, eyes wide as Ben passed, the tension in the air wrapping around her like a cold wind. He caught her glance—just for a heartbeat—and she looked down instantly, murmuring, "My King."

He didn’t respond, but the smallest flicker of softness touched his gaze before it vanished again.

He walked on.

Every turn, every corner of the corridor, carried the quiet pulse of a kingdom pretending everything was normal. The ministers, the nobles, the guards—they all smiled and bowed, but he could feel the unease beneath their masks.

His mind turned over the events of the throne room. The chaos. The murmurs. The fear.

I warned them not to speak, he thought grimly. But I know better than to trust their silence.

The nobles would talk. They always did. Even with the fear of his voice still ringing in their skulls, someone would whisper, someone would leak. The Moon Eagle’s name would spread like smoke through the capital.

He exhaled through his nose, quiet but sharp.

Let them chatter. By the time the rumors reach the streets, I’ll already be three steps ahead.

He moved past another set of guards. They bowed, their armor glinting in the light.

"Your Majesty."

Ben’s eyes flicked over them, reading their posture, the way their hands trembled just slightly on their weapons.

"You’ve heard nothing," he said softly, almost conversationally.

"Yes, Your Majesty," they stammered.

"Good."

He kept walking.

The corridor opened into a wider hallway, where old portraits lined the walls—ancestors of the Lionheart bloodline, painted in ages when the throne was won by sword rather than diplomacy. Their eyes, painted in oil and shadow, seemed to follow him as he passed.

Ben slowed, his gaze lingering on one portrait—a man with the same sharp jaw and unyielding gaze, wearing armor blackened by battle.

My great-grandfather, he thought. He fought when kingdoms still burned for honor, not politics.

He almost smiled, but it faded before it could form.

If only you could see what the court’s become.

He resumed walking.

At the far end of the hall stood the entrance to the War Council Chamber—a tall iron door engraved with the sigil of a roaring lion encircled by flames. Two guards stood before it, each holding a silver halberd crossed at chest height.

As Ben approached, they snapped to attention.

"Your Majesty!"

The heavy door loomed before him, older than the current palace itself. The metal bore faint scratches and dents, remnants of wars long past. On the floor just before it, the sigil of the Lionheart line was carved deep into the stone—a silent promise that every ruler who crossed that threshold carried both the wisdom and the blood of those who came before.

Ben stopped a few steps away. The torches along the wall flickered, painting shifting shadows across his face.

"Has anyone entered since yesterday?"

"No, Your Majesty," one guard replied. "Only the archivists this morning, under strict order."

"Good. No one enters until I come out. Understood?"

"Yes, Your Majesty."

Ben looked at them both—steady, unreadable, but not unkind. "You will hear things soon. Strange whispers. Keep your loyalty where it belongs. I will remember those who do."

The guards bowed deeply, voices tight with resolve. "We serve the crown."

Ben nodded, placing a hand briefly on the lion sigil before the door. The cold iron beneath his palm thrummed faintly, as though the echoes of old battles still lived within it.

Lionheart blood. Lionheart will.

He drew in a breath, his voice low and quiet, but heavy with meaning.

"Then let’s see what the past still remembers."

The guards pulled back the iron bars, the hinges groaning as the great door began to open. The air beyond spilled out—a faint chill mixed with the scent of parchment and dust, old wood, and something older still: the presence of history.

The War Council Room stretched vast and dim, filled with shelves of scrolls, maps, and banners faded by centuries. At the center stood a great round table carved from dragonbone, etched with battle routes that once shaped the fate of kingdoms.

Ben stepped inside, the door closing behind him with a weighty finality.

For a moment, he simply stood there, letting the silence of the room settle around him. No courtiers. No politics. No deceit. Just the past—pure and unmasked.

He moved toward the table, his fingers brushing across its surface, tracing the carved rivers and battle lines of wars long forgotten. His ancestors’ victories and failures whispered to him from every mark and scar.

If treachery hides within my court, he thought, then I’ll need the strength of those who built this throne with blood and blade.

He pulled out a scroll from the nearest shelf, unrolling it across the table. Ancient handwriting sprawled across yellowed parchment—tactical diagrams, formation codes, reports of battles fought under moonlight.

His eyes narrowed, absorbing each word, each strategy, each echo of a mind that once understood war as an art, not just a necessity.

Outside, the guards stood motionless, their halberds crossed once more. The corridor was silent except for the steady crackle of torches.

Somewhere in the distance, the palace bell tolled once.

And in the quiet heart of the Lionheart legacy, the king began to study the wars of the dead.