CHAPTER 517: ’SANCTUS REGNUM’

As expected, the crowd erupted. Gasps, whispers, even the sharp snap of a fan breaking the silence—all swirled through the hall like a sudden storm.

The nobles couldn’t contain their shock at the way Heinz had so coldly dismissed the Sereneson family.

Yet, to Florian’s surprise—or perhaps he shouldn’t have been surprised at all—Monica merely dipped her head, serene and composed, her smile never faltering.

Hendrix followed, his bow sharp and precise, the corners of his lips twitching as if in challenge, though he masked it with grace.

Marius, however, trembled. The King of Tranquilis stiffened, his hands clenching at his robes before he finally bowed as well. His voice wavered when he spoke. "Of course, Your Majesty."

They stepped aside, retreating with quiet dignity, though the air around them hummed with tension.

From the corner of his vision, Florian caught sight of Athena in the crowd. Her wide pink eyes were frozen in confusion, darting between Heinz and her family.

Her lips parted slightly, as though she wanted to speak but couldn’t. At her side, Scarlett looked just as startled, her gaze flicking toward Florian, silently pleading for answers.

Florian’s stomach twisted. He wanted to go to them, to ease Athena’s distress, to explain something—anything. But the moment chained him in place.

Not now.

Not with every eye in the hall pressing on him like a weight.

Instead, he leaned slightly closer to Heinz, keeping the smile plastered across his lips for the sake of appearances. His words were a whisper, soft enough to be lost in the crowd’s restless murmuring.

"Your Majesty, was that really necessary?"

Heinz gave no answer at first, his gaze fixed firmly ahead, posture carved from stone. The whispers in the crowd only thickened in the silence, stretching the tension tight.

Then, at last, he leaned the barest inch toward Florian, his reply sharp and quiet.

"They were taking too long."

Florian blinked, his forced smile twitching. "The king was just—"

"They were taking too long," Heinz cut in again, firmer this time, the finality of his tone like iron.

Florian frowned, the mask slipping for only a heartbeat before he recovered.

’Is he seriously doing this right now? You know what—why am I even surprised?’

He let out a soft sigh, the kind that never reached the surface, his lips still curled upward for the restless nobles watching them from below.

His eyes remained forward, fixed on the grand entrance as the herald stepped forth, clearing his throat to command attention once again.

The next kingdom would arrive soon. And Florian braced himself.

And oh God—he didn’t think it could get any worse.

The herald stepped forward, his voice booming through the hall, every syllable carrying the weight of ceremony and command.

"Introducing... the royal family from the Sanctus Regnum—"

Florian’s stomach dropped like a stone into cold water. His breath caught in his throat, his eyes widening as his heart slammed, heavy and uneven, against his ribs.

It was them.

It was Alexandria’s kingdom.

Her family.

The crowd rippled instantly, a wave of murmurs breaking out among jeweled nobles and watchful knights. Fans fluttered open, whispers hissed like serpents in the silence of the grand hall.

"Sanctus Regnum?"

"They actually came?"

"After what happened to their princess—"

Florian’s vision tunneled, the walls closing in. His palms went damp as dread coiled through his veins.

He already knew they had accepted the invitation, but between the endless planning, the suffocating duties, and Heinz’s constant shadow pressing against him, he had forgotten. He had let it slip from his mind like sand through his fingers.

And now—here they were.

’I don’t even know why they accepted. Heinz had Alexandria executed.’

Unless...

The herald’s voice cut through his thoughts, sealing the horror.

"The holy Divinarae family!"

The herald’s voice rang clear, and at once the grand doors of the ballroom swung open with booming force, their golden hinges groaning as if straining under the weight of destiny.

The entrance was nothing short of a spectacle.

Unlike the Sereneson family’s modest arrival, the Divinarae procession surged forward like a tide of divine judgment.

White-armored knights poured in first, their polished plate gleaming like blades of light.

They marched in flawless unison, shields raised proudly, each emblazoned with the crest of Sanctus Regnum—a blazing sun crowned with a cross of flame.

The sheer discipline in their synchronized steps made the marble floor tremble, the echoes reverberating through the hall like a war drum.

Behind them, priests in flowing ivory robes advanced, their faces veiled by golden hoods. They moved in measured, solemn rhythm, staffs held high.

Crystals crowned their staffs, glowing faintly with pale fire—holy light that shimmered like fragments of starlight scattered into form.

With every strike of their staffs against marble, sparks of light rippled outward, the air trembling faintly, as if the very hall was being sanctified under their presence.

And then—from within that living wall of light and steel—emerged three figures who drew every gaze like planets orbiting their sun.

The king and queen of Sanctus Regnum moved as though the world itself parted for them.

"King Aurelius Divinarae!" the herald declared.

The king strode forward with shoulders straight as an iron pillar. His robe, black at its core, was lined with gold-threaded scripture, each verse glowing faintly as if alive.

Upon his brow rested a crown of pale silver, etched with ancient runes that caught the candlelight, bending it into a subtle halo around him. His presence was not merely regal—it was absolute.

"Queen Isidora Divinarae!"

The queen followed at his side, every step a lesson in grace sharpened into weaponry. Her gown cascaded in flawless ivory silk, shifting like moonlight poured into fabric.

Her chin was high, her posture a blade. But it was her eyes that unsettled—bright, piercing, unblinking—gazing not at the crowd, but through it, as though searching for weakness in every soul present.

And between them—walking with a gravity that could eclipse kings themselves—was a figure who made even the most hardened nobles bow their heads.

"And his holiness, the Supreme Hierophant, revealer of holy mysteries, Father Serapion!"

The Hierophant glided forward with steps slow yet thunderous in meaning. His robes, layered in white and gold, shimmered faintly with threads of divine light. Every fold whispered with power.

A radiant sigil burned at the top of his staff, pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat, casting halos of light across the marble floor. With each strike of the staff, the air seemed to split between blessing and judgment.

’Oh God... they’re here. They’re really here.’

The hall trembled with whispers, curiosity, and awe.

Florian forced himself to keep his expression steady, but inside, his thoughts spun in a panic.

As soon as the Divinarae family reached the dais, silence fell like a blade. Their procession slowed, then halted, the gleam of polished white armor and golden silk catching the candlelight.

With practiced elegance, the king, queen, and archbishop bowed low before Florian and Heinz. The priests followed suit, their staffs lowered in reverence.

It should have been a moment of grace—of solemnity.

But Heinz, being Heinz, wasted not a single second.

"I must say..." His voice cut through the silence, sharp and commanding, loud enough for the entire hall to hear.

Florian’s heart seized. His lips still carried the faintest of courtly smiles, but inside—panic roared.

’Please don’t say anything bad. Please, just this once, don’t—’

"I’m quite surprised..." Heinz continued, his tone deceptively casual. "And curious..."

His words dragged, every syllable deliberate, designed to taunt, to humiliate. "...that you had the courage to come here, even after I had your disgraceful daughter’s head cut off."

The words cracked through the ballroom like thunder.

Gasps erupted immediately, sharp and horrified. Fans snapped closed. A glass slipped from someone’s fingers and shattered on the marble floor.

The crowd broke into frantic whispers, voices trembling with disbelief:

"My goodness!"

"That’s..."

"I know the princess committed a crime but saying that is a bit..."

Florian’s whole body went rigid. He wanted to scream, to shove Heinz, to do something. His nails dug into the fabric of his own sleeves to keep himself from lunging.

’My fucking God, Heinz! Why would you say that—why now?!’