CHAPTER 556: A KING’S DAMNATION

"Since the new King of Zura did sent me an inviation," Alaric began, his voice carrying easily across the vaulted hall, "How could I not come and grace Your Majesty’s very special day?"

Gasps rippled through the gathered nobles. All eyes turned to the intruder who strode forward with the calm assurance of a man who belonged wherever he chose to stand.

Turik rose from the throne, his features twisting with fury."You! How audacious! This is not your Northem or your Calma, that you can barge in as you please. This is Zura!" His voice cracked like a whip. "Guards—seize him!"

Steel scraped against marble as soldiers moved—but an old minister lifted a trembling hand."Your Majesty... he bears an invitation."

The words fell into the hall like a drop of ink in water, spreading quiet confusion. Turik froze mid-command.

"This old minister speaks true," Alaric said smoothly. From within his robes, he drew a folded parchment sealed in red wax, the sigil of the royal court glinting faintly in the torchlight. He held it high for all to see.

"I came as a guest," he continued, "but also as a judge."

A collective gasp echoed through the chamber. Even the banners seemed to tremble.

Alaric’s eyes burned with purpose as his voice rose, resonant and unyielding."I accuse the newly crowned General Turik, now King of Zura, of exterminating the Soderna royal bloodline!"

The hall erupted in chaos—cries, denials, disbelief. Turik’s face blanched, then hardened into rage."How dare you twist Northem’s crimes upon me? It was you, Alaric! You and Northem!"

"I would not dare," Alaric said, his tone low and dangerous, "if I had no proof." He turned toward the doors and raised a hand. "Bring them in."

The great doors groaned open.

A dozen knights entered, clad in the black and gold armor of Zura, But their heads hung low, and their faces were pale with shame. Shackled, they marched under the watchful eyes of Alaric’s men.

Turik’s pupils constricted.

No.

He recognized every one of them—his own men, the same soldiers he had ordered to erase the royal heirs of Zura from existence.

"These," Alaric declared, gesturing to the bound knights, "are Zura’s finest. The blades that once swore to protect this kingdom... turned against their sovereign at your command."

Turik’s fury flared, his voice trembling between anger and fear.

"Lies! Do you think these nobles and ministers will believe such poison? You are an enemy of Zura, Alaric—and you have delivered yourself into our hands!"

But as he spoke, his words felt hollow, his certainty cracking beneath the weight of Alaric’s calm.The prince stood utterly composed, his expression unreadable, his presence unnervingly assured.

Turik’s mind raced.He wouldn’t come here alone. Not without leverage. Not without a plan. What does he intend to do?

For the first time that day, the King of Zura felt a flicker of dread curl in his chest.

"The additional evidence is here," Alaric announced, his tone measured but cutting through the tension like a blade. He handed a stack of parchment to Zamree and the nearest generals, the crackle of aged vellum loud in the sudden hush.

"Do not believe his lies!" Turik’s composure shattered, his voice rising above the murmurs like a man drowning in his own fury. "He seeks to overthrow Zura itself! You think he came here in peace?" His hand slammed down on the armrest of the throne. "Guards! Seize him! Throw him into the dungeon!"

A heartbeat later, chaos erupted.

Half the soldiers surged forward, steel rasping from scabbards as they advanced on Alaric. But before they could reach him, a ripple of movement cut through the hall.

From the walls of the hall—where moments ago, shadows had lain still—figures stepped forward. They were the knights guarding the event, their armor bearing the faint emblem of Zura. They formed a circle around Alaric, shields locking in perfect unison.

The air trembled with the promise of violence.

"Stand down!" a general shouted, but the command was drowned beneath the growing roar of clashing loyalties.

Then—another sound, softer, sharper.A gasp.

Turik froze as cold steel kissed his throat.

The high priest, still robed in ivory and gold, had slipped behind the throne. His hand was steady, the dagger’s point resting just below the king’s jawline.

"You!" Turik’s voice cracked, disbelief and panic warring in his eyes. "What in the hells are you doing?"

The priest smiled faintly, a serenity far too calm for the storm around them."Protecting you, Your Majesty," he murmured. "One can never be too careful when traitors lurk so close. Imagine if someone... mishandled their king."

"Blasphemy!" Turik spat, his body trembling with rage. "You dare threaten your king?"His hand darted beneath his cloak—steel flashed, catching the torchlight. From beneath the layers of royal silk, he drew his own dagger, his knuckles white around the hilt.

The hall held its breath.Knights tensed. Ministers stepped back.Two blades gleamed—one pressed to the king’s throat, the other trembling in his grip.

...

Zamree and the Minister of Defense bent over the parchments, their hands trembling slightly as they turned each page. The rustle of paper was deafening in the heavy silence. Line after line, seal after seal—royal decrees, confessions, letters intercepted and preserved. With every mark of ink, their faces darkened.

Zamree’s brow furrowed so deeply it seemed to carve years into his features. "How... how could this be?" he whispered, disbelief and dread wrestling in his voice.

The Minister of Defense exhaled, his eyes never leaving the damning words. "It is true," he said, voice grave and cold. "General Turik—no... our new king—was the hand behind the slaughter of Zura’s royal blood."

A stunned silence swept across the hall like a winter wind.

Turik’s eyes widened, wild with panic and rage. "Lies!" he bellowed, his voice echoing off the marble pillars. "You fools—can you not see it? Alaric weaves deceit like a spider! He wants Zura under his heel, to make it a vassal to his cursed Northem throne! Will you let him?"

His shout carried desperation now, not authority.

But Alaric did not respond—not immediately. He stood motionless, his expression unreadable, letting Turik’s words hang and die in the charged air. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, deliberate, and terrifyingly calm.

"Bring them in."

The great doors creaked open once more. Two young women entered, dressed in plain servants’ garb. Their steps were hesitant but steady, their faces pale under the torchlight. They moved through the rows of nobles like ghosts carrying truth itself.

Turik’s glare burned into them, his jaw tightening with fury. Traitors. He had seen those faces before—in the palace corridors, by the queen’s side.

The first of the maids stepped forward. Though her hands shook, her eyes were resolute. She bowed briefly before Alaric, then turned to face the hall—and the man on the throne.

"We are here... to confess."