CHAPTER 556: A DARK MAGE’S GOOD DEED

The moment Liam crossed the threshold, the atmosphere of the council chamber shifted. Conversations dipped into uneasy murmurs, gazes sharpened, and the weight of the room’s tension pressed down like frost accumulating on glass. Galen, without pausing to acknowledge the stares directed at him, peeled away from Liam’s side and strode with unhurried confidence toward the front rows. Queen Lucy and Mystica sat together, their presence already commanding attention, but the moment Galen slipped into the empty seat beside them—as though he had been expected all along—the chamber rippled with hushed whispers. His reputation preceded him; his arrival turned the air taut with a mixture of awe, resentment, and poorly concealed fear.

Behind Liam, the doors eased shut with a muted thud, and Mabel took her position just beside them. She stood straight and silent, framed by two Crescent knights to her right and two Tempest knights to her left—an odd balance of tension and loyalty stationed between kingdoms that barely tolerated one another. Their armor gleamed under the council hall’s pale, enchanted lights, but only Mabel’s posture held true stillness; the Crescent knights remained stiff with distrust, while the Tempest knights looked ready to intervene at the slightest provocation.

Liam stepped forward, each click of his boots echoing through the expansive chamber lined with carved ice pillars and banners of white and silver. As he approached the front, the murmurs swelled, a chorus of disdain-filled whispers chasing his steps. Dozens of nobles and officials sat in elevated tiers on either side, their gazes sharp with judgment, contempt simmering openly across their faces. Liam felt their hatred like cold drafts brushing against his skin—unpleasant, but impotent.

He granted them no acknowledgment.

His eyes wandered briefly as he walked, taking in every familiar sneer and every unfamiliar face twisted in distrust. Passing his gaze over the high platform where the Crescent King and Queen sat, he did not allow the weight of their authority to influence his stride. King Valemir sat rigid and dignified, his white hair immaculate, his beard perfectly trimmed, exuding disciplined authority that matched the icy city surrounding them. Beside him, Queen Eleanora held her usual serene grace, her long white hair cascading smoothly past her shoulders, blue eyes quiet yet perceptive as they studied Liam’s approach.

But Liam’s attention didn’t linger on them. It shifted, drifting across the platform until it landed on the person who mattered most to his intentions here—Sheila.

The princess sat slightly apart from her parents, in her own reserved seat, and the moment their eyes met, Liam noted several changes. Her hair had grown noticeably longer, now brushing her waist in soft, silver-white waves. There was a new maturity to her posture, a steadiness in the way she carried herself that hadn’t been there during their time back at academy. She looked older—not much physically, but in presence, in composure, as though she had been forced to grow in ways her sheltered upbringing hadn’t prepared her for.

What struck him more, however, was the look she gave him.

Unlike the nobles, unlike the guards, unlike even her parents, there was no disgust in her eyes. No fear. No bitterness or conditioned hatred for the "dark mage" standing before her. Sheila’s gaze was steady, familiar—holding that same quiet openness she had shown after the day he shattered the indoctrination she had been raised with. She still saw him the same way she had then: as a person worth listening to, someone who had challenged her beliefs and given her something far more valuable than comfort—truth.

A small part of him eased at that realization, though he kept the shift hidden behind his expressionless demeanor. Whatever fragile trust had formed between them had not crumbled in his absence. It still lingered, alive and present, and that alone made his task here feel achievable.

Whether she remained worthy of his own trust, however, would depend entirely on how well she read him today—and how accurately she could support the claims he would soon make.

With those thoughts held close, Liam reached the center of the hall, the point designated for formal greeting. He slowed to a stop, the room falling into an anticipatory quiet, every gaze fixed on him. The cold lights overhead cast a pale glow over his form as he straightened, letting the silence settle fully.

Then, with calculated composure, he offered the respectful bow required by decorum—a gesture owed to the Crescent King, the Queen, the royal family, and the gathered council.

The disdain in the room persisted, but the hall had no choice but to acknowledge his arrival.

King Valemir did not speak at first. He let the silence stretch, cold and heavy, while Liam remained in his bow, unmoving, waiting for the permission to rise. The boy held a posture that would have shaken even seasoned knights—straight spine, controlled breathing, not a flicker of anxiety showing through the respectful stillness he maintained. It was as if he were carved from something far denser than flesh, something that refused to bend even when pushed.

Valemir’s eyes stayed locked on Liam, filled with that familiar disdain the entire kingdom had been raised to cultivate. His gaze was sharp, almost hungry in a cruel way, as though he hoped—truly hoped—to catch even the slightest tremor in the boy’s shoulders or a subtle shift of his weight, anything he could use to accuse him of showing disrespect. The longer Liam held steady, the more obvious the tension became in the king’s jaw, the faint grinding of his teeth noticeable only to those close enough to observe him carefully.

Then, Valemir’s attention shifted. A slow turn of his head brought his eyes to Queen Lucy, seated confidently in her seat. She met his stare without hesitation, her expression cool and utterly unyielding, silently warning him that she would tolerate no petty cruelty—not toward Liam, not today. He understood that look well enough to know she meant every word she wasn’t saying.

And when he looked next to Galen Magna, sitting comfortably as though he owned the place, Valemir’s irritation grew sharper. Galen didn’t acknowledge him, didn’t even pretend to offer a respectful bow of the head. He simply observed, his red eyes eerily calm and detached, the same look he often wore when deciding whether something was even worth acknowledging. For Valemir, staring too long into those eyes triggered a sensation like standing too close to a wildfire—heat, danger, and a threat he couldn’t control. He looked away first.

With a click of his tongue, a small expression of his displeasure, Valemir finally uttered the words Liam had been waiting for.

"Raise your head."

Liam rose immediately but smoothly, no rushing, no stiffness, only controlled movement. He offered thanks with a respectful, even tone before meeting the king’s gaze directly. Not with defiance, but with a calmness that only made Valemir’s irritation swell. The boy didn’t flinch, didn’t cower, didn’t avert his gaze the way most dark mages would under such scrutiny. It was as though Liam refused to acknowledge Valemir’s superiority on anything beyond the surface etiquette required of him.

For one terrible moment, Valemir looked seconds away from snapping.

But he held himself together.

He cleared his throat, straightened in his seat, and finally spoke in an official manner, addressing what had brought them all here.

"It has been brought to my attention," he said slowly, "that you—Liam Hunter—requested an audience before the Crescent throne." His tone was flat, almost sharp enough to bleed. "A curious request, given your... nature. And the timing of it."

There was no mistaking the insult layered beneath the smooth delivery. The murmurs across the chamber confirmed that the audience heard it as well.

Then the king gestured lazily with his hand, granting permission.

"You may speak."

Liam dipped his head slightly in acknowledgment. "Thank you, Your Majesty." When he lifted it again, he did so with that same calm steadiness, his voice measured as he began to speak. "The reason I requested this audience was to make known, before the Crescent throne and its people, a good deed I have done in service to this kingdom."

The response was immediate.

The chamber erupted into outraged noise—voices rising like a boiling tide, all directed at the audacity of the dark-haired boy standing alone on the marble floor. Some shouted that he was lying, others demanded punishment for speaking falsehoods before the king, a few even calling for him to be removed from the hall entirely for daring to claim he had done anything good for Crescent.

Valemir did not silence them at once. Instead, his eyes narrowed slightly as he turned his full attention back to Liam. The suffocating pressure he released came instantly—silent but brutal, crashing down onto Liam like a weight from the heavens.

Liam didn’t move.

His expression did not twitch, his shoulders did not tighten, and his breathing did not shift.

It was as if the pressure passed right through him.

And that, more than anything, made Valemir’s irritation turn into something darker and more unsettled.

Finally, with a sharp lift of his hand, the king silenced the chamber. The audience closed their mouths immediately, all eyes locked on the throne.

Valemir leaned forward slightly. "Explain," he demanded. "What supposed ’good deed’ do you claim to have done for Crescent?"

Liam, given permission once more, nodded. "Of course, Your Majesty." His voice remained even, unshaken. He raised his head fully now, looking straight at the king, but the edges of his gaze flickered briefly toward Sheila.

Then he answered.

"Before the war against the Gaia Lord and his minions ever surfaced," Liam said, his tone carrying clearly through the hall, "I personally sacrificed my life for the safety of the princess of the Crescent Kingdom, Sheila Granger."

He let the words settle, heavy and deliberate, the silence that followed thicker than anything Valemir had unleashed.