CHAPTER 256: CHAPTER 256: MARCH OF THRONES

The chamber was vast yet dimly lit, its air carrying the faint scent of polished steel and old wood. In the center stood a heavy round table of blackened oak. Upon it, four ornate swords lay crossed, their jeweled hilts catching the glow of the lanterns above—a traditional symbol of peace in diplomatic meetings.

Seated at one side was King Alveron IV of Valor. Long blond hair, tied neatly with a crimson ribbon, fell down his back without a single strand out of place. His eyes—deep red and faintly glowing—rested on Nicolas with an unwavering calm.

Opposite him sat King Deyrion Neral of Velmora. His skin gleamed black as polished obsidian, the surface broken only by the faint, shifting red light pulsing along two great sweeping horns rising from his skull. His eyes were pure crimson, ancient and sharp, holding the weight of centuries.

Standing to one side was Nicolas von Aldros, posture straight, hands clasped loosely behind his back. Beside him stood Redna von Arcelia—tall, her long violet hair cascading in smooth waves down her back, wearing a formal deep-purple gown instead of her usual academy attire. Her gaze was unreadable, but her presence filled the room with quiet poise.

The two kings had assisted in the investigation before, but their duties had drawn them back to their continents, leaving Nicolas to uncover the rest on his own. Now, with the evidence in hand, he was here to report everything.

Nicolas stepped forward, his tone carrying the weight of weeks of investigation.

"I’ll be direct. The interference in the tournament comes from Torwan of Tharvaldur Institute. His students, winners and losers alike, are enhanced. But the real problem is this—" he raised a hand, mimicking a mark on the side of his neck "—a slavery seal. They obey him completely, without the ability to resist. And their families... are being forced to work in the facility that produces those enhancers."

Alveron’s eyes narrowed. "A slavery seal, in Tharvaldur? Do you understand the weight of what you’re saying, Nicolas?"

"I do. I’ve seen it with my own eyes."

Deyrion leaned back in his chair, his deep voice calm but pointed. "And where is this facility you speak of?"

"Hidden in the lower levels of a restaurant in Tharvaldur."

Deyrion gave a slow nod, then looked at Alveron. "Then it is clear—the demons are not involved in this affairs as I already said last time." He folded his arms. "As such, I will abstain from interfering. This matter lies within your hands, Alveron."

Alveron exhaled softly through his nose, almost like a dragon scenting the air. "So be it. I will mobilize my private army. There’s no reason to move the full force of Valor for a lesser kingdom... this will be swift and precise."

A calm female voice cut in. "I can remove the slavery marks."

All eyes shifted to Redna. She stood tall, her violet hair catching the light as she crossed her arms. "I’ve studied and dismantled bindings like these for years. If you want those students free, I’m your best option."

Alveron’s gaze lingered on her for a moment. "You speak with confidence. Good. You’ll work with my forces when the time comes."

Deyrion smirked faintly, resting his chin on his hand. "Your taste in allies hasn’t changed much, Nicolas. Always finding troublemakers who know their craft."

"You can mock me later," Nicolas replied with a faint grin. "Right now, we need coordination and help."

’Tch. Who does this demon think he’s talking to?’ Nicolas looked at the king of Velmora with disgust.

Alveron leaned forward, placing both hands on the table. "Command of this operation will go to my daughter, Seraphine. She is already in Tharvaldur, competing alongside Dior."

"Seraphine?" Deyrion’s smirk deepened. "Then you’re sending a message."

Alveron didn’t flinch. "Indeed. For now, she is closer to the crown than her brother."

Nicolas glanced at Redna, catching the faint flicker in her expression. ’Oh, interesting, it seems that because she is the president of the council of my academy this has put her further ahead for the crown.’

- Noel POV -

The back room of Noriel’s shop was warm, the faint scent of leather and polished wood lingering in the air. The three of them were already seated around a sturdy oak table.

Noel leaned forward slightly, eyes fixed on the dwarf across from him. "Balthor of Tharvaldur... don’t you think it’s time to return to your position?"

Balthor’s brow furrowed. "...What are you talking about, lad?" Crossing his arms. "And why do you think Tharvaldur is my surname, lad?"

"Because you’re the prince of Tharvaldur," Noel said plainly. "Your father, the old king, did have heirs, you and Torwan. He just never wanted the public to know. He kept you both out of sight."

Balthor’s expression hardened. "And how would you know that?"

Noel shook his head. "I can’t tell you. But I’ve known since the first time I walked into the Drunken Hammer."

Balthor stared at him, his voice dropping. "So this whole year we’ve known each other... you knew, and you didn’t say a damn thing?"

"I’m saying it now," Noel replied evenly. "And once we remove the current king, you’ll need to return to your responsibility."

Balthor’s gaze flicked toward Noriel. "You told him?"

Noriel’s eyes widened slightly. "No. I’d never betray the crown prince. Wasn’t me."

A small smile tugged at Noel’s lips. "That confirms it, doesn’t it?"

Balthor leaned back in his chair, exhaling sharply. "And how do you think people will believe me? To them, I’m just a name on an old royal record, if they’ve even heard of it."

Noel met his gaze without flinching. "Then you’ll have to convince them yourself."

Balthor’s eyes narrowed, a humorless chuckle rumbling from his chest. "I’m no king. I’m a smith who’s had more ale than sleep these past fifty years."

"Maybe," Noel admitted, his tone steady. "But you’re also the only one who can take the throne and keep it out of the wrong hands."

Noriel folded his arms, leaning against the wall. "He’s right, lad. You think Torwan would stop at controlling a few students if he had the crown? Well he has it already, the king is a puppet."

Balthor rubbed his beard, jaw tense. "Even if I wanted to, ruling a kingdom isn’t hammering steel. It’s politics, allies, enemies... and the kind of vultures that would tear me apart before I warmed the throne."

"Which is why you won’t be doing it alone," Noel said firmly. "We will help you, Noriel will back you, and so will the people once they see the truth."

Balthor’s gaze drifted to the tabletop, his fingers tapping against the wood. "...You’re asking me to walk into a forge hotter than any I’ve known."

Noel gave a faint smile. "Exactly."