CHAPTER 261: CHAPTER 261: ORDERS OF THE CROWN

The council chamber was quiet now, the tension of the royal meeting still lingering in the air. One by one, the great doors had closed behind the departing rulers until only three remained — Nicolas, King Alveron IV, and Redna.

Deyrion had left first, without ceremony, stepping through a swirling portal that dissolved into nothingness.

Nicolas broke the silence. "We’ll be heading back to Valor now, Alveron. The situation seems like it’s going to turn critical soon. Redna and I need to be present, just in case."

Alveron straightened in his seat. "Teleport me there."

Nicolas raised an eyebrow. "Why? Don’t you have to send your private army first and travel with them?"

"That’s correct," Alveron replied, his voice steady. "But our ship will make the journey faster. A teleportation spell on that scale, with warriors as powerful as mine, isn’t viable. We’ll arrive near the end of the tournament."

Nicolas leaned back slightly, considering. "If all goes well, that’s the day we make our move. Torwan and his puppet king will be present, and the factory will have almost no security... or so I hope. I imagine with your army, it will be quick."

"That’s exactly why I want my daughter to lead them," Alveron said firmly. "And that’s why I want you to take me there — so I can give her the orders myself."

Nicolas’s eyes narrowed in mild curiosity but he didn’t question the decision. "Very well. We’ll go to my office, and I’ll bring your daughter to you."

Alveron gave a short nod. "Let’s go."

With a simple gesture, Nicolas formed the teleportation circle beneath them. Golden runes flared to life, their light bending the air. In a blink, the meeting chamber dissolved into a rush of colors and heat.

The teleportation circle faded, leaving Nicolas, Alveron, and Redna standing in the polished stone interior of Nicolas’s private office — a room tucked into one of the upper levels of the grand Tharvaldur arena.

The space was arranged exactly as before: four high-backed chairs surrounding a central oak table, shelves lined with scrolls and sealed documents, the faint sound of the tournament crowd echoing through the walls.

Redna glanced around once, then inclined her head toward the king. "I’ll excuse myself." She stepped out quietly, her boots making barely a sound against the stone floor.

Alveron remained by the table, one hand resting on the back of a chair. Nicolas gave him a courteous nod. "Wait here, Your Majesty. I’ll find her."

Without further delay, Nicolas left the office and stepped into the corridor that wound around the arena’s inner ring. From here, the noise of the ongoing matches was sharper — the roar of the crowd rising and falling like waves.

He moved with purpose, scanning the tiers of seats through each open archway. It didn’t take long to spot her.

Seraphina sat among the dignitary section, posture flawless as always. Her long, pale pink hair caught the arena’s bright lighting, the soft strands either loose or woven with the subtle imperial ribbons she favored. Her clear eyes — shifting between icy blue and pearl-grey with the angle of the light — observed the match below without a flicker of visible emotion.

Even in stillness, her presence was commanding. The ivory tone of her skin and the precise lines of her militarized attire gave her an aura that needed no words to assert itself.

Nicolas approached quietly, and as if sensing him, she turned her head slightly. "Headmaster."

"Your father is here," Nicolas said, his tone formal but warm. "He requests your presence immediately."

Seraphina rose in one smooth motion, adjusting the set of her coat before giving a polite nod. "Lead the way."

Together, they moved along the corridor back toward the office, the sound of the arena fading behind them with each step.

The door opened, and Seraphina stepped inside with the same composed grace she had carried through the corridor. Her gaze fixed on the man waiting by the table. "Father."

Alveron’s crimson eyes softened almost imperceptibly. "Seraphina."

She crossed the room, stopping a measured distance from him, hands clasped neatly behind her back. "You came to Tharvaldur in person. That is... unexpected."

"There are times when a king must act directly," Alveron replied. He gestured toward the chairs. "Sit."

She did so without hesitation, her posture remaining upright, every movement precise. Nicolas remained by the wall, silent but attentive.

Alveron folded his hands on the table. "Our continent was attacked. The offenders struck without warning, leaving devastation behind. This insult will not be ignored."

Seraphina’s expression did not change, but the air between them felt sharper. "What are your orders?"

"You will lead my private army," Alveron said plainly. "You will command them in the operation against those responsible. You will ensure that they pay in full for what they have done to Valor."

Her chin lifted slightly, though her tone remained calm. "A direct response from the crown, carried out by its own blood."

"Exactly." Alveron’s gaze was steady, unwavering. "Your discipline, your command of the troops, your judgment in the field — all will be tested. And I expect nothing short of absolute victory."

Seraphina inclined her head. "Then you shall have it. I will see to it that our enemies remember the price of touching Valor."

For a brief moment, the room was silent save for the muffled roar of the arena outside. Nicolas’s eyes flicked between them, recognizing the weight in Alveron’s words — this was more than a military assignment.

Alveron rose to his full height, resting a hand on his daughter’s shoulder as he passed. "Prepare yourself."

"Yes, Father."

When Alveron finished speaking, he rose from his chair. "We leave now, Nicolas. Take me to the royal castle in Valor."

Nicolas nodded once. "As you wish, Your Majesty."

Nicolas placed a hand on Alveron’s shoulder, the other tracing quick, precise sigils in the air. The teleportation circle bloomed under their feet, golden light swirling upward. In an instant, both men vanished, the glow fading as quickly as it had come.

Silence settled over the office.

Seraphina remained seated, her hands resting lightly on the table. The meaning behind her father’s words was clear now. This was no routine military command — it was a statement to the court, to the nobility, and to the entire continent. Leading the king’s private army in retaliation for an attack on Valor would be seen by all as proof of his trust in her... and his choice of heir.

Dior’s absence from the conversation spoke louder than any declaration could. If she succeeded, her image as commander would be cemented in the minds of allies and rivals alike.

Her gaze lingered on the now-empty spot where her father had stood. ’Closer to the crown... perhaps closer than Dior has ever been.’