April 3, Paris sat in a palace patched like a stitched wound, the air smelling of dust and fresh mortar.
Several lean fighters stood like iron posts. A lithe woman came on red heels, brown hair coiled like a silk bun.
She lifted the hem of a luxurious purple lace gown, each step a slow ripple across a quiet pond.
He stroked the long-dreamed-of throne, and his heart turned into a pot of mixed flavors.
A thread of lightning flicked through his mind, and old images swarmed—white-bearded elder, handsome youth with a rogue’s grin.
The emotion bit sharp, then he slapped the throne like a drum and scattered every thought like startled birds.
The nobles jumped like cats at thunder, yet none dared bare their claws.
Faces shifted like storm-lit clouds; their eyes held anger, fear, shock, awe, and disappointment, but no respect or warmth.
Paris had seen this coming, so his breath stayed even like a winter lake.
The crown pressed like a small mountain, yet its weight felt like a hearth’s calm.
“Gentlemen, Eunomia stands in a strange season; leave it leaderless for a day, and change will roar like a flood.
By law, the throne should pass to me, and it’s been announced to the people like a bell at noon.
Still, out of respect, I’ll hear you; some of you I know like old roads, some I meet as if in fog.
Holding to my father’s good tradition, speak freely, without fear, like wind through open pines.”
At his last word, several nobles stepped out like arrows loosed, dropped to one knee, and let their voices ring.
“Your vassal: Duke Ted.
Your vassal: Duke Harrison.
Your vassal: Duke Helson.
We pay homage, Your Majesty—may Eunomia’s glory shine forever like a sun.”
Paris’s mouth curled like a knife’s smile. “Rise, heroes; your timely support hit like rain in drought, invaluable.
Rewards will reach your estates soon, wrapped like gifts of harvest.
When the time comes, I’ll return your family scrolls with my own hand.”
A rustle spread at once, whispers scuttling like mice in grain, as the hall broke into a chirping buzz.
The clear-eyed caught the message hidden under silk, and they chose to look away like owls at noon.
Timely support meant their date had been inked beforehand; today was theater performed under bright lamps.
Reward meant a net cast to draw them close like fish to bait.
Family scrolls meant submission—whole lineages staked like boats tied to his pier.
To oppose now would be to toss a spark into dry reeds, and who knows how this new king would answer.
He might not have called down the Meteor or the storm, fine—but Delaia, a traitor angling to usurp?
That was a joke so loud it echoed like dogs barking at the moon.
“Your Majesty.” A slightly stout middle-aged man in a silver-white robe stepped forward.
He moved like a boulder rolling from shade.
Paris knew him at a glance, a Blood-Oath Noble raised alongside Ostos like twin banners.
The Blood-Oath Nobles were those who fought at Ostos’s side and tilted victory’s scale, families and figures like pillars.
Some were royal-born; some rose from the street; some crawled from the slums.
Even thieves and soldiers stood among them like mixed steel.
After Ostos took the throne, he swore a blood oath to live and die with Eunomia.
He gave them real power like drawn swords.
In influence and force, they were a weighty stone in Eunomia’s river.
“Grand Duke Lucas, what’s your view? Speak plainly,” Paris said, a smile painted on like lacquer without warmth.
Lucas’s eyes went cold, and his face set like frost. “At such an hour, where are the Queen and Princess Venus?
The Royal Guard’s incident reeks of strangeness; please weigh it well before you strike like a judge’s hammer.
The people’s panic and their trust in the Royal Guard have sunk to ice.
Since Sia City and Marquis Powell’s revolt, unrest has rippled like weeds in wind.
Now even the Royal Guard clashes blade to blade, and the people have lost faith in the state like a lamp gone out.
If a nation’s people don’t trust their own soldiers and stewards, what rule can stand, what grand design can unfold?”
Each word from Lucas struck to the heart like an arrow, and pointed at the true wound.
The hall felt it; admiration rose like steam, for while most still reeled, someone had seen the deep water.
Paris’s face stayed still, as if he’d long counted this bead. “On that, Your Grace, don’t trouble your heart.
Trust can be lost, then taken back like land reclaimed from a tide.
After all, the people rely only on us, don’t they?” His voice was flat as iron.
“Ah?”
“This…”
The crowd stirred like an ant nest scalded with water, for such words poked the crown like a stick.
It sounded like a gauntlet thrown at royal restraint, and the tang of rule-by-one spread like smoke.
“Your Majesty, then what of the Queen and the Princess?” Lucas’s tone weighed heavy, a hint of blame like a shadow.
Velledo’s willow brows knit like drawn bows, and she moved to speak.
Paris caught her sleeve like a breeze stilling a flame.
“The Queen and the Princess are overwhelmed with grief, and they’re in a safe place to recover like flowers in shade.
They won’t attend future court.”
Lucas’s face changed color like a cloud at dusk, and his lips trembled.
A flicker of suspicion, then clarity, crossed his eyes like lightning.
He weighed gains and losses, then chose to advance by retreat. “Forgive the disturbance, Your Majesty.” His voice fell like a leaf.
Paris snorted, his displeasure written plain like ink on paper, and it colored his tone like cold rain.
“If there’s nothing else, court is dismissed; I’ve many tasks waiting like fires to bank…”
He didn’t leave room for others to speak.
He slapped the throne like a gavel and strode away under a tide of silence.
