Four days later,
Kaelen stood straight before Vionette, posture carved from discipline as if a sculptor had chiseled him from granite. He wore his newly gifted royal knight armor, the crest of Crimvane gleaming over his chest where Blackmoor's emblem once rested. Beneath the steel, a fitted black shirt and long dark trousers muted the shine, grounding the ceremonial grandeur with soldierly simplicity.
Vionette sat upon her chair in her usual white-crimson dress, the fabric falling like spilled moonlight trimmed in blood. Her sword leaned against the right side of her chair, silent and patient, as if aware it would soon taste more than ceremony.
"First of all, I'm sorry that we didn't have a Crown Knighting Ceremony for you becoming a royal knight and even becoming The Queen's Blade. You know, we are short on time because of war."
Her tone was gentle, but it carried the quiet weight of a ruler who measured time not in days—but in lives.
Even though she made him a royal knight as if it were a minor inconvenience, for commoners such as Kaelen, becoming a royal knight alone was often the peak of a lifetime's dream. Songs were written for less. Mothers wept for less. Not only had Kaelen accomplished that feat, he had ascended beyond it—appointed as The Queen's Blade, the commander of the royal knights. A title forged from legend and sharpened by expectation.
"Please do not trouble yourself with it, Your Majesty. I already am honored enough for this opportunity."
His eyes did not move. His face did not change. His body did not flinch. He stood like a banner planted against a storm.
That was how the commander of the royal knights—The Queen's Blade—should act.
"Dude. I already told you to relax,"
Noa's voice cut through the formal tension, light and teasing, a breeze through the stone hall.
He leaned against a chaise lounge, his legs stretched out lazily as he drew his new sword styles one by one, assessing them like a painter considering which brushstroke would complete the masterpiece.
"Don't take it too seriously."
Kaelen's eyes flicked toward Noa, then back to Vionette, silently seeking confirmation that the princess would not object to this momentary breach of decorum.
Vionette suppressed a sigh.
"He's right, Kaelen. Just relax and sit on the chair," Vionette said, her slender hand gesturing toward the chair across from her desk. "And slowly deliver the report."
"…Yes… Your Majesty."
Knowing refusal was not an option, he approached the chair like a soldier stepping into sacred ground and sat down carefully, armor plates whispering against each other.
"Stop calling me 'Your Majesty.' Just Princess Vionette or Lady Vionette is fine too." She leaned back, crossing one leg over the other with casual elegance.
"…"
"Whatever. What's the report?"
Kaelen straightened his back further—if that was even possible—and began.
"We have searched all around the kingdom and found five places similar to Blackmoor's. And…" He paused, narrowing his eyes as if the very memory tasted bitter. "All of them were around the Highfen Dukedom. One toward Blackmoor's side, two toward Caldris, and another two near the capital borders."
"Highfen, huh?" Vionette leaned forward, fingers interlacing.
I see… someone changed sides.
[Probability is high.]
Her system's panel appeared in front of her—cold, mechanical, obedient. Though it could not answer everything, it calculated probabilities, stored memory, offered patterns. A quiet oracle chained within her.
"Highfen? Is that another dukedom?" Noa asked, his curiosity piercing the heavy air.
"Yes. There are four dukedoms in Crimvane: Blackmoor, Highfen, Caldris, and Therion." She looked past the window behind her, where the horizon shimmered like a blade's edge beneath the sun. "Speaking of which, the dukes should be here soon for the meeting. So we should get going too."
"Let's go then."
Noa rose from the chaise lounge with the slow grace of a predator finally deciding to stretch. He gathered none of the scattered sword drafts. They could remain there. Ideas, after all, always returned to him.
***
The silence grew in the council chamber.
A long polished table dominated the center of the room, its surface reflecting candlelight like still black water under a moonless sky. Three high-backed chairs lined each long side; on the first four, the four dukes sat in restrained authority. The two shorter ends each held two chairs, completing the arrangement like pieces on a chessboard awaiting a decisive hand.
Tall stone windows allowed muted light to spill inward. Banners bearing Crimvane's crest hung from the walls, unmoving, as if even the fabric feared to rustle in such company.
Duke Gemsh Caldris, only twenty-five, with neatly styled blonde hair and piercing green eyes like a forest at dawn, sat to the right. His noble attire was clean, immaculate, each fold precise, exuding calm assurance as if he were a young predator among older lions, eager to prove himself in the silence of authority.
Opposite him, Duke Carvan Therion's imposing frame filled the chair, broad shoulders and expensive attire stretching across him as though the fabric itself feared to limit his presence. His black eyes scanned the room with quiet precision, fingers adorned with rings glinting like tiny stars against the muted gloom.
Next to Carvan sat Duke Korneas Highfen, slim and refined, cream-colored hair brushed back meticulously, black eyes sharp and cold, posture unnaturally perfect—he was a man of minimalism and precise authority, his gaze a scalpel cutting into uncertainty.
Beside Gemsh sat Valric, black hair tied neatly behind him, glasses resting above calm blue eyes. His composure was that of a scholar who had already seen the ending of a book and chose not to spoil it. Beside him sat Lucien.
Though this was his first time in such a gathering, Lucien held his chest high with unmistakable pride as the royal envoy.
Creak.
The door opened, slicing through the silence.
Rose entered first and stepped aside gracefully, holding the door open like a silent herald.
All eyes turned. The dukes rose from their seats out of respect.
But the first figure to step in was not their ruler. It was a young man with black hair and striking black sclera framing vivid purple irises—eyes like an eclipse swallowing daylight.
Who is that?
Where is Her Majesty?
It's him again.
Only Valric and Lucien recognized the black-clad figure—the princess's partner, the man who had almost single-handedly obliterated Blackmoor.
Noa stepped forward and, without hesitation or permission, took the seat at the far end of the table. He leaned back slightly, fingers drumming once against polished wood, as though testing the rhythm of a future war.
Then, Vionette entered.
Her white hair flowing like liquid light around her, eyes meeting each face with regal clarity. The entire chamber bowed instinctively, except for Noa Ravel of course.
Kaelen followed and took his seat opposite Lucien, spine straight, expression carved from stone. Rose closed the doors and stood at Vionette's side as the princess took the seat opposite Noa.
Their gazes met across the table.
If the dukes were chess pieces, then these two were the players.
"Well then," Vionette said smoothly, resting her hands atop the table. "Let's start the meeting."
Everyone sat, faces a mixture of confusion and intrigue. Valric and Lucien were the only ones who did not betray uncertainty—they knew, and it was enough.
"First, let's hear if any problems are in your minds before we dig into the main dish." She raised one hand slightly, granting permission.
Carvan stood immediately.
"Your majesty, may I?" he asked, respect threaded with caution.
"Go ahead," Vionette granted, her gaze sharp yet unreadable.
He turned toward Valric, extending a heavy hand in gesture.
"Valric, this is an important meeting with Her Majesty. I know young people need to learn by watching, but—" he shifted his gaze to Lucien "—bringing your son to a meeting so important is going to hurt the reputation of Crimvane."
Lucien did not wait for his father.
"Don't worry, Duke Carvan. I'm not here as a son." A smile spread across his face, sharp and deliberate. "I'm here as the royal envoy."
Even after standing at the edge of death, Lucien's pride had not withered; it had merely changed direction, no longer orbiting himself alone but aligning with something greater than his own reflection.
It did not disturb Noa or Vionette in the slightest, for arrogance was not a flaw in their eyes but a language they spoke fluently, and the only thing that separates delusion from dominance is the ability to endure the consequences of one's own confidence.
And now, Lucien had earned that right as well — the right to let his arrogance stand, because he finally possessed the authority to make the world tolerate it.
"The royal envoy?"
All eyes snapped to Vionette.
"Yea. He is the royal envoy." It was Noa who answered, casually pointing toward Lucien. Then he tilted his thumb toward Kaelen. "And that is the commander of the royal knights—The Queen's Blade."
Heads turned—not to Kaelen—but to Noa.
"…Who are you?" Gemsh asked, unable to restrain himself.
Noa opened his mouth—
"No. No. Not this time." Vionette extended her arm, stopping him with a faint glare. "You've been having too much fun using that title. It's getting old."
Though… it kind of feels good when he says it.
"First, Carvan, sit back down. I'll tell you the details."
Carvan's face twisted with the silent demand for answers, but he obeyed, sitting with restrained caution.
"That is my partner." She did not hesitate. "I appointed Lucien to the royal envoy role that had been empty since the fall. And lastly—" she gestured toward Kaelen "—that's the royal knight commander."
Kaelen and Lucien bowed in unison.
What's going on? Valric's son became the royal envoy? And who is that blue-haired man that suddenly appeared?
Carvan was confused—but not about Noa.
Because—
***
"I'll give you three a good piece of advice," Valric had once said in a quieter chamber, voice smooth as chilled steel.
"If you do not wish to see your entire dukedom reduced to ruin, do not attempt to anger the young man in black."
***
At the time, they dismissed it as calculated intimidation, assuming Valric was merely exploiting fear to secure his position, yet the reports from Blackmoor had told a different story.
The uproar… the devastation… was it him?
Now even Carvan understood.
'The young man in black.' So it was him, Gemsh concluded, studying Noa with sharpened interest.
What is this woman doing? Korneas thought. Bringing a stranger as her partner. Elevating Lucien. Naming a new Queen's Blade out of nowhere. Is this ambition… or desperation?
Doubt hung in the room like a blade suspended by a thread.
Vionette understood this better than anyone, because she knew belief would never come from mere declarations and that no arrangement of words would be enough to silence the doubts gathering in that chamber, which was why she had anticipated this resistance from the very moment she chose to leave the capital in search of Noa.
The answer had always been the coming war. That was the reason she initiated conflict with Aurelyth—to mark the beginning of Crimvane's ascent and to offer proof powerful enough to turn skepticism into faith.
There were countless risks woven into that decision, as betrayal was always a possibility, Eryndor could have aligned with Aurelyth instead, and Cassian might've killed her.
Making war in Crimvane's current state a gamble many would label reckless, even foolish.
But she did not care. If the number of strings she had to pull became excessive, she could simply sever them. If there were not enough to hold the structure she desired, she could weave new ones into place. If any refused to move according to her will, she would bend and guide them until they did.
Every possibility, no matter how dangerous, could be broken or reshaped with the presence of the one person who did not rest in her palm like a puppet, but stood at her side as an equal—her partner.
"I won't say much," she said, pulling out the letter from Eryndor. The parchment crackled softly, like dry leaves before a forest fire.
Her eyes hardened.
"We are going to war."