The hall was suffocatingly silent as Regis II stood before his late father’s throne. Black banners hung like a shroud, yet his eyes lingered on none of it. He stood with an unshakable stillness, his face a mask of cold calculation. Around him, the vultures circled.


    Hugo, his half-brother, lounged against a pillar with the air of a man who thought himself untouchable. “You think it’s that simple, little brother? Sit on the throne, wear the crown, and the realm will follow?” His voice dripped with scorn.


    Regis did not respond. He did not move. His piercing gaze fixed on Hugo with a force that made the older man falter slightly, despite his bravado.


    “It’s his right,” Marie cut in sharply. Her voice was strong, but there was an edge of weariness. “Father named him heir, Hugo. You heard it as well as I.”


    “Funny,” Hugo retorted, gesturing to Mortimer, the Chancellor, who stood nearby. “Because I have yet to see this will. Isn’t that strange, Mortimer?”


    Mortimer shifted uncomfortably, his aged face betraying no emotion. “The will is secure, my lord. Its contents will be revealed in due time.”


    “Enough of this,” Paul, the Marshal, interjected with military precision. “The throne must be filled. Every day we delay invites chaos. The Tyrols in Salerno, the treacherous border lords—none of them will wait for our squabbling to end.”


    At the mention of Salerno, Regis’s expression didn’t waver, but a flicker of memory stirred behind his icy demeanor. Elise Tyrol. The princess with the sharp tongue and piercing eyes. She was a dangerous possibility, one Regis had yet to fully weigh.


    “Dorian,” Regis said suddenly, his voice cutting through the rising tension like a blade. The Spymaster stepped forward, his movements as fluid as smoke.


    “My king?”


    Regis’s gaze shifted to him, cold and calculating. “Who in this room plots against me?”


    The question hung like a blade over everyone’s neck. Dorian’s thin smile flickered. “Many, my lord, though few would dare admit it.”This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    Hugo straightened. “If you’ve something to say, Spymaster, say it plainly. Or is this another of your little games?”


    Regis finally moved. He descended the steps of the dais slowly, every step deliberate, his boots striking the stone with measured finality. The air in the hall grew heavier with each step, the courtiers’ whispers dying as he passed.


    When he reached Hugo, he stopped. His eyes bore into his half-brother, their cold intensity making the man shift uneasily.


    “I have no interest in games,” Regis said, his voice low but carrying through the chamber like a thunderclap. “And I do not repeat myself. You will swear your loyalty to me here and now, or you will leave Rouen forever.”


    Hugo hesitated, his bravado crumbling under the weight of Regis’s unrelenting gaze. He opened his mouth, but Regis raised a hand, silencing him.


    “No excuses,” Regis continued. “No schemes. Swear. Or leave.”


    The hall held its breath. Marie watched with approval, Lucille with wide-eyed awe. Even Mortimer, who rarely betrayed emotion, seemed taken aback by Regis’s dominance.


    Hugo clenched his jaw. Then, slowly, he dropped to one knee. “I swear my loyalty, brother.”


    “King,” Regis corrected, his voice like ice. “You swear to your king.”


    Hugo’s face reddened, but he nodded. “To my king.”


    Regis stared for a moment longer, then turned, addressing the room. “The crown will be mine by week’s end. The enemies of Burgun will fall in line or be crushed. And any who think to oppose me within these walls will find no mercy.”


    His words struck like hammer blows. No one dared speak.


    That night, in the privacy of his chambers, Regis sat alone. Bastien, the Steward, had delivered troubling news of stolen documents, and Dorian had whispered suspicions of Hugo’s involvement. Yet Regis did not rage or despair. He simply stared into the flickering firelight, his mind a labyrinth of strategy and counter-strategy.


    There was a knock at the door.


    “Enter,” he said.


    Elise Tyrol stepped inside, her dark hair gleaming in the firelight. She moved with the grace of a predator, her eyes locked on his.


    “So,” she said, closing the door behind her. “You truly mean to take the throne.”


    Regis’s cold gaze met hers. “It was never a matter of meaning to. It is already done.”


    Elise smiled faintly. “And what of Salerno? What of us?”


    “You will wait,” Regis said simply, his tone brooking no argument. “When Burgun is secure, we will speak of alliances. Until then, play your part.”


    For a moment, she seemed poised to challenge him. But then, with a graceful bow, she left.