The royal court was a vast hall that seemed almost endless to anyone who entered for the first time. Two enormous crystal chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceiling, their countless candles casting golden reflections across the polished marble floor. Rolls of chairs were set in parallel lines along a deep red carpet that stretched from the throne to the main doors, the fabric rich enough to silence footsteps that dared to tread upon it. At the far end, five ornate chairs sat behind the throne, reserved for the members of the royal family. Every seat in the hall, from the cushions for the ministers to the polished benches for the ladies-in-waiting, was occupied. Discussions hummed quietly, voices low and measured, as advisors and lords debated the pressing matters of the Kingdom. Discontent lingered in some of their tones, subtle but perceptible, as they questioned policies and royal decisions that did not serve them.
The grand doors at the far end suddenly swung open. The room fell into an instantaneous hush. Every whispered conversation, every shuffling of papers ceased as one figure entered: Crown Prince Leonard. His presence filled the room like a shadow, commanding attention even without a single word. Every minister, advisor, lord, and lady bowed instantly, faces pressed into rigid lines, heads low in respect and fear. The sharp, almost predatory angles of his midnight eyes scanned the hall as he walked, taking in every movement, every heartbeat, every flutter of unease. His expression remained carefully neutral, yet the atmosphere around him shifted; he alone was the center of gravity in that enormous chamber.
He approached the throne with measured steps and seated himself in the chair to the immediate right of the King's. Shoulders squared, back straight, he exuded authority in silence. The aura around him told all present that they were beneath him, not in rank alone, but in power and consequence. His midnight eyes swept the room like a knife, reading every micro-expression, listening for the quickening beats of fear in those who dared to oppose him.
A well-known minister, Minister Jackson, was the first to break the silence. "Congratulations on winning the war, as usual, Your Hi—"
He was cut off mid-sentence by Leonard's voice, smooth but carrying enough edge to silence even the boldest speakers. "The King is heavily sick from the bite of a werewolf." The words rolled over the assembly, audible to all, each syllable loaded with unspoken weight. Leonard's eyes scanned the room as he spoke, measuring reactions with precision. He noticed the subtle paling of skin, the shallow breaths, the stiffening of three ministers' bodies. He already knew who had a hand in the attack. He had no time to interrogate the vendor from the market; his night had been consumed by punishing the plump pervert, leaving no room for delays.
The court had underestimated the danger. Some members of the royal circle had long sought the King's downfall. His decisions did not always align with their ambitions, and they had quietly plotted, waiting for the perfect moment. Leonard's awareness of their schemes was complete. The only pawn they could manipulate easily—his half-brother Henry—was protected by the Queen, whose own presence now made her a target. The blood that ran through the royal family was not ordinary; it traced back to one of the first vampires ever to walk the earth, making them resistant, if not immune, to most attacks that could easily kill others. Assassinating them was no simple task. The conspirators had waited months, calculating, ensuring Leonard would be far from the Kingdom, embroiled in war, before they struck.
A small, barely perceptible smile tugged at the corner of Leonard's lips as his gaze locked on one of the schemers: Advisor Kenneth. The message was clear. The crown prince knew, and he would not forget. The room filled with murmurs as the gravity of Leonard's words sank in. The King had been present in the court only the day before; the question of how a werewolf had gained entry to the palace was on everyone's mind. Their fear festered with each passing second. If a creature could reach the King, what hope did they have for their own safety?
"It's not safe in the palace anymore. I have a wife and children. I will not allow them to be bitten!" A voice rose from the crowd, urgent and fearful. Heads turned to acknowledge him, hoping perhaps to share the burden of concern with others.
"If it's not safe in the palace, it's not safe anywhere in the Kingdom!" A woman spoke, her hands clenched at her sides, eyes darting toward fellow courtiers as if to rally support.
"Isn't the Crown Prince responsible for the borders? Did he fail, or is this some ploy to eliminate the King and seize the throne for himself?" Another man's voice rang out boldly, directly challenging Leonard. His gaze met the prince's briefly before flicking away, as if aware of the danger in holding eye contact with a predator.
Leonard's expression did not shift. He reclined slightly, letting the whispers and accusations wash over him, knowing full well that fear would consume them before defiance could even surface. His midnight eyes were sudden and fierce as they fixed on the last speaker, the man named Benedict. The air thickened, heavy with impending doom.
"Benedict, is it?" Leonard's voice cut through the silence like steel. Calm, measured, every word deliberate. "Are you accusing your crown prince of treason without evidence?"
Benedict's smirk faltered, the confidence in his posture vanishing in an instant. His body froze, heart hammering uncontrollably. According to the Kingdom's law, accusing a royal of treason without proof carried the sentence of a hundred lashes—pain enough to break bone and spirit, a punishment that amounted to certain death. The guards acted immediately, rushing to seize him. Panic flooded his veins as massive hands lifted him from the ground, carrying him toward the doors with no hope of negotiation.
"No! No, Your Highness! I didn't mean it that way! I beg of you—please show mercy! I am married, I have an infant!" Benedict's desperate pleas filled the hall as he disappeared through the grand doors, leaving only silence behind him. Every other courtier quickly lowered their heads, fearing the same fate, silently giving thanks that they had not overstepped.
Leonard's gaze swept across the room once more, slow and deliberate. "Anyone else have something to say?" His voice was calm, yet the undercurrent of menace caused every thought to freeze in place. "The Kingdom's rules allow freedom of speech," he reminded them, a polite yet deadly edge in his tone. No one spoke. Even the bravest courtiers remembered the price of insolence and chose silence over protest.
Finally, the crown prince's lips curved into the faintest, almost imperceptible smile, but it did not last. He straightened, voice crisp, commanding attention once more. "Now, we shall begin."
Immediately, the hall shifted into motion. The whispering of documents, the shuffling of chairs, and the careful clearing of throat filled the silence. Courtiers began presenting matters of state, disputes over taxes, border security, trade, and military strategy. Yet even as discussions resumed, the presence of Leonard's calm, controlled authority dominated every conversation. His midnight eyes swept over each face, reading intentions, gauging fear, ensuring every participant understood that while they could speak, they could never forget who held power here.
The court functioned under Leonard's scrutiny, each word, each gesture carefully measured. Beneath the surface of politics and decorum, fear lingered like a shadow; the lesson of Benedict's fate remained vivid. The crown prince's expression, composed yet quietly dangerous, reminded all that the balance of power rested with him. In that moment, the Kingdom's royal court, the heart of political maneuvering, was nothing more than a stage for Leonard's authority—a stage he commanded with the precision of a predator who had already won.