Seven days. That's all it had been since Alexius's father took his last breath, since the world shifted under his feet and dropped a crown on his head. One week of scrambling to hold the palace together, issuing orders he barely understood, and pretending he wasn't terrified. The palace, once a fancy prison, now felt like a ship caught in a storm, and Alexius was the rookie captain praying he wouldn't crash it.
Captain Gregor's Royal Guard—a thousand strong—were his lifeline, their loyalty cemented by his quick decisions and promises to rebuild their pride. Behind the scenes, Elias had worked miracles, dipping into Queen Lyra's forgotten stash of gold to buy the trust of key City Guard commanders. Three thousand men now quietly answered to Alexius, a hidden card he hoped would keep the capital's streets his. For now, the city held, but it was like balancing on a tightrope in a gale.
Today, the real test began. Ancient rules demanded the Noble Council gather in times of crisis, and nothing screamed crisis like a dead Grand Prince. Every noble, from the towering Dukes to the smallest barons, had to show up. The palace's grand halls, usually quiet, now hummed with the clatter of boots, the rustle of silk, and the sharp buzz of ambition.
In his solar, Alexius stood before a tall mirror, Elias fussing with his black velvet doublet. It was simple, with just the crimson-and-gold lion of House Leo stitched over his heart—no jewels, no flash, nothing like the gaudy outfits the old Alexius loved. He needed to look strong, steady, not like a kid playing dress-up. His reflection stared back, pale and serious, and Michael Sano wondered how he'd ended up here, heart pounding like he was about to pitch a doomed project to a boardroom.
"They're waiting in the Great Hall, Your Majesty," Elias said, his voice low and calm. "It's tense out there. Duke Thorne arrived this morning with his usual crew. Lord Titus Cornelius is holding court for Duke Valerius, who's—surprise—'delayed' by 'urgent security matters' in the Westmarch."
Alexius's jaw tightened. Valerius's hunt was a convenient excuse, letting his slimy envoy, Titus, stir the pot while the Duke stayed clear, maybe even rallying troops. Whisper's latest intel, thin but worrying, hinted at odd movements on Valerius's western lands. Trouble was brewing.
The System pinged, its cold analysis cutting through his thoughts: Valerius's delay: 75% chance he's testing the Council's mood, 25% he's prepping a fallback plan. Noble Council vote estimate: Thorne's traditionalists at 43%, Valerius's bloc at 46%, Varrus's neutrals at 9%, undecided at 2%. Goal: secure two-thirds for a clean succession. The numbers were brutal, a tightrope with no net. Marquess Varrus's neutral bloc—9% of the vote—was the key to avoiding a messy fight.
"Marquess Varrus," Alexius said, half to himself. "What's his deal, Elias?"
"He's a hard man, Your Majesty," Elias replied, adjusting Alexius's collar. "Honest, but practical. Loves the military, hates weakness. He didn't respect your father's later years, doesn't trust Valerius's greed or Thorne's stubborn traditions. He'll back whoever he thinks can keep Leo standing."
Alexius exhaled, hoping his vision for Leo matched Varrus's. Last night, he'd met the Marquess privately, laying out his plans—stronger Crown, rebuilt army, no corruption, Leo free from foreign claws. He hadn't begged, just spoken plainly. Varrus had listened, his face like stone, and left with a vague, "The Council will decide." Not exactly a ringing endorsement.
He glanced at the ancestral sword of House Leo on its stand, its hilt worn smooth by centuries of hands. He wouldn't carry it to the Council—too aggressive—but it reminded him what he was fighting for. "Time to go," he said, squaring his shoulders.
The Great Hall was a beast of a room, its soaring ceiling held up by pillars carved with heroes and monsters. Stained-glass windows glowed with scenes of Leo's glory—battles won, laws forged, harvests reaped—but today, they just lit up a room full of schemers. Hundreds of nobles packed the tiered seats, a riot of velvet and steel, the air thick with perfume and tension. Alexius's boots echoed as he entered, Elias two steps behind, Captain Gregor and ten Royal Guards trailing, their hands on their swords.
The silence was instant, every eye locked on him. He felt like a bug under a magnifying glass, but he kept his pace steady, his chin up. The throne loomed on its dais, empty and intimidating, with a simpler chair below it for him. Banners hung around it—Leo's crimson lion, Thorne's silver badger, Valerius's black wolf, and a dozen others.
He sat, scanning the crowd. Duke Thorne sat like a statue, Baroness Althea Varro cool and composed beside him. Lord Titus Cornelius smirked from Valerius's front row, his purple silks screaming for attention. Marquess Varrus, surrounded by his grim military nobles, gave nothing away.
Lord Chamberlain Astolfo, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else, banged his staff. "This Noble Council is convened!" His voice shook. "All heed His Royal Highness, Prince Regent Alexius Demetrios Leo!"
Alexius stood, heart hammering but voice steady, boosted by the hall's acoustics and maybe a nudge from the System. "Lords and Ladies of Leo," he said, "we meet in grief. My father, Grand Prince Alaric, is gone. He gave his life to Leo, and we feel his loss." He paused, letting the silence settle.
"His death leaves us adrift in a storm. Without a strong hand, Leo falters. As his son and heir, I claim my birthright—to lead as Grand Prince, to steer us through dangers inside and out." He met their eyes, daring them to challenge him. "The law of succession is clear, but tradition asks this Council to affirm it. I'm not here to beg for my crown, but to ask for your wisdom, your strength, to build a Leo that endures."
A murmur rippled through the hall—not awe, but surprise. He wasn't the weak prince they'd expected.
Lord Titus was first to strike, rising with a rustle of silk. "Your Highness speaks well of rights," he said, his voice dripping condescension. "But tradition also gives us… options. A young ruler, noble but untested, might benefit from a Regent Council—wise nobles to guide him through these troubled times, for Leo's sake."
The Valerius bloc nodded, a clear push to clip Alexius's wings. Duke Thorne stood, slow and deliberate, his voice deep. "Lord Titus loves his precedents, but he forgets their cost—division, chaos. A clear succession is Leo's strength, Your Highness. House Thorne stands by it." He paused, eyes sharp. "But a ruler must respect the nobility's ancient rights, the pillars of this realm." Support, but with strings.
The debate ignited. The funeral for Alaric was settled quickly—three days from now, no fuss. But the coronation, Astolfo reminded them, needed a two-thirds vote for Alexius's rule to be unquestioned. That's where the claws came out.
Titus droned on about "shared governance," hinting at a council to neuter the Crown while Valerius grabbed power. He painted a grim picture—monsters in the East, a broke treasury, the Kalian Empire looming—to justify his plan. Baroness Althea fired back, her voice crisp, warning of a weak, divided Leo inviting invasion. She backed a strong ruler but kept harping on noble privileges.
Hours dragged on, the air growing stale, arguments circling like tired vultures. Alexius listened, speaking only to cut through nonsense with a sharp fact or precedent the System fed him, like a cheat sheet for a test he couldn't fail. He was playing it cool, letting the factions show their hands, but inside, he was a mess—heart racing, mind spinning.
Varrus's neutral bloc stayed quiet, their faces blank. Those 9% were the key, and without them, Alexius might not hit two-thirds if Valerius's faction held tight. The System whispered: Varrus is your pivot. Appeal to his sense of duty, Leo's survival.
As the sun dipped, casting long shadows, Astolfo, sweating through his robes, called a recess. "We'll resume tomorrow, my lords." The nobles shuffled out, tension hanging like smoke. Titus shot Alexius a smug grin. Thorne gave a stiff nod. Varrus met his gaze for a second, then turned away.
Back in his solar, Alexius collapsed into a chair, exhausted. The day had been a gauntlet, and he'd survived—barely. But the real fight was coming. Tomorrow, they'd argue more, then vote. He needed Varrus, or Valerius's dream of a puppet council might become real.
Elias was there, his face lined but steady. "Tough day, Your Majesty."
"First of many," Alexius muttered, rubbing his eyes. "What's the vibe with the smaller nobles, Elias? The ones not tied to Thorne or Valerius?"
"Scared, mostly," Elias said. "They want stability. Titus's talk of noble power pulls some, but others smell Valerius's ruthlessness. Varrus is the key. If he swings, they'll follow."
Alexius nodded, his jaw tight. Tomorrow, he couldn't just sit and listen. He had to lead, to make them believe in him—not just his right, but his strength. The System pinged, offering a new tool: Speechcraft Module: Analyze crowd mood, craft persuasive speech. Prepare an address for tomorrow?
He stared at the prompt, a fire kindling in his chest. "Yeah," he whispered, half to himself, half to the System. "Let's do this." (Continue....)