Althéa froze at those words: “an exceptional royal summons.”

  Her spine stiffened, straight as a blade. Her gaze locked onto Velara’s, who had regained a forced composure.

  "How long has he been at the palace?" she asked in a voice that was far too calm.

  Velara turned away to return to her meal, as if keeping her hands busy made the conversation less dangerous.

  "Two days. He lost consciousness right after you did. The king—your father—demanded he be brought back so he could question him about his Trial. And honestly… anomaly or not, it would’ve happened sooner or later."

  Althéa turned. She looked calm. It was a polite lie.

  "Why?" she asked.

  Velara blinked, stunned.

  "Why? We just talked about it! Do you really think an Ombrevu who survived that, who brought back what he brought back… was going to go home as if nothing had happened?"

  Althéa slipped her hands behind her back. A gesture she had learned during the Trial.

  "What exactly is he risking?"

  Velara spun her knife between her fingers, then answered bluntly:

  "I don’t know if he’s facing a direct punishment. But for his future… it’s over. His Primordial Shard will be taken from him and given to someone more… appropriate. The Anointing can’t be removed—and it’s far too valuable not to be exploited."

  She shrugged.

  "He’ll serve the kingdom. And you know exactly what that means."

  Silence fell between them.

  "He will never be free again…" Althéa murmured.

  Velara replied sharply:

  "Stepping outside your station is rarely a good idea. Especially for an Ombrevu."

  Althéa looked at the sea one last time, then returned to her chamber without a word. Velara followed.

  "What are you planning to do, princess?"

  Althéa was already rummaging nervously through her wardrobe, her fingers trembling.

  "I’m going to see my father. I want to know what awaits him."

  The wardrobe overflowed with splendid, useless dresses.

  "Did I really believe I would wear all of this someday?" she muttered.

  Behind her, Velara snorted.

  "I’ve been asking myself that for years."

  "I don’t want a dress. They restrict movement and they’re unbearably heavy. I almost miss my uniform…"

  A breath of air passed beside her. When she turned, Velara was already back, holding an outfit in her arms: a light white top with long billowing sleeves that modestly revealed the throat, flexible trousers, and high boots.

  Althéa examined the ensemble with a practical eye.

  "Very well. That will do. And I won’t ask where it came from."

  She dressed quickly, then left accompanied by Velara.

  A guard stood posted outside the door, his back straight but his eyelids heavy.

  At the sight of Althéa, he jolted as if slapped, tried to shake off his fatigue and straightened abruptly—too abruptly.

  She walked past him without slowing down, without even turning her head.

  Velara, behind her, cast him a brief glance that carried every warning needed.

  The princely apartments were located in the family wing: a secure space, stripped bare, almost cold. The walls, a severe off-white, were decorated only with a few Soléandre crests—the nine-branched sun—reminding all who passed that in this wing, one did not live: one ruled.

  Althéa descended the stairs two at a time, her boots striking the stone with renewed determination. Her heart beat fast—not with fear… but with impatience.

  Her parents might already be in the council chamber.

  She emerged into a long gallery where the light flowed like a river.

  Large windows diffused a continuous glow, illuminating the portraits of former sovereigns—severe faces, ceremonial robes, gazes carved into the marble of memory.

  The dark wood and velvet furniture, too perfect to truly be used, gave the place an almost oppressive sophistication.

  She had not walked this corridor in a long time.

  Too long.

  But she had no time to dwell on it.

  Velara quickened her pace slightly to remain at her side.

  Althéa arrived before the doors of the council chamber.

  In her childhood memories, they had been heavy, almost impossible to push open—an intentional obstacle, a reminder of how small she had once been.

  If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  Today, Revealed, she simply placed her hand on the handle.

  The door yielded under the pressure as if it were made of hollow wood.

  A long creak welcomed her entrance.

  The door opened with a drawn-out groan, as if it itself protested what was about to follow.

  The light swallowed her immediately.

  The council chamber was bathed in a continuous glow, almost unreal.

  Built entirely of perfectly polished pale grey stone, it radiated an austere purity— the place where men were not judged—only legacies.

  At the center stood an immense brown table, heavy and immaculate, capable of hosting every advisor responsible for the fate of Soleandre.

  Around it, high-backed chairs, refined and aligned with military precision, waited for their occupants like silent soldiers.

  All around, nine stained-glass windows dominated the chamber, each representing a Primogene:

  Life, Thought, Ego, Love, Perception, Dream, Instinct, Memory, and Doubt.

  At this hour of the day, the sun struck the stained glass directly.

  The colors, cast upon the floor and walls, formed shifting shards of light, almost sacred—as if each Primogene stood there, somewhere in the chamber, silent witness to the scene to come.

  At the far end, several steps led up to a raised terrace.

  Above its arch, a golden sculpture blazed: a nine-branched sun, the absolute symbol of the Soléandre Dynasty.

  Its artificial brilliance mingled with the natural light, forming an almost divine halo.

  At the council table, a superb woman was already seated.

  White hair, a perfectly symmetrical face, almond-shaped green eyes, skin smooth as porcelain.

  Her anthracite gown inlaid with fine mesh resembled delicate armor: a perfect fusion of beauty and threat.

  Beside her, a small, plump man—the treasurer—tried to adopt a dignified posture, but his hands trembled slightly on his ledger.

  His formal clothes hung on him like a borrowed costume.

  He was awkwardly speaking with a young man.

  Lucanis.

  Athletic, sharp silhouette, piercing green eyes like those of a predator pulled from sleep but already observing everything.

  His short hair, without embellishment, matched his attitude: simple, straight, determined.

  He wore a modest brown tunic, almost out of place in such a solemn room—but on him, it carried a kind of honesty.

  And finally…

  On the raised terrace, struck directly by the light, casting a shadow that nearly devoured the entire chamber…

  stood the king.

  Every occupant of the council table turned in unison, as if Althéa’s arrival had displaced the air itself.

  Lucanis was the first to rise.

  He bowed respectfully, his voice calm but tinged with relief.

  "Princess… it is good to see you again."

  The plump man immediately imitated him, bowing awkwardly, his forehead already damp with sweat.

  Althéa studied him for a fraction of a second.

  What a repulsive man.

  Her mother, meanwhile, wore a small smile at the corner of her lips.

  A smile that spoke too much.

  A smile Althea hated.

  She walked toward Lucanis—and without warning, briefly embraced him.

  The young man jerked in surprise.

  "Prin—Princess…" he stammered.

  She released him.

  He cleared his throat, trying to recover his composure.

  "How are you feeling?"

  "Fine," she replied simply.

  She raised her eyes toward the queen, whose smile had not moved.

  Her father, meanwhile, had not made the slightest gesture.

  His shadow continued to cover the entire chamber, heavy as an omen.

  Lucanis tried to continue, a sincere smile forming on his lips.

  "We were very afraid in the arena when you collapsed—"

  The queen cut him off immediately, her voice dripping with almost tangible venom.

  "Oh, you may say it, Lord Velcrann. All of this is the fault of that Ombrevu. He probably cast some sort of spell on the crown princess."

  At the mention of Kael, the king slightly turned his head.

  His shadow followed the motion, like a raptor pivoting toward its prey.

  But he said nothing.

  Lucanis tried, hesitantly:

  "Your Majesty, I have never affi—"

  "Oh yes, I know."

  The queen cut him off with a sharp voice.

  "You have all fraternized with that thing… and you still insist on claiming he is your friend."

  Her fingers tightened on the armrest, a gesture betraying a cold anger.

  "He will answer for his crimes shortly."

  Althéa turned her head toward Velara, her gaze hard.

  Velara shrugged, feigning innocence, then stepped aside to stand in the shadow of a pillar—as if refusing to be involved in this exchange.

  "And exactly what crime is he accused of?" Althéa asked, her voice calm but cutting.

  The queen turned toward her, outraged.

  "You are seriously asking that? He caused unprecedented chaos with his fracture! Even though the Latents were evacuated in time, some reached complete core saturation, triggering a Trial."

  She paused, venomous.

  "And managing a Trial at your age is one thing… but some of those people were elderly, fragile."

  The treasurer cleared his throat and stepped forward, his hands trembling like those of a trapped rodent.

  "A-and… we must also account for the expenses the kingdom had to d-deploy for the full evacuation of the Institute… which are… considerable…"

  The queen resumed, relentless:

  "And several noble houses across the kingdom have complained."

  She narrowed her eyes.

  "What image does that give of us?"

  Althéa kept her hands behind her back.

  She stood motionless, as straight as a forged blade.

  She finally answered, her voice of icy clarity:

  "Do you truly believe he intended to cause all of this? No one can manipulate the dimensions of their own fracture."

  A voice fell, heavy and rough, like a sentence:

  "That is not the real problem."

  The silence split open.

  The king slowly turned.

  The shadows cast by the stained glass began to shift around him, as if drawn by his movement.

  It seemed as though the room itself breathed to his rhythm.

  He descended the steps one by one.

  Each step rang out like a hammer striking an anvil.

  Each stair seemed sealed by a verdict.

  His silver armor caught the light and cast it back in cold flashes.

  His red cape, bearing the nine-branched sun, trailed behind him like a trail of noble blood.

  His neatly trimmed grey beard, his slicked-back hair, and above all his amethyst eyes—sharp, inhuman—completed the image.

  This man was not a sovereign.

  He was the law made flesh.

  He stopped at the foot of the steps, his gaze falling like a blade upon his daughter, then upon Velara.

  "Your friend, the Ombrevu," he said in an implacable voice, "entered his Trial wearing only his undergarments, armed with nothing but a saber generously offered by Lady Velara, present here."

  Velara shrank by a centimeter, an awkward smile stretching her lips despite herself.

  The king continued, his voice hammering each word:

  "She left to train him, and left you alone, you, for his benefit."

  He did not raise his voice.

  He did not need to.

  Every word landed like a blow.

  "And he emerged from the Trial having brought its contents into the material plane."

  An icy breath swept through the chamber.

  "He spoke things that we—the elites of the kingdom… and even of the world—do not understand."

  He paused.

  A very long pause.

  The room held its breath.

  "And then he received a Primordial Shard."

  A nearly inaudible murmur passed through the chamber.

  The king added immediately afterward, like another stone sealing a tomb:

  "And the Anointing of Doubt."

  No one spoke.

  No one dared breathe too loudly.

  "That," he finally said, "is the reason for his exceptional royal summons."

  His gaze pierced his daughter.

  Then Velara.

  Then Lucanis.

  "And that is my will."

  He passed them in a rush of air, his red cape cutting a vivid arc through the stained-glass light.

  His silhouette crossed the chamber like a blade.

  Without another word, he crossed the door.

  It closed softly behind him.

  And in the silence he left behind…

  …it became clear that the judgment would not be a simple discussion.

  It was a sentence waiting for flesh.