Whispers Beneath the Crown

The air in the royal court hung thick—like the pause before lightning strikes.

Ben stood at the center of the throne room, tall and motionless. The silence around him was so deep that even the faint flicker of the chandeliers above sounded loud, their crystal arms trembling with a metallic chime. The nobles and ministers didn't move, didn't breathe. The King's earlier words still clung to the air, heavy as iron.

Then, Ben's voice came again—low, calm, and dangerous.

"Say that again," he said, eyes narrowing.

The Minister of War swallowed, the sound audible in the stillness. "I said, my King… what if the silver they took came from within the kingdom?"

A few heads turned toward him in disbelief. Others stared at the floor, pretending not to hear.

Ben's expression didn't change, but his gaze sharpened like a blade being drawn from its sheath. The air around him seemed to tighten. Even standing several steps away, the Minister began to sweat under the pressure.

The King took one step forward, then another. His boots struck the marble with heavy finality.

The man couldn't meet his eyes. "I only mean—it's possible, sire. The Moon Eagle does not move for charity. Someone… paid them. And if their presence is at our border, their buyer must be close enough to direct their hand. Perhaps…" He hesitated, trembling slightly. "Perhaps within our own walls."

A whisper broke out like a shiver through the hall.

"Impossible…"

"No one would dare—"

"Inside the capital?"

Ben's voice cracked through them, sharp and commanding.

"Silence."

The noise died instantly.

He stared down at the trembling Minister, then slowly turned his gaze over the entire assembly. "If that's true," he said, his tone even but cold, "then we're not facing assassins."

He paused—long enough for everyone to feel the weight of what came next.

"We're facing traitors."

The words fell like thunder.

No one dared move. The guards along the walls stiffened, their hands tightening on their spears.

Ben's gaze swept across the chamber—every minister, every noble, every polished snake that smiled in his court. For years, he had sat upon this throne surrounded by loyalty bought with gold, not conviction. He knew it. They knew it. And yet none of them dared to leave, because leaving would mean guilt.

He stepped closer to the dais, his robe whispering against the marble floor. His voice softened, but the restraint in it made it even more dangerous. "You all serve this crown," he said. "You all swear by it. Yet one of you, or someone you protect, may already have sold it."

A bead of sweat rolled down a minister's temple.

Ben's eyes caught it. "Does that frighten you?" he asked quietly.

"N-No, Your Majesty," the man stammered.

"It should."

Ben turned away, pacing toward the massive window behind the throne. The light of late morning spilled across him, painting his silhouette in gold. Beyond the glass, the Lionheart capital stirred—merchants opening their stalls, soldiers training in the courtyards, children chasing each other through the gardens. Innocence that depended on the stability of this very hall.

He clenched his jaw. If they knew how fragile peace really is…

He turned back toward the court. "We can't afford panic," he said. "If the Moon Eagle is here under contract, then someone wants chaos. I will not give them that satisfaction."

A minister rose hesitantly. "Then… what will we do, my King?"

Ben's eyes flicked toward him. "We'll do what rulers do. We'll prepare."

He lifted a hand toward the captain of the royal guard. "Mobilize the army. Quietly. No banners, no calls. I want every commander on alert, every garrison checked, but make it look like routine drills. Not a whisper of this leaves the palace."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

The captain bowed deeply and turned on his heel, armor clinking faintly as he left.

Ben then turned to another man—a slender figure in dark attire standing near the far column. "And you," the King said. "Send the ravens to the border outposts. I want hourly reports. No exceptions."

The man bowed wordlessly and vanished into the corridor.

Ben's gaze returned to the rest of the court. "You will all continue your duties as usual. The markets will open, the nobles will hold their dinners, and the city will sleep without fear. Do you understand?"

The nobles nodded, murmuring faintly in agreement.

Ben's tone hardened. "I said—do you understand?"

"Yes, Your Majesty!" the court responded in unison, their voices trembling.

Ben studied them for a long moment. There was no satisfaction in his eyes, only fatigue—an exhaustion born of ruling among liars and surviving among traitors.

He turned slightly, voice lowering to a near whisper. "Find out who paid them," he said to his inner council. "Search every merchant ledger, every treasury record, every noble exchange. I want to know which coin bought their blades—and I want it before the week ends."

One of the scribes bowed low. "It will be done, sire."

The King's gaze shifted again toward the massive double doors of the court. He could still hear the faint echo of his own voice in the silence, bouncing off the marble and gold. The hall was beautiful—ornate pillars, golden lions carved into the walls, chandeliers that glittered like captured stars. But beneath all that shine, the air smelled of fear.

He hated it.

"Dismissed," he said finally.

The word carried finality.

Chairs scraped softly against the floor. Nobles rose in nervous clusters, whispering to one another as they moved toward the doors. Their silks rustled, their jewels clinked, but no one dared speak above a murmur.

Ben remained still, standing at the base of the throne, watching them leave one by one.

He caught fragments of their whispers as they went—

"…can't believe this…"

"…traitors, inside the capital…"

"…Moon Eagle, of all groups…"

He exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose.

When the last of them had gone, the hall grew still again. Only the King remained, and the faint echo of his thoughts.

He walked back toward his throne and sat down heavily, resting one hand on the lion-carved armrest. His reflection in the polished marble floor looked older than he remembered—eyes shadowed, expression set in stone.

For a moment, he simply stared at the empty space before him.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.